#ATTEMPTING TO CLOCK ALL MY ANONS

[hivemuthur]

Okay okay okay,

Viktor x Reader emotional smut/hurt comfort

Viktor spends all night in his lab and he forgets you guys planned a dinner because you had a fight because he missed dinner for working in his lab just a week prior. So you’re all dressed up waiting for him to walk through the door to go to dinner and he just… never shows. You wait as long as you can until you give up and go to bed, leaving your shoes and outfit you were wearing crumpled on the floor. He comes home and he sees the outfit and he’s like ah… shit.

Then it’s angry fight over not feeling like he cares enough, feeling second to his work, not feeling enough for him etc all the insecurities coming out.

And then smut eventually when he comforts reader

Pls 🧎🏽‍♀️

Hi Anon! I have to say, this scene gave me a lot more trouble than I thought it would, but I hope the fight is believable.

Once more, we have been blessed with my smut fairy's benediction (who has already helped me flesh out the scenes in What was that? that are yet to come) - @rennethen has written a beautiful skeleton for a sex scene in this fic, that we edited together AND she also did a thorough research around position that we used here AND recommends for you to put on Start a Fire by Ryan Star. So everyone say thank you! I love writing with you, thank you so much! ♡ Here we go:

Lover, You Should've Come Over

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! angst/comfort/smut

word count: 3,7K

—

His eyelids felt gritty, like there was painful sand beneath them, while the clock announced another passing hour. Viktor sighed and felt that his frown would not loosen on its own, so he pressed a hand to his forehead in an attempt to iron it out. The relief was brief, fleeting, and another sigh followed.

He glanced at the notes scattered across his desk—unfinished sketches and equations scrawled hastily in chalk, bits of which flaked off the blackboard like flour. Blinking a few times, he turned his gaze to the window. Dawn was approaching. For a moment, he considered collapsing onto the tiny, worn-out couch in the corner of the lab, a relic from late nights and lost time shared with Jayce. It had been set up precisely for moments like this, when the concept of time slipped through their fingers.

But the thought of crawling into a warm bed next to you tugged at him, finally winning the battle against exhaustion.

Slowly, he rose, his joints cracking audibly in protest. The sound echoed around the empty lab, a dry reminder of how long he’d been hunched over the desk. He considered tidying up but quickly abandoned the idea, his fatigue winning over perfectionism. Instead, he stacked the notes into a precarious tower on his desk and shoved a handful of loose papers into his bag haphazardly.

He was used to this feeling— an odd drunkenness of the body that didn’t see a drop of alcohol, fuel running out after more than twenty hours without sleep. His limbs felt stiff, his muscles sluggish and uncooperative, resulting in a wobbly trot and a certain alienation from one’s own hands. Dry throat, dry eyes, sensation of faint nausea lingering somewhere below his larynx, everything easily meltable in a cup of tea and the embrace of a properly soft mattress.

In some strange way, this was his favourite part of the day. The academy was silent, the streets of Piltover almost deserted, save for a few early risers starting their work at dawn. He stopped by the bakery to pick up fresh bread and pastries for breakfast, savouring the slow, solitary stroll home. Soon enough, he would wrap himself around you, breathing in the comforting scent of your hair as he drifted into a few blissful hours of sleep.

Quietly, he slipped his key into the lock and turned it, careful not to make a sound. He hesitated before setting the keys in the bowl by the door, opting instead to hold onto them to avoid clatter.

He stepped further into the apartment, orange morning sun already breaching the curtains, as motes of dust danced around, suspended in the still air. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the lingering warmth. He slipped off his shoes, careful not to make noise, and padded towards the bedroom with a soft groan.

It was then he saw them—your clothes and shoes discarded on the floor, right in the hallway. The sight made him pause. The shoes were still upright, as if you’d stepped out of them, resigned. The dress, crumpled, was draped across the chair near the door. Slowly, his tired mind pulled the pieces from the deep well of memory.

Dinner. He’d forgotten. Zatraceně.

His face crunched itself painfully at the thought of what awaited him. Fully deserved, yet, far away from pleasant. He swallowed it down and pushed the bedroom door open with a soft creak.

“Lásko,” he murmured, his voice low and hesitant, guilt clinging to the edges of the pet name. “Are you asleep?”

A long, unhappy sigh came from the bed. “No.” Silence, for a moment. “Now that I know you’re alive—” you croaked quietly, your voice muffled by the pillow. “Where have you been?”

If it hadn’t been clear until then, the sound of your voice betrayed just how much crying you had done in the last few hours. It was raw and hoarse, thick with exhaustion, a sniffle caught at the back of your throat.

“I—” Viktor started, faltering before quickly trying to correct himself. “I forgot. I am so, so sorry.”

Nothing, just a stare, as you lifted yourself up from the pillows and crossed your arms on your chest. Eyebrows pinched together in a fake pity.

“Work. I swear, it completely slipped my mind, and I am so, so sorry,” Viktor pleaded, making a few wobbly steps toward the bed, only to stop at your scoff.

“That’s… good to know. Well, if you ever decide I am worthy of your time, you know where to find me,” you retorted and slumped back into the pillow, stubborn tears already pushing themselves past your eyelids.

“Please don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Few more steps, unsure, as Viktor leaned heavily on his cane. His voice exasperated, as he had absolutely no energy to fight now. He would do anything for forgiveness and a place in bed, his muscles screaming for rest.

“Viktor I frankly don’t care what you’ve meant or didn’t mean to do, it is what it is,” you said sharply, narrowing the space for discussion. “For someone who fights so fiercely to not be forgotten, you sure forget about others easily.”

“Was that necessary?” A hot feeling washed over him, not yet anger, but irritation that glued his feet to the floor and made him adjust his stance. “Do you really want to fight at 4 a.am.?”

“Yes, that is my deepest desire to have a fight with you at dawn. What do you think? Is it my fault that we are having this conversation?” You rose again, facing him from the stronghold of your shared bed, Viktor dangerously close to losing his residence rights.

“No, it’s my fault, as you’ve made it very clear. And I am sorry, and it will never happen again. I don’t know what else I can say, really.” Seeing your deadly glare, he added, “And I don’t forget you. I just forgot about dinner. I’m sorry.” The last apology weaker than the others, as he run out of options.

“I somehow fail to see the difference between forgetting me and forgetting dinner—twice— as the result of both is identical,” you huffed dangerously, kicking the duvet off yourself. Anger surging through you, mixing with disbelief at his complete lack of willingness to own his sins.

“Lásko, please. I am so infinitely tired, please let’s not do this now,” Viktor pleaded again, his voice straining, the undercurrent of upset making your skin crawl. He spread his hands apart, making another step toward the bed to find himself stood at the edge of it. And it was too close.

You swung your legs over the mattress, tears of anger burning your cheeks. “As you wish. Bed’s all yours.” Another spit and you stood up, ready to run away and press yourself into the couch to muffle your sobs, when Viktor’s hand stopped you.

“Please don’t go. Please. This is the last thing I want.” This time his voice more sincere. Sadness in his eyes. A real lingering guilt. But if you were to give in, nothing would change.

“No, Viktor. Should’ve thought about this before you decided to marry yourself to work.”

“And what do you mean by this?” he asked in a confused tone, his hand leaving your arm. 

“I mean… I don’t know what I mean, I’m tired. And what I also mean, maybe you should reconsider if there is truly a space for someone else in your life. Or maybe you need someone more memorable, I really don’t know,” you mumbled, all your insecurities gnawing at you simultaneously. All the times when Viktor forgot about something you had asked for, all the times he was late or didn’t show up at all, all the times when you had to ignore young assistants giggling around him, when you would finally decide to pick him up from work.

“Please, you cannot be serious right now.” Viktor felt his ribs clenching around his heart, a very unpleasant kind of tightness settling in his chest. Or maybe just his heart swelled up in his chest, pumped with anger and disbelief. Either way, it ached. “How dare you throw such an accusation at me.”

“How dare I? Have you, I don’t know, tried to take a walk in my shoes? You can take a stroll, they are in the corridor, ready for the dinner.” This very finite, very spiteful remark made you momentarily proud of yourself, until you saw the shift in Viktor’s eyes.

“I haven’t. I didn’t think I should. Because I trust you, when you say you love me, and I was hoping you trusted me as well, despite the slip ups,” he said quietly, his gaze low. “You knew who I was before we stepped into this, I’ve told you that I am not good at this kind of maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” You were fuming. Absolutely, completely furious. Courtship and basic human decency to not leave someone hanging for hours reduced to such a soulless, technical term. “You cannot wipe your face with the excuse of being broken every time you fuck something up, Viktor.”

And that was it. It was enough. Enough to rip through Viktor’s chest with a cold blade. He took a sharp inhale, but before anything could fall out from his mouth you realised what you had just said. Stumbling over your own words, you retreated quickly, “Viktor, I’m so sorry, I—”

“No. No,” he whispered, his tone icy as he shrugged your hand off his arm. “It is you who doesn’t get the right to wipe your face with something I have bared in front of you in trust.” And you saw his eyes welling up and you felt your own heart swelling in fear. Your hand shot back where it was rejected, again, and Viktor pushed it off, again.

“Please, Viktor, I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Yes, you did. And what is worse—I haven’t ignored you on purpose. I forgot. Which is in its definition an unintentional act. Whereas, you have gone for the kill. Intentionally.” His tone measured, calculated, walls raising up as he turned his face away from you.

You stood there, struck. Looking blankly into space, regretting not taking Viktor up on that ‘let’s not fight now’ option from a few moments ago. After a few very loud, very echoey breaths your resolve finally broke and a long suppressed sob pushed itself out of you with full force. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, falling back into the mattress. “I just… miss you—” An undignified hick escaped you. “I miss you so much Viktor, I really didn’t mean to say it, I’m so sorry…” After that, an incomprehensive wave of words mixed with gasps and cries followed.

Viktor stood there for a minute, chewing at the inside of his cheek, clearly still wounded, he just didn’t know what wounded him more. The fact that his love called him broken in a spiteful retort, or the fact that she was now crying at the crack of dawn, because of him.

Tentatively, he shifted closer to you, a featherlight touch of his hands to your shoulder startling you. You felt the mattress dip next to you and your head being pulled to his chest, which made you fall apart completely.

Viktor hugged you tightly, your tears dampening his jumper, his own throat working very hard to suppress emotion bubbling to the surface. “Please forgive me,” he whispered softly between soothing sounds he was humming to you. “Please, I can’t bear it.”

“I don’t work myself to the bone, lose sleep, lose time, because I want to be far from you. I am doing this for something greater, for a chance to fix what I can. To… to matter. And I… miss you as well,” he said calmly, holding you close to his chest.

“Do you?” you quipped sheepishly, trying to muster whatever composure was left within you. Cradled in Viktor’s arms, you found yourself at a loss of other words. The argument suddenly dissolved into something softer as you began tracing your fingers idly along the beauty marks on his neck.

Viktor nodded a few times too many and placed his hand on your neck. “I will be more mindful,” he said simply. “And you can visit me at work more often and pull me out of there by the ear. How does that sound?”

It was your turn to nod, spreading dampness across your face. You swung your legs over his lap and nuzzled your face into his hair. Viktor shifted slightly, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek.

“Will you let me make it all up to you?” he asked softly, his voice low and reverent. His thumb lingered on your skin, tracing the faintest curve of your cheekbone.

You swallowed, your skin getting warmer under a blush. “Well, what do you have in mind?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Something you might like,” Viktor replied, leaning closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.”

You didn’t respond right away, your breath catching as his fingers grazed your jaw, sliding down to cradle your chin. His touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, but his gaze never wavered, holding you captive.

“Okay,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could stop it.

His lips quivered into the faintest smile—playful, yet soft. He shifted again, his hands trailing down your arms until he caught your hands in his, threading his fingers through yours. He brought them to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“Děkuji,” he murmured, the gratitude in his voice making your heart ache.

His movements were careful as he guided you to lay down and took a moment to unclip his leg brace. He then scrambled up beside you, your knees touching, each move soft and lazy, giving away how tired his body was after another sleepless night. You let him pull you closer, his arms wrapping securely around you, his touch steady and grounding.

You took a long, audible inhale, as your fingertips traced the lines of his face. The faint circles beneath his eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slight harshness of stubble that rasped under your touch. Viktor closed his eyes briefly, a soft sigh escaping him as if your touch alone was enough to undo him.

“You’re so tired,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over the shadow on his cheek.

“We can take this slow,” he murmured, his lips quivering into a smile. His hand found your waist, his touch firm yet gentle. “I like taking my time with you.”

He dipped his head, his lips grazing the side of your neck. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine as he whispered, “I am really sorry, lásko. I hope you believe me.”

Your breath hitched as his words bounced off your skin. “I do. And I am sorry too,” you whispered back, trying to will the blush away from your cheeks.

He gave you a tentative kiss, barely a press of his lips to yours. For a moment, lips were just touching, mouths slightly open as you both breathed each other in. He smelled of ink and chalk, a powdery scent lingering in your nose. His hands pressed firmer on your sides as he pulled you closer, your stomachs pressed together. 

One of his legs snaked in between yours and he pressed his knee to your core, warmth already pooling in your lower belly. Your kissing deepened, tongues got involved and you could feel your teeth clacking against each other. Noses pressed together, as your hands travelled under the layers of his clothing to ghost over his stomach and his hips bucked into yours, making you gasp. 

“Tickles,” he chuckled into your mouth, his breath growing heavier and quiet moans escaped him with each kiss. You let your hands wander, finding an easy rhythm as you glided your touch onto his hips and thighs.

Feeling him grow harder beneath you, you palmed his length through the trousers and ground your hand on it. Viktor gasped at the sudden attention to his cock, the fabric adding a delicious friction to the movement.

He reciprocated easily with the knee between your legs. Lazily, he moved it back and forth, testing the pressure to see where it made you squirm. One of his hands traversed the plane of your back downwards to your ass to fondle it gently, his fingers dancing on it, tracing words before allowing himself a leisurely squeeze.

Your kissing grew hungrier and you added some pressure to your hand to finally grip his now fully hard cock through the cloth. Viktor’s body wordlessly asked for more, bucking needily into your touch, his brows pinched together, his panting breaths fanning your face.

He retreated his knee from between yours and before you could whine, his cock and your cunt met in a long, sloppy drag of your bodies against each other. He ground himself against you with a desperate want, as if his brain suddenly remembered what was missing when spent long hours at work.

The material of his pants became unbearably tight against the almost nonexistent layer of your knickers. His hand abandoned your ass in favour of snaking under your soft, frilly nightdress to cup your bare breast, while the other cradled your cheek. He tilted your head to nip at your neck and you whined at the sudden attention to all the sensitive spots on your body—his hand groping your chest, thumb brushing against your nipple, his cock against you, the feeling of his teeth on your neck, followed by soothing kisses, love marks already blooming on your skin.

“You are doing so well, lásko,” he murmured into your neck, the honeyed sound melting something inside you. “You have no idea how you make me feel.” A low whisper followed by the feeling of his hands shifting you onto your stomach, as he pulled himself up to sit. He grabbed a pillow to stabilize his knee and pulled your skirts up to your shoulder blades.

He took a moment to take in the view, tracing your skin with his fingertips, to finally press his face to your ass cheek, his lips leaving a trail of kisses up your spine, his hands gently beckoning your hips up. He guided your left knee to bend, mirroring his own, when he caged himself on top of you, his chest splayed flat against your back. 

His left arm cradled around your chest, palm cupping your cheek as you intertwined your fingers with his. You could feel his length ghosting between your legs, but even the sharp press of your hips against him wasn’t enough. “Viktor, please,” you let out an undignified huff and Viktor chuckled into the nape of your neck, snaking his free hand between your front and the mattress.

He cupped your cunt, material sticky against his fingers and you could feel his mouth blooming into a smug smile as he teased, “Missed me so much, have you?”

His clothed cock poked at the wet membrane of your knickers as his fingers began their precise work on your clit, the friction of the fabric becoming unbearable and you couldn’t help another mewl, “Viktor, please, I can’t—”

You got cut off by your own sob, when Viktor murmured into your ear, “Oh, but I like you so much like this.” He placed an infuriatingly sloppy kiss on your pulse point, your hips bucking against your will. You didn’t know which was worse, the teasing or the absence of his fingers, because the whine that escaped you when he retreated his hand made your breath catch in your throat.

He freed his cock from the confinement of the fly, not bothering with the rest. Then, he slid the gusset of your underwear to the side and dragged his fingers along your seam, coating them with your slick, before inserting one inside. Gently adding another, he hummed appreciatively, your clit mercilessly teased with his thumb.

When you were ready, he wrapped himself back around you, took his cock to wet it at your entrance and sunk into you slowly, drawing a long, breathy moan from your lips. Once fully sheathed, he pulled his hips back to give you a snappy thrust, before finding a rhythm. His free hand wandered back to your clit, his attention unwavering, as he worked you in small, steady circles.

Your breathing grew heavier, and Viktor slid the fingers of his other hand from your cheek into your mouth, teasing your tongue. Completely trapped underneath him, you were at the mercy of his hips and his fingers, as he murmured sweet nothings into your ear.

Sinking deeper and deeper into you he hit a spot that drew a wail from the bottom of your throat, your hips bucked in the tight space between him and the bed, his fingers unwavering between your legs and you could feel yourself tightening, your core tied into a knot close to a release.

His movements grew more sloppy and needy, his mouth close to your ear, murmuring, “You are doing so well, I love you so much,” in a hushed tone between kisses pressed to your temple and the back of your neck. With your walls tightening around him, he came with a loud groan, flexing on top of you, bringing you with him with a couple precise flicks of his fingers. You came as he was spilling inside you, the feeling of damp warmth spreading around your underbelly.

He drew a couple of hot breaths, still splayed on your back, before rolling to the side and dragging you close with your back to his chest. He combed your hair away from your neck and placed a lingering kiss on the spot where it met your shoulders.

You took his hand into yours and brought it to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. He chuckled warmly and asked, “Am I forgiven?”

“The judge and the jury agree the atonement was sufficient,” you teased, though your voice was barely there. You shifted around to face him and nuzzled your face into his neck. “I now would like to prove a theory that this would be equally enjoyable if provided upon a shorter hiatus.”

“Oh you know me,” he murmured into your hair. “I would do anything for science.”

[arieslost]

ok i don’t know if it’s just me who gets really giggly when it’s late at night but imagine laying in bed with lando and you’re just rambling about smth so stupid that it ends with you two just giggling at nothing. like getting full on stomach cramps from laughing but there wasn’t even anything funny to begin with

anon u and i are the SAME! once its past midnight i always end up becoming a victim of the late night sillies 💔

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

1:30 am | ln4

you knew you were up too late when you nearly tripped over the loose edge of the blanket you and lando had been sharing on your way back to the couch, and when he had caught you before you could hit your head or anything, you started laughing.

“oh, no,” he’d groaned dramatically. “got the late night giggles already, huh?”

“uh-uh,” you shook your head, even though him saying the words “late night giggles” was enough to make laughter start bubbling up in your throat again.

something always shifted in you when the clock struck a certain hour at night, and lando had only been witness to it a handful of times before you moved in together.

now, you’d managed to get through the rest of the movie the two of you were watching without laughing, even if it meant biting your lip hard and refusing to make eye contact with your boyfriend. it was bad enough feeling his eyes on you every time he wanted to see your reaction to something that happened on the tv. making eye contact would just take you out entirely for no reason whatsoever.

which is why you think you’ve successfully avoided making a fool of yourself when you’re both finally laying in bed with the lights out at the fine hour of 1:30 in the morning.

“you’re so far away,” lando grumbles, dragging your body into his so his one arm is around your shoulders and your face is nestled in his neck.

“better?” you ask, smiling when he shivers as your lips brush his skin.

“mhmm.” he’s quiet for a moment, running his fingers up and down your arm. “you’re gonna come to miami, right?”

“yeah, if you want me to.”

“what kind of question is that, babe?” he cranes his neck in a way that tells you he’s fixing you with a judgy look even though you can’t see each other.

you shrug, feeling the giggles building up again for no reason whatsoever. “i dunno.”

“obviously i want you there, why wouldn’t i?”

“i dunno,” you repeat. “it’s miami. maybe you just wanna party with all your homies.” and just like that, you’re laughing again.

“oh dear god, here we go,” he sighs, pressing his lips together to repress his own laughter as your body shakes against his. “my homies? when have i ever referred to any of my mates as my ‘homie’?”

he sounds so incredulous that you laugh even harder. “oh, you’re so british! i can’t call them your mates, lan. it sounds too weird.”

“so homies is the word you went with? why can’t you be normal and just say my friends?”

“why can’t you be normal and say your friends?” you shoot back, and that does lando in.

“it’s not funny,” he tries to admonish, and it’s entirely true, but it’s a moot point when you can barely understand him through his laughter.

“stop laughing then!”

“you stop!”

naturally, that makes you both laugh harder still, to the point where you have to roll away from him, clutching your stomach from how badly all the laughing is making it hurt.

“i can’t breathe,” lando gasps from behind you.

“stop laughing,” you repeat. “you’re killing me.”

“i think i’m dying,” he continues like he didn’t hear you, and he honestly might not have because your face is half shoved into your pillow in your attempts to stifle yourself.

a few more minutes go by of the two of you absolutely losing your minds before you’re finally able to catch your breath.

“ow,” you whine, holding your stomach. “i think i just grew a six pack.”

“i think mine just became ten times more defined,” lando says, voice raspy from all the exertion on his vocal chords.

“ooh, lemme feel.”

“absolutely not, because you’re going to tickle me,” he grabs your wrist out of thin air. “i know your tricks, baby. i’ve laughed more than enough tonight thanks to you.”

“not my fault you’re weird and british.”

“i love you,” he says sweetly, pulling you back towards him and kissing your forehead. “now’s where you say, ‘i love you too.’”

“i love you too,” you reply dutifully, blindly reaching for his face so you can kiss him properly. “even though you’re weird and british.”

he kisses you again. “i thought it was especially because i’m weird and british.”

you snuggle into his side, now thoroughly exhausted. “please don’t make me laugh more, lan.”

you both know he’s right, of course, but you usually need to have the last word, so he lets you get away with it. he does love you, after all, even though you had him in stitches over nothing at 1:30 in the morning.

word count: 790

masterlist — join my tag list here!

note: this was sooo self indulgent, like i was laughing as i wrote this because the term “homies” is so silly to me for some reason. also helped me test my dialogue skills!! n e wayz…

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever @likedbygaslyy @vintagefucksstuff @piastorys @jisungstuff @personwhoisther @bernelflo

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want Masterlist

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe.

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader)

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

GENERAL TRIGGER WARNINGS/THINGS YOU CAN EXPECT

18+ MDNI, SLOW BURN yandere, romantic yandere with the 4 robin boys, rest of the batfam aren't yandere but still care about you, reader is a girlfailure, ex-step siblings (the dead mother trope), reverse harem, healthy dosing of enemies to lovers, my stupid romance novel tropes, fem!reader and afab!reader, all romantic leads 18+, the graphic violence, death and other such triggers of the original series, attempted sexual assault (chpt. 3), themes of depression/suicide, family death, themes of poverty, alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, my own mix of canon because honestly the canon right now is embarrassing, atypical/soft yandere behaviour, fluff and angst, suggestive and eventual smut, an eventual shared darling/polyandry, SLOW/INCONSISTENT UPDATES (aiming for once a month)

0. - The Second Worst Birthday Ever 1. - Not Quite An Isekai 2. - First (Second) Introductions 3. - Dreams And... 4. - Nightmares Too 5. - Meet The Adams Family 6. - Round Two. Fight! 7. - Black N' White Knight 8. - Jason Fucking Todd

Word Count as of the Chapter 6: 37k

Series tag (anon asks, snippets, updates and actual chapters all included): #series:WWW

More important asks/FAQ

Question about the boys being romantic or platonic Another question about the boys being hesitant or not Question about Damian being platonic or yandere Questions about Bruce being platonic or yandere Important note about the ex-stepsis thing Future sneak peek ft. Dames being stupid Question about happy/sad ending Future sneak peek ft. Dick being stupid

Fanart! Please give everyone here lots of love, their work is amazing!

Tim's Introduction Jason's Introduction Reader Under The Table SceneTM Reader Before And After The Worst Birthday Ever

[squinch-depraved]

hiii friends i'm back here's around 7k words (i think??) for y'all this one goes out to my homie 🐏 anon i love u 🐏 anon

CW: dubcon/cnc, bdsm, facefucking, breeding kink

looking out of the hotel window made you no less uneasy. you sat there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring out at the city. japan was beautiful, just like your boss had said it would be, but you were far from home, and he had whisked you away on this trip so suddenly that you didn’t have time to pack much. you were unusually tired, having only been taken on trips by schlatt in the u.s., so the massive time difference and, to be honest, this extra workload he was expecting you to shoulder, were leaving you stressed and irritable.

you snapped when someone knocked on the solid hotel door, yelling at them to “shut the fuck up!” when they continued knocking impatiently while you made your way to open it. your face flushed a deep red when you saw schlatt standing there, holding a suitcase.

“that’s a dangerous thing to be yelling at someone you don’t know in a foreign country,” he teased. “what if i was, like the cleaning lady, or something?”

“yeah, well… you’re not,” you replied, rubbing your eyes. “what d’you need?”

he holds out the suitcase. “brought you stuff. not much, just some basics. i’ll take you shopping tomorrow.”

you raised a brow at his words. “why take me shopping?”

he didn't speak until you took the suitcase from him. “’cause i feel bad for not letting you pack your shit.”

you nodded and gestured for him to come in. “can you help? i can't figure out how to close the blinds.”

he hesitated before following you in, letting the door fall shut behind him as he walked further into the lavish room he had booked for you. it was more expensive than the rooms the rest of the staff he brought with him got, but you didn't need to know that.

watching as you gestured broadly at the giant window, he chuckled and pulled a remote off the wall. he showed you which buttons to press to make a large shade come down from the ceiling and tried not to mock you when you huffed, annoyed. it was darker in the room now, the lights of the city no longer helping the dim lights on the walls to illuminate your room. you flicked on the lamps on either side of your bed and turned to face your employer once more.

“thanks,” you said, able to see his face more easily. he nodded as if he was unsure of what to say and started heading towards the door.

“i’ll be by to pick you up at 9,” he spoke. “we’ll get you some stuff and, uh… yeah, it’ll be. it’ll be fun.” he sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and you smiled softly at how sweet he sounded before catching a glimpse of the current time from the alarm clock on your nightstand. it was already almost 2 in the morning, and that gave you five, maybe six hours to sleep, and then you had to wake up and get ready. luckily you had forgotten all your stuff and had nothing to actually take forever getting ready with.

“bye, schlatt,” you called as he waved his hand and shut the heavy door behind him. once he was gone, you flopped face first onto the bed and screamed, trying your best to ignore whatever feelings were bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. after letting out your frustrations into a pillow, you stood up to unpack the mysterious suitcase.

unzipping it revealed a few t-shirts in various sizes, all old schlatt merch, a pair of luxury sweatpants that you didn’t even want to attempt to guess the price of, a few pairs of the softest socks you had ever felt, a toothbrush and toothpaste, some deodorant, shower supplies, a hairbrush and enough hair ties to last you a year, and a pair of slippers. a hoodie that you were sure was schlatt’s, due to its massive size and it smelling of him, was laid neatly on the bottom, as if whoever packed this was trying to hide it. you picked it up and brought it to your face, inhaling deeply and moaning into it softly. a small, pink, tissue wrapped package fell out of the hoodie when you unfolded it to slip it on.

puzzled, you set the hoodie down and carefully grabbed the parcel, undoing the delicate sticker keeping it sealed. when you fully unwrapped it, you were faced with several different pairs of lacy black panties, a few pairs of each different style so you could wear whatever you found comfortable. your stomach flipped at the thought of your boss carefully picking out all these pairs for you, and the notion of him picturing all of these on you while he shopped was something you would go over and over in your mind forever. but you pushed the thoughts away when you remembered he probably had people do this for him. he was a busy man, you doubted he’d care enough about this to put it all together himself. you had already forgotten that he was the one to bring you the luggage, let alone him bringing it to you in the middle of the night.

you set to work unpacking your new stuff, placing your toiletries in the bathroom and stripping yourself of your dirty clothes that you had been in for far too long. once you were naked, you took a relaxing shower with the supplies schlatt had given you, dressing yourself in just a pair of panties and his hoodie when you were clean and dry. you didn’t remember crawling into bed and falling asleep, but you swore you never slept as good as you did that night.

schlatt knocked on your door for minutes, giving you what he thought was ample time to answer. once he pressed his ear to the door and heard your alarm still going off, though, he cursed under his breath and dug into his wallet for a key.

he vowed he wouldn’t use it. he only had it in case of an emergency, he told himself. he knew he was already pushing his luck with everything he had planned for you this trip, sneaking into your room might be too much. but he couldn’t stop himself, he needed to get you up and going for the day so the whole trip wouldn’t be too off schedule.

the sight he saw when he walked in left him breathless. you were spread out in the middle of the bed, his hoodie riding up on your stomach and exposing your bare tummy, lacy black panties hugging your hips perfectly. you were knocked out, evident by the alarm blaring next to you for who knows how long.

he sighed deeply and shook your arm until you woke up in a panic, kicking violently at the presumed threat until you realized it was just him. you babbled something incoherently until you looked at the clock and your face dropped; you sprung up to get dressed, apologizing profusely.

“i’m so sorry, schlatt!” you called through the closed bathroom door. he just sat on the bed, scrolling on his phone, until you came out. dressed in his hoodie still and the expensive sweatpants, you grabbed your essentials and nodded curtly. “i’m ready. let’s go,” you stated.

“wow, and only 30 minutes behind schedule,” he teased. you glared at him and he stood up, leading you out of the room, out of the hotel, and into the shopping districts.

being out in the city with him was actually really nice; you originally thought he was going to bring more staff along, but it appeared it was just the two of you for the day. you tried not to think about how, to people watching, it might look like the two of you were together. it was hard not to ruminate on it over and over in your mind, how, if the situation were just slightly different, maybe it could’ve been a date. the thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

he stopped once the two of you reached a wide street lined with tall buildings, each a different, massive store. looking around and inspecting their signage didn’t help, you didn’t know what any of them sold.

“pick one,” he said simply.

you looked up at him, confused. “i don’t know what the fuck any of these are,” you whispered rather loudly.

a smile played at his lips, but his face remained stern. “that’s the point, toots,” he replied. “pick one and find out.”

you squinted at him, shaking your head slightly before looking at your many options. “that one, i guess?” you gestured broadly to one a short distance away.

schlatt shook his head. “lead me to it.”

you rolled your eyes and used this as an excuse to grab his hand, turning away and hiding your burning face from him as you dragged him towards the store.

you walked in hurriedly, him trailing behind you at a much easier pace due to his long legs. once you took in your surroundings, you found you were actually quite excited. it was a massive clothing outlet, floors upon floors of all different kinds of garments. holding tightly onto his hand, you only looked around for a few seconds before you beelined it to a display of outfits and began hunting for articles of clothing you wanted.

schlatt dropped your hand and walked away, leaving you alone for a bit while you browsed before coming back with a large basket. he held onto it while you picked through your options, holding it out to you whenever you found something you wanted. into the basket went anything he even thought you liked, and you quickly realized there was no spending limit like you had presumed. you were always eyeing him warily, ready for the piece you had just picked out to be the last. but he just kept telling you to keep going, and soon you had looked through the whole section. he simply waited for you to pick another area to explore and watched as you shopped, occasionally commenting on a top or pair of pants.

“that one’s cute,” he mumbled when you held up a shirt you liked. you nodded and slipped the hanger over your neck, allowing you to pretend to try it on. he tried not to think about the idea of you actually trying the clothes on, but the image of you stripping and redressing over and over remained in his mind.

hours flew by, and you ended up leaving with several huge bags stuffed full with an entire new wardrobe. the two of you joked around a bit as you exited the store, and you were surprised to find one of your coworkers waiting for you just outside the shop.

“give ‘em your stuff,” schlatt instructed. “they’re gonna take it to your room for you so we can keep shopping.”

you blinked a few times, confused, and handed off the bags. your coworker spoke to schlatt for a few minutes and then left you alone with him again. it was quiet for a bit before your boss broke the silence.

“time to pick another store,” he said.

you huffed in disbelief at his willingness to spend even more money on you and shook your head. “i don’t wanna play another guessing game; i got lucky with that last one. can you just point me to a makeup store and we can pretend that i found it?”

he chuckled and scanned the street you were on, eyes settling on a purple building towards the end of the road. “that one might be makeup,” he said, looking back at you.

“alright then, let’s do that one.” you took his hand once more and led him to the shop, repeating the process of putting anything you wanted into a basket and waiting for him to tell you to stop. he never did, in fact, he occasionally tossed in a product or two that he thought was nice.

after a bit, you turned around to find he was a short distance away, picking out stuff at the perfume counter for you. you smiled to yourself and walked over to him, smelling the ones he was trying to decide between.

“i like this one,” you stated, pointing to a bottle on the counter.

he nodded and turned to the attendant, conversing with her for a bit before taking a fancy looking box that she handed him, presumably with the scent you picked out inside. he set it gently into the nearly full basket and looked at you.

“anything else while we’re here?” he asked, glancing down at the pile of things resting in the tote he was carrying.

with a shake of your head, you responded, “no, this is already too much, schlatt.”

you weren’t looking at him, it was hard to meet his gaze, but you heard him scoff. “i’ll tell you when it’s too much, doll, don’t you worry about that.”

your cheeks flushed, how spoiled you felt by his kindness visible on your face. “i feel really bad. this is all so expensive.”

his hand landed on your shoulder in a soft, reassuring pat. “you deserve it. c���mon, lemme go pay and then i’ll take you to one more store.”

following him to through the store was rough, he walked fast and you almost lost him a few times. but you found him easily at the checkout counter due to how tall he was; his head stood out above all the aisles. you sidled up next to him as he swiped his card, wincing at the price visible on the screen. he flicked his dark eyes over to you- the ghost of a smile was playing at his lips as he took in how uncomfortable being treated like this made you.

and then you were back on the busy street, handing the bags to the same coworker and waving bye to them as they walked off in the direction of the hotel once more. checking your phone told you it was early afternoon at this point. and he still wanted to hit another store… was he going to waste an entire day on you?

“i’ll give you some options, toots,” he said gruffly after instructing you to put your phone away. the orders from him churned something deep in your stomach. “that blue one there, this one next door to us, or that one way over there. you see the one i’m talkin’ about?” he pointed to three stores and turned to you, awaiting your response.

you thought for a moment before choosing, and it ended up being a store full of things you didn’t necessarily need, but trinkets and gadgets you loved. your cart wasn’t as full at this store, but he still bought you anything you showed interest in and you walked out with even more bags. this time, no one was waiting for you, and schlatt took your hand before leading you to a small restaurant shoved in between two large buildings. you followed him, trusting he would keep you safe, but unsure of where you were going until he sat you down in a booth and ordered food for the both of you.

you talked for a long time, savoring your meal together and sharing sentiments and memories, and you didn’t notice until he had to step out to take a call that it was almost two hours later. something about him was so comforting, intoxicating, even. he just made you feel safe. you wished the dynamic between you two could be different. why did he have to be a good boss and not one of the creepy ones? you wished he would prey on you like you so desperately wanted him to.

he came back to find you staring at the leftover bites of food on your plate, instantly worried something had happened in the short time he was away from you. “what’s wrong? are you okay?” you tried not to let how hot he sounded when he was concerned about you affect your answer.

“yeah, no, i’m fine, schlatt,” you assured him once you blinked repeatedly a few times, trying to clear your thoughts of the filthy images of him. “just, still jet lagged. i’m really tired.”

your boss nodded and went to take care of the bill quickly, sharing a quick conversation with the workers before coming back to you and offering a hand to help you up. you grabbed your bags and took his hand, forgetting to let go once you were up and walking. he didn’t seem to mind.

the gentleman that he is, schlatt took you back to your hotel room and leaned against the wall as you fished your key out of your pockets. once you found it, he stood up straight and took a deep breath.

“take a good nap. i’ll be back to pick you up for dinner.”

you eyed him suspiciously, hand frozen, outreached to swipe your keycard. “why dinner? why more? what did i do to deserve this?” you grilled him.

schlatt put up his hands innocently. “i just feel bad for not letting you pack,” he lied again. “and you’re one of my best staff, why can’t i treat you?”

“because you don’t do this for anyone else,” you groaned. “i’m just worried the rest of ‘em are gonna look at me weird.”

he shook his head, trying not to smile. “i’ll fire whoever treats you differently. promise,” he extended his pinkie towards you.

“no, schlatt, that’s the problem!” you sighed. his face remained the same, little finger still reaching out to make a deal, and you folded. “whatever, i’m gonna go sleep, just… don’t fire anyone because of me.”

pensively, he nodded. “sleep good.”

you waited for him to leave, but he just leaned against the wall next to your door again. with a loud, defeated sigh, you let yourself in and closed the door behind you. now that you saw just how many full shopping bags sat on the table, you felt even worse. he had to have spent countless thousands on you. if only you could figure out what his true motivation was for doing all this…

you couldn’t help yourself from unpacking some of your new stuff, running your fingers over your new, expensive belongings. after a bit, you remembered that you needed to be sleeping, and you put your things back before tucking yourself into the plush, comfy bed. sleep took hold of you, and you rested for hours before waking to a phone call from schlatt.

“huh?” you said when you answered, still in the clutches of unconsciousness. his laugh woke you up, though.

“jesus, i was worried i’d have to come wake you up again,” he chuckled into his cell. “i’ll be there in about an hour, start getting ready.”

“how fancy do i need to dress?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“wear that dress you picked out,” he replied. “the black one. i gotta go, i’ll be there soon, toots.” with that, he hung up, leaving you groggy and turned on from his orders. you ignored the feelings in your core and got up, changing into the dress he wanted and doing your makeup. the music you put on while you got ready did a good job of distracting you from how nervous you were, but once you had finished everything you needed to do, you perched on the edge of the bed and went over the day’s events in your mind. you had about ten minutes left until he was here to pick you up, and you counted down the seconds eagerly, unsure of if this evening would change the dynamic between the two of you.

you sprung up off the bed when he knocked at the door, grabbing a purse he had bought you earlier that you filled with your necessities for the night. opening the door revealed schlatt standing there, leaning against the frame again, dressed in a button down, slacks, and a blazer. you blinked a few times at how good he looked- you had never seen him dressed like this before and it was strange.

“what is this?” you asked quietly, taking in how nice the two of you were dressed. “this doesn’t feel like just a dinner.” you were wary of him, unsure of what his intentions were.

he rolled his eyes and scoffed, extending a hand out to invite you to join him. “will you just trust me? spent almost twelve thousand dollars on you today and you won’t even join me for dinner…” he scolded and shook his head.

eyes bulging, your jaw fell open. “twelve thousand??? schlatt, oh my god!!” you sounded horrified, and you spun around to look at all the bags again. “i can’t believe you would do that, i feel so awful.”

“makin’ you feel awful is not the goal, doll. now can you please just take my arm so i can treat you to the best dinner you’ve ever had?” he looked earnest enough, and you swallowed the lump in your throat before nodding and accepting his hand, determined to give him a shot.

“as long as you promise to buy me drinks,” you joked, letting the door fall shut behind you as he began to lead you down the hall to the elevator.

“i wouldn’t dream of letting you stay sober tonight,” he smiled.

you were just a bit beyond tipsy, laughing raucously at every joke schlatt was making. he had taken you to the fanciest steakhouse around, just a short walk from the hotel. the food was incredible, and the alcohol just kept coming. you suspected he slipped the staff some money earlier to get the two of you a secluded booth with an amazing view, but couldn’t prove it. all you knew was there was no one around and you could see the whole city from your seat across from him.

“i still don’t understand why you’re doing all of this for me,” you giggled, sipping your drink. “not complaining, not at all, i like being spoiled. but it’s confusing.” you were hiccupping every few words.

“you’re never gonna shut up about it, are you?” he asked, downing the last of his whiskey. “at least now you’re bein’ grateful for it. glad i could get you to admit you like being spoiled, though.”

“it wasn’t you that made me admit it, schlatt, it was the alcohol.” you leaned in close to whisper the last part and his eyes widened slightly when he smelled how strong your breath was.

“okay, toots, i believe you. i think it’s time to get you back to your room, hmm?” he sounded genuinely concerned, worried that he might have gotten you a bit too intoxicated. he couldn’t go through with his plan if you were all the way drunk, then you might not remember it in the morning- and he wanted you to remember what he was going to do to you.

“can i have dessert?”

a soft smile crossed his lips. “yeah, i’ll order us some dessert.” he flagged down some wait staff and talked with them for a bit before they left, returning a few minutes later with several different plates of different desserts.

you squealed, giddy from your sweet tooth, and sampled all of them, passing the best ones across the table with an, “ohhh, you gotta try this one!” or, “this one’s soooo good.” he nodded, taking small bites of whichever ones you passed to him. as you ate your treats, he took care of the bill, and once you had finished, the two of you were ready to go. he helped you up and out of the booth, and escorted you out of the restaurant and down the short trek to the hotel. it was dark out now, and the two of you slunk by everyone quickly. the pace he set was manageable, but only just so in the heels you were wearing.

once you two arrived at the hotel, you got on the elevator, giggling and joking with each other before stumbling out onto your floor. he walked you to your door and hesitated. you didn’t notice, though; you were just trying to find your room key in your purse. he spoke before you could, though.

“can i come in?” he asked. his voice sounded nervous.

you looked up at him, still digging in your purse. “for what?”

he sighed and pulled a keycard out of his pocket, swiping it and letting you both in. “you really wanna know why i bought you all that shit?” you entered first, him trailing behind you. there was a large, plain black bag sitting on your bed that wasn’t there when you left. you were tipsy, but you swore it was new.

“yeah, schlatt, i do.” you set your purse down on a table and turned around to face him. he was standing close to you, so close you had to look up to make eye contact. “what the fuck is all this about?”

he took a deep breath, hand coming up to rest on your waist. you flicked your eyes to where he was touching you, fireworks exploding under your skin, and looked back up at him. “i thought maybe if i spoiled you rotten you’d have a lot harder time saying no,” he spoke softly.

“saying no to what?” you questioned, raising one eyebrow at him. he walked closer to you and you backed up, him walking you to the bed until you were sitting on the edge and he was looking down at you. reaching into the black bag, he pulled out a bundle of rope and a piece of silk that you could only guess would go in your mouth to gag you. “schlatt?” you asked, voice trembling.

“i won’t hurt you, i promise. not unless you want me to,” he breathed, gently grabbing your chin. “do you want me to?”

you froze as he bent down to whisper the last question in your ear, goosebumps raising at the feeling of his breath against your neck. you couldn’t stop yourself. “yeah,” you gasped. “yeah, i do.” you felt him grin against your skin as he pressed an open mouth kiss to your throat, earning a whimper from you.

his massive hands were warm as they pawed at your dress, slipping behind you to undo the zipper. you shivered at the cool air as the garment fell from your shoulders, exposing the lacy black set you were wearing. it slid all the way off you and you kicked it away, reaching down to undo your shoes and pulling those off as well. you felt extremely vulnerable in front of him, most of your skin exposed as he pushed you down to lay on your back. he began kissing your collarbones, down to your chest, all the way down your stomach, and buried his face in your clothed heat. you moaned, face burning red, and bucked your hips up into his face.

schlatt snickered and pulled his face away, causing you to whimper at the sudden loss of kisses being planted on your clit. “this’s gonna be fun,” he mumbled, standing up and adjusting his pants. you couldn’t help but notice how tight they were. you started to speak as you sat up, but he shushed you and grabbed the piece of silk, gagging you with it and securing it around your mouth. he patted you on the head when he finished, mumbling an, “attagirl,” before grabbing the rope and positioning you with your hands behind your back.

you let out some muffled noises, confused, but obeyed. he tied your arms tightly, ensuring you were securely bound by the restraints before bringing the rope around your waist to the front and doing an intricate knot pattern, enveloping you in the cord like a harness.

schlatt paused after a while of tying, gently undoing your bra and removing it before drinking the sight of your bare chest in. he only savored the sight of you for a moment before resuming the knots.

once the rope came back around to your hips, he flicked his eyes up to look at yours and knelt down between your legs. you couldn’t have said anything even if you weren’t gagged, the visual of him pressing his face into your core again stole the air from your lungs. his dark, lust-filled eyes stared up at you, as if he was trying to memorize the sight of you.

luckily, he didn’t have to.

you whined when he pulled away, and yelped when he delivered a sharp smack to your face.

“shut the fuck up, doll,” he warned. “i promise you i’m gonna make you feel good. now lemme finish tyin’ you up.”

tears stung your eyes as you nodded silently, and you feared only for a fleeting second that you had put yourself in a bad situation. but then you were too horny to care.

he tugged your panties off with one rough motion, eyeing you suspiciously when you shivered from the feeling of cool air on your cunt, but nodded almost imperceptibly when you stayed still for him. he carefully finished binding you, leaving your legs able to be moved but tightening the restraints on your arms so that you had no choice but to be obedient.

when he was done, schlatt took a step back and admired his work for a bit before reaching into the black bag again. this time, he pulled out his old camcorder and a polaroid camera. your face immediately flushed with the realization that he planned to immortalize the image of you in this pathetic position forever. you imagined him returning to watch the footage over and over, stroking his cock and panting every time. the polaroids would go in his wallet, you fantasized.

“smile, toots!” broke you out of your trance. the camera flashed, and soon it spit out a photo of you sitting there on the edge of the bed. he shook it out a bit and chuckled quietly when it developed, staring at it possessively before showing it to you. “look at you, so pretty sittin’ there for me. let me get a few more, okay? just in case,” his voice was velvet, coating you in desire and anticipation. the replay of his rich timbre in your mind was the only thing that kept you satiated while he posed you, spreading your legs apart for the last few pictures so that your wet hole was on full display.

you made the mistake of not looking directly at the camera for the second picture, embarrassed to be seen like this, and schlatt tsked when he saw the image. his big hand reached out and smacked you once more, and this time, tears started falling. that only spurred him on, though.

“awh, yeah, doll, that’s a good idea. cry f’ me.” he smiled cruelly, raising the camera to his eye to take even more photos. “but keep your fuckin’ eyes right here.”

you felt more drops fall from your eyes, unsure of if they were genuine or just to appease him. regardless, he loved it. he nearly cackled at how ruined you were beginning to look, makeup now running down your face, hair mussed. it all added to the photos, which he was collecting quite the stack of.

once he felt he had enough, he fanned them all out in his hands and swept his eyes over them. after organizing them a bit, how so you couldn’t even begin to guess, he set them on the nightstand and walked over to set the camcorder up so that it would capture everything he was about to do to you.

you admired him from behind as he knelt down in front of the camera, adjusting it and hitting record when it was ready. as soon as he did, his demeanor changed; he moved more quickly, more impatiently, as he walked back towards you, grabbed you by the throat, and spat on you.

you shied away from him slightly but continued to gaze up at him lovingly. “you’re so fucking pitiful, y’know that?” he growled. “gotta hand it to ya though, twelve thousand is quite a price. well, i guess almost fourteen after dinner. god, you really can put it away, huh? not to mention the drinks,” he smirked down at you as your eyes widened and you looked away, embarrassed to have cost him that much. “let’s find out if you’re worth that much, huh, doll?”

schlatt reached into the black bag once again, and you wondered when would be the last time. this time his hand came out clutching a vibrator he had hooked up to his phone. you froze in shock as he reached towards you with it, processing too slowly to stop what he was going to do. he wasted no time pushing it deep inside you and pulling out his phone. you whimpered quietly while he fiddled with the app, the seconds drawing on and on until you couldn’t take it anymore. and just when you were about to do something, anything, he turned it on.

spasms rocked through you; the vibrations were so intense it felt like pleasure was curling around and enveloping every nerve ending in your body. you could’ve sworn you were burning, everything felt so white-hot. stars were all you could see as you tried to adjust to the feelings ringing out from deep inside you. eventually, you stabilized, and he guided your chin to make you look into his eyes, as if he was checking to make sure you were okay. you just blinked slowly, lust clouding both of your judgements.

when he decided you were fine, he set the vibrator to an intense rhythm and began unbuckling his belt, undoing his pants eagerly before pulling out his cock and pumping it in his hand. your eyes were wide and glued to his shaft, greedily following the movement, and you didn’t notice his other hand coming up to tear the piece of silk from your face. immediately he shoved his entire length down your throat, not giving you any time to babble whatever complaints you had. his bush was flush against your face, and you cried yet again from how rough he was face fucking you. he shifted positions after a bit, his hips only faltering in pace when he turned to check that the camera had a good view of your mouth being abused. he brought one leg up to rest on the bed, allowing him to get even deeper. he was alternating between tossing his head back in pleasure and holding it up to watch you.

you, however, were sobbing, helpless to stop the ravaging of your mouth, not to even mention the constant vibrations coming from the toy inside you. you had lost count of how many orgasms you had, completely giving in to him and the endless pleasure he was bringing you. he only stopped when your thighs started shaking and you squirted all over the bed.

“jesus, toots,” he laughed, still in your mouth. “the toy still in there?”

you nodded slightly.

“attagirl,” he mumbled. he pulled out and chuckled at your desperate, heaving gasps once you could breathe properly again. “i’m gonna fuck you now, doll, okay?”

you nodded eagerly, used to having to be quiet.

“i took the gag off for a reason, toots, and it wasn’t just to fuck your throat. let me hear your words.”

“yes, schlatt, please. please, god please i need you so bad. pl—” you begged before being cut off by him pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips. you moaned in surprise and kissed him back furiously before he pulled away.

“a simple ‘yes’ would’ve done,” he smiled. the wholesome moment didn’t last long, though, soon he was taking off the rest of his clothes so he was also nude and bending you onto your hands and knees. he groaned at the sight of your pussy, ass up in the air and ready and waiting for him. you bit your lip as you sat patiently, glancing at the camera and quickly looking away while you blushed at the idea of someone watching this in the future.

he plunged a finger in, teasing you and stretching you out a bit before fishing out the vibrator and turning it off, tossing it to the side. you relaxed a bit at the momentary lack of stimulation, but yelped when he smacked your ass. you felt him lining himself up with you and tried to calm the nerves buzzing in your stomach.

when he pushed in, you let out a quiet, drawn out moan. schlatt copied you, eyes trained on where you were damn near sucking him into you, entranced by the sight of his length slipping into your dripping folds.

“god, you're so tight,” he spoke through gritted teeth. he tried to let you adjust to his size for a moment, but after a few seconds, he said, “fuck it, i can't wait any longer.” with that, he began slamming in and out of you, hard, enough to make a loud smack every time his hips met your ass.

“takin’ me so well, doll,” he praised, slowing down slightly to adjust you and keep you propped up for the camera.

you just wailed, approaching another orgasm. the clench of your walls around him signaled to him what was about to happen, and he grinned as he brought his hand around to your clit to rub circles into it.

“schlatt!!!” you screamed, tears streaming down your face.

he grunted and smacked your ass again, repeatedly, watching the recoil of it every time. “god, you sound pretty when you scream my name like that,” he growled.

you called out his name again, and again, and again, over and over until your throat was raw as he pounded you. somehow, you forgot about the camera.

he didn't, though. when he was getting close, he pulled out and spun you around roughly, glancing to make sure you were still in frame before finishing himself off and spurting his cum all over your face and chest. you sat there, staring up at him with nothing but adoration in your eyes, until he was done and he walked off to grab the polaroid. he took a few shots of you covered in his seed before putting them back and dipping his finger in it, bringing it to your lips where you greedily licked it off him.

he scoffed, trying to hide how turned on he was by that, and positioned himself between your legs, sliding in again with ease. you moaned, the sound like music to his ears— he had never heard or seen anything as beautiful as you, the sight of your cum-covered tits bouncing as he rocked his hips was sure to stay with him for the rest of his life.

schlatt didn't mean to, but his hand found its way to your throat and clutched it tightly. he only realized what he was doing when you began squirming, then thrashing in an attempt to escape his grip. he released your neck and shook out his hand, blinking his eyes a few times as he dialed back in on how good you were feeling trapped under him.

he rolled his hips skillfully, fucking into you at a brutal pace as he made sure to hit the deepest parts of you he could. at this point, your legs were hooked over his shoulders, and he was insistent on bending them even further, until he had you in a mating press underneath him. you were singing on his cock, nonstop whorish noises spilling from your lips.

“god, you’re gonna milk me dry,” he laughed breathlessly as you came around his cock for what felt like the millionth time.

“fuuuck!” you screeched, eyes rolling back into your head. “schlatt, please,” you begged him— though what you wanted, he wasn’t sure of.

“doll, you keep beggin’ me like that and all you’re gonna get is my fat fuckin’ load deep in that pussy,” he warned. you somehow understood his threat in your post-orgasm haze and lit up at the possibility of being bred by him.

“please!! please, schlatt, i’ve been so good, please give it to me,” you rambled frantically, gaze fixed on his perfect visage. his brown hair was messy, and a few strands kept falling in front of his face as his dark eyes puzzled through why you would want that. eventually, he settled on giving you what you wanted, his thrusts slowing in pace but increasing in force as he got closer and closer before burying his cock to the hilt in you and painting your walls with an enormous amount of cum. you prayed none of it would spill out the whole time schlatt was collapsed onto your chest, breathing heavily.

he watched himself pull out of you and groaned at the sight of his sperm leaking from your cunt, quickly reaching to snap some pictures and eventually bringing the camcorder to capture your ruined makeup and fucked out state. when he was done, he shut the camera off and quickly went to work untying you.

“did so good f’me, ‘m so proud,” he murmured as he worked, gently rubbing the places on your skin where the rope hurt you. he placed a kiss to every one and continued to praise you.

you couldn’t say anything, too tired from being used like that, so you just let him take care of you and stared at him in adoration.

“d’ya want me to stay the night? can i?” he asked softly once he freed you from your restraints. “i was thinking i could help run you a bath or something…”

“please stay,” you rasped, clearing your throat. “i don’t want you to go.” the last sentence was quiet, but he still heard it, evident by the smile that crossed his lips.

“alright then, toots, you won’t be gettin’ rid of me for the rest of the trip.”

[megalony]

I'm Her Doctor

Okay, so this is my first time writing an AU fic for 911, Eddie Diaz, as requested by a lovely anon. I utterly loved writing this and I hope to do more like this soon.

(If anybody would be interested in a Doctor AU series for any of the 911 boys please let me know)

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @stefansalvatoresgf @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra8484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @shelbygeek @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana

@shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @ml572 @jessie-lynn28 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700

@ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @itshamleth @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii

Eddie Diaz Masterlist

Summary: When a tsunami strikes LA, Eddie pulls overtime at the hospital to care for as many patients as he can. Little does he realise that his wife will be one of his patients, and he won't let anyone else look after her but him. (AU, Eddie is a Doctor)

Enjoy.

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Eddie's nose crinkled at the smell of the coffee. Too strong. A splash of milk he didn't intend. A hint of tea curdling the mix. No amount of sugar in the world could make this bearable, but Eddie couldn't be bothered to buy another three cups from the decades old machine to get the perfect blend.

He didn't have time to run down to the cafeteria for a proper cup and all the machines on each ward were either old, broken or used the cheap blend Eddie would never touch outside of work.

He only drank the coffee from the machines when he was desperate and right now, with a twelve hour shift that was probably going to be extended, Eddie needed something to keep himself awake.

His lips curled down at the corners when he took a sip and a shudder rocked his body at the curdling taste.

With a sigh, he turned on his heels, dragged his free hand down his face and took a step away from the machine. His break would be over in a few minutes, he had to get back to his office.

His head snapped back and his shoulders barged into the machine, pushing the decrepit coffee maker into the beige wall loud enough to create an echo surging down the corridor. Eddie lifted his arms and hissed when the coffee spilled over his hands and dribbled through his fingers while he pushed himself back enough to be out the way of the gurney speeding down the corridor.

"Dios, Marcy, where's the fire?" Eddie's voice lowered a few tones and he rose a brow when he locked eyes with the familiar nurse who almost ran him over.

The gurney was empty- well, it was empty of a patient, at least.

There were over ten IV bags wobbling about on the mattress like bags of jelly that looked rather weak and ready to pop. Rolls of bandages, gauze, bottles of anticeptic, cotton swabs and packaged needles were littering the gurney that looked like it had robbed the supply cupboard.

The young nurse paused in her speeding attempt down the corridor. Sweat trickled across her forehead and down the side of her neck, causing a few loose strands of hair to stick to her skin. She puffed and leaned against the end of the gurney, letting her shoulders sag.

When she relaxed, Eddie realised how panicked and worn out she looked. She hadn't been on shift for more than five hours, she turned up way after Eddie clocked in for his shift.

"You mean the flood."

"Pardon?"

"Didn't you hear? The ER's been taken over, we're swamped down there. Everyone's being redirected."

"Why?"

Eddie hadn't heard anything, he had been in theatre for the last six hours of his shift. He had been removing an appendix, sorting out internal bleeding and stitching up a ten year old. He hadn't had time to bustle about and find out the latest gossip in the hospital. Before he went into surgery, everything had been as normal as ever.

Now though, he had encountered at least four nurses running around like headless chickens. Another two of his colleagues had been called to the ER over the tanoid and Eddie had barely seen anyone on the upper floors here. He thought it odd, but he had no idea something big was happening.

Marcy tilted her head at an angle and let out a shallow breath. She took a moment to swipe her hand across her temple before she looked back at the doctor stood beside her.

"There's- there's been a tsunami, high level. It took out the pier and all the coast, at least four miles inland."

"Jesus," Eddie dumped his cup in the bin beside him, shaking his hand free of coffee remnants before he dragged his hand down his chin.

A tsunami? In LA?

There had been no warnings or signs about this. No one had been on red alert or suspected anything. Usually they got a small warning, maybe an hour or less before the disasters happened, like with hurricanes or thunderstorms. The hospital had preparations and plans in place, they could usually get set up ready for a natural disaster if one were to occur.

"We've got people coming from all over, brought in on trucks, walk-ins, even the LAFD are out driving people to us. The ER is overspilling… I gotta get these supplies down there."

"Go, go." Eddie patted her shoulder and watched her give him a sympathetic smile before she resumed her high-speed charge towards the lift at the end.

Eddie's shift wasn't going to finish anytime soon.

How could he go home when they were getting people being brought in from all across the state? People were dying. People were crawling and dragging their families down to the nearest hospitals, wading through water and grime and busted cars and broken telephone wires. They were trying to get themselves to safety and thousands of people could be injured.

There was no way he could go home when people were being brought in on trucks, needing medical help.

He was a doctor. It was his duty to help people and save as many lives as possible. Eddie couldn't go home until the hospital had people on wards and they had helped every person that came in through their doors.

Rummaging his hand in his pocket, Eddie fished out his phone. He was surprised to find he still had some signal, a tsunami usually brought down the phone lines. They had to be far in land here to be unharmed.

He had to call (Y/n). If he wasn't going to be getting out of here anytime soon, he had to let (Y/n) know and make sure she and Chris didn't venture out far with this mess going on. The last thing he needed was his family getting stuck in a traffic jam or being caught up or swamped somewhere with the waves still lashing out and coming inland.

She didn't answer.

"Hey mi amor, I don't know when I'm gonna be home, there's some sort of tsunami happening and we're getting casualties left right and centre. I'll call you when I know more. I hope you and Chris are having a better time, amor. Stay safe."

With his phone in his pocket and his pager in his hand, Eddie looked through the two messages he got. They wanted him down in the ER. He was on standby for any emergency operations if any casualties came through.

Into the chaos.

The tails of his pristine white overcoat flapped behind his thighs as he jostled down the stairs towards the emergency room. There was no point waiting for the lift when others needed it more and Eddie could use the stairs.

He didn't like what he saw. People sat on the floor in the stairwell and the adjoining corridors. Sat on blankets. Holding gauze to major cuts, empty water bottles sat beside them. Water trickling down the stairs causing a major hazard. Two, three and four people sharing one oxygen tank between them, taking turns with the mask to try and keep each other from gasping like fish.

Were these people all walk-ins from the disaster? Were these patients that had been moved out of their rooms and wards to make way for more dire emergencies?

How many more people were going to be coming into the hospital? How many more people could they help before they were overflowing and had no space left?

Could they even turn people away? Eddie had never known them to turn anyone away, especially not in a disaster. But they were clearly reaching maximum capacity if people were sitting in stairwells and lying in corridors. They might have to turn people away, how could they help people if they had no space and were using up their extra resources?

The doors swung open when Eddie barged into the emergency room. He clipped his ID badge onto his waistband for easy access in case he had to go and grab more supplies. All the corridors were locked for safety, if the patients wanted through they had to be buzzed in and all staff had keycards.

"Darren, what have we got?"

"What haven't we got?" The nurse deadpanned, dropping his shoulders as he spun to face Eddie. He rose a brow when he realised what Eddie was wearing. He wasn't in his usual button up shirt or trousers. He was in pale turquoise scrubs and his usual bleached white overcoat. That was a giveaway that he had been in surgery.

"Alright, smart arse, who's shift lead down here?" Eddie's hands moved to his hips and he took a look around.

The emergency room had never been so compact.

Most of the curtains were pulled back with little privacy so they could push the beds closer together and squeeze more patients in. People were sitting on blankets on the floor. Others were lining the walls, sat, crouching and stood waiting to be seen by anyone available.

Some were wearing wristbands of different colours, red meant someone was in dire need of help, green were those who could wait and amber meant they would need attention soon.

Black was reserved for those who were either dead or not going to make it. It had been a long time since Eddie had seen the wristband system come into play.

"Jameston was pulled up to theatre, Macabee's been pulled somewhere else, we're just helping who we can."

"Fuck." Eddie's fingers scratched through his scrubs until he was sure he would have red indents in his skin and blood wheels bubbling up beneath his skin. If no one was on shift lead then people didn't have anyone to report to, that meant people would just help whoever they wanted or whoever was closest. They needed a system.

If no one was going to take charge then Eddie would take that role himself. People could listen to him or get out the emergency room.

"Alright, listen up." He made his way over to the circular reception desk in the middle of the room. "If you don't have a wristband, come get one. Green bands in that corner, amber over here. If you have red then someone will come and move you towards the back."

Coloured bands were there for a reason, people were meant to be segregated into their groups, not compiled together like this. Eddie pointed for where he wanted them to go and waved his hands towards the back for all the red patients to be escorted over. The back was closest to the equipment and near the lifts for easy transfer.

"You three, go to red I want four nurses in the red corner at all times, do not leave those patients. Johnson, you're in charge or those three, deal with amber and get them onto a different floor. The rest of you sort out the greens, anyone who can be stitched up and sent out needs to go. We aren't a cafe we are here for serious injuries."

Eddie could see the funny looks he was getting, but no one dared argue with him. He was putting himself in charge and they needed to agree or go to a different ward for different orders.

This was a hospital. Anyone who had minor injuries needed to be given paracetamol, checked for cuts and sent home. They could get antibiotics from their GP and they could get seen by a pharmacist for any minor complications. They had no room, no space and no time to deal with anyone who wasn't in critical condition.

"We've been separated, w-we need to find out families-"

"Ma'am, I completely understand that, but you can't do that here."

"We need to see if our families have been admitted!" An angry father, or, Eddie presumed he was a father by his stance and his panicked temper, stomped his foot on the floor.

He wanted to find his loved ones. He had a few injuries that weren't life-threatening. He wanted to find his family and he couldn't leave the hospital if he wanted to do that.

He looked Eddie up and down when the doctor advanced over to him with a calm expression and his hands at his sides.

"Look around," Eddie's voice was gentle but his words were oddly firm. "We aren't taking names at the moment, we treat people, we get them onto a ward or on their way. We don't get names until they are safely in a bed or about to leave. In here, we have no way of knowing if your family have arrived, have been transferred or are in theatre."

They couldn't take names straight away. Some people weren't in any fit state to give their names or ask about their families. Their job as doctors was to patch people up and get them safely into theatre or onto a ward.

"If you go out into the gardens, the emergency services will set up tents and take names. They will help you find your family, but I can't have you taking up time and resources in here if you are fit and able to wait outside. Please."

It sounded harsh, but this was an emergency like no other. Eddie had no space for people to sit here and people-watch, waiting for their families to come in or to hear any news they were desperately seeking.

The emergency services and some of the hospital reception staff would already be setting up tents outside. They took names and cross-referenced against those who had been able to give their names on arrival. They checked for people on wards, people in the morgue and those who were dead but yet to be identified.

Once the man nodded, Eddie pointed at someone to check them over and guide the group of people out who had green wristbands.

He turned to face the reception desk, taking deep breaths to try and calm down the tremors that were rattling through him. But his brows furrowed and he sighed when he looked at the desk. Papers were scattered everywhere. Some were drenched in water from the patients who came in, scrambling for help at the desk. Others were scribbled so hastily that Eddie couldn't make head nor tail of the words.

"Janice, what is going on here?" His hands fumbled around, motioning to all the paperwork.

"I've had over two hundred people to sign in and send upstairs-"

"How do you know which ones are which?"

Her lack of reply had Eddie running his hands over his face with a deep, grumble that racked his chest and had his jaw locking in place. Could no one organise in this mess? Had they all forgotten how to cope in a disaster? It had only been a year since the Earthquake and Eddie had worked three days straight during that period.

They had a great system during that disaster, did everyone just forget how to cope and how to function in times like these?

"Dios, we can't work like this-"

"What do you want me to do? Doctor?" She added on quietly at the end, looking down to her hands when she realised she might just be speaking a bit out of term to a senior doctor.

"I want you to organise this desk. Forget about filing the paperwork, okay? Blank paper is what you need. Get people to write their names down if they can, one page for green, one for amber, one for red. Keep them in piles, then we know where people are when we have to log into the system after everyone's sorted. Get rid of this shit, start over."

Eddie's abdomen dug into the desk while he grabbed a large stack of paperwork and tossed it behind the desk onto the floor.

Forms were no good in an emergency, things needed to be plain and simple. Names, where they were being sent, that was all they needed right now. No insurance forms, no past discharge notes, just the main details. Names, dates of birth, allergies, that was it.

When Janice nodded, Eddie spun on his heels and looked around. Everyone was listening to him, people were more organised and it meant the nurses fluttering around here were helping the right people and they weren't stuck like headless chickens.

"If you just sit down here-"

"If he's amber sit on the left, if he's red move to the right but not in front of the bloody doors please." Eddie snapped, pointing across at the young nurse who was just about to sit an elderly man in front of the back doors that led off to the X-ray corridor.

Did people not use their brains? Where they all shutting down and waiting for Eddie to take charge? Was he going to have to order them all around and do their jobs for them? They couldn't sit someone in front of the doors because if they swung open that poor man would be knocked flying and he would be in a worse shape than when he arrived.

He could see the nurse bite down on her lip as if she might start crying and it made Eddie's heart spasm. But she held herself together. She put on a shallow smile and helped shuffle the man to the left and sit him down next to a cot bed with a young woman on.

"Doctor Diaz?" A timid voice broke Eddie out of his thoughts and had him spinning on his heels.

A young nurse. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, maybe younger, he wasn't sure. Both her hands were clasped together in front of her and her fingers were scratching at the back of her hands. Her arms were shaking, elbows were pinned into her waist and her shoulders were hunched and pulled forwards.

She looked like she needed medical help with how anxious she was and Eddie wasn't sure if she was about to be sick or not. Tears were in her eyes and she was breathing shallow.

"Yes?" His tone was softer than before and he tried to smile to calm her down but it didn't seem to work.

"What- um, what do we do with the bodies?"

Her words stunned Eddie and he took a cautious look around. He had seen people looking like they were on Death's door, but no one seemed to have passed away yet. But when the nurse shakily pointed over her shoulder, Eddie saw.

He saw the body of a teenager, just a few years older than his own son. Not breathing. Not moving. Laid languidly on a cot bed as if he was passed out.

Eddie ran a hand across his face and took a strangled breath through his fingers.

He could feel his hands about to tremble with the adrenaline shooting through his system. He reached out, tensing his fingers to keep his hand from shaking and he gave her shoulder a squeeze before he spun to face the reception desk.

His nimble fingers scoured through the paperwork behind the desk until he found what he was looking for.

A black lanyard. A rectangle piece of paper, as black as night and as scratchy as hay. There were white lines for a name to be written across and a time, date and cause of death.

"Johnston! Gurney." Eddie waved the nurse over and walked the younger nurse back towards the patient. He handed her the lanyard. "Do we have a name?"

She shook her head.

"Then take him towards X-ray, out the side doors and into the foyer… he needs to be laid with the unidentified and recorded."

Eddie didn't want her taking the teen out through the ER doors. People were still coming in. No one deserved or needed to see a dead body being wheeled out, it would cause panic and it wasn't respectful. If they had a name then he could have been taken to the morgue. Without a name, he had to be laid in the tent with the other unidentified and the easiest way to get there without alarming people was through the X-ray corridor.

This was going to be a long day, and it had only just begun.

***

"We're nearly there, you just hang on for me, okay?" Tremors rattled through Buck's voice and gave away the sheer desperation welling up inside of him.

He continued to push the gurney with his right hand while his left hand deadlocked around his sister's palm. He could feel her hand, a mixture of sweat and salt water dribbling between their fingers, squeezing his tightly. And her nails that were split and had layers of mud stuck beneath them were scratching into the back of his hand. Holding tightly to let him know she was still hanging on, just like he asked.

The emergency room doors parted easily and allowed the 118 to glide straight through, but Buck's voice boomed over the rest of the sounds like a siren, demanding to be heard.

"Diaz! Where's Doctor Diaz?"

"Sir, we're very-"

"Get me Doctor Diaz now!" Buck all but slammed his foot down on the glistening tiled floor that was littered with smudges of blood, dirt and puddles of salt water that was as brown as milk chocolate.

He needed his brother in law. He needed Eddie. (Y/n) needed a doctor and the only one she needed right now was her husband.

Eddie spun on his heels, pen light clasped between his teeth and stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked over his shoulder, hands paused in mid air as he crouched in front of a young boy he was trying to assess.

It wasn't enough to direct people in the ER and try to create a system, Eddie was still a doctor and until he was called up to surgery, he had to assess people down here. He had to do his fair share, or more than his fair share when no one here seemed to be able to do their jobs properly. Eddie had assessed patients, sent them to X-ray, sent others to an MRI.

He had done CPR on an elderly woman, a tracheotomy on a middle-aged man choking on what he had inhaled during the floods. And he had the harsh job of sending another three people to the unidentified tent out in the foyer when they passed away.

But he knew that voice.

He knew that loud, sometimes obnoxious, but mostly caring voice that had risen an octave and sounded as distressed as Eddie had ever heard him.

Buck. His brother in law. Eddie thought his brother in law would be working today, this was an emergency and he knew Buck was all for helping anyone he could. But Eddie hadn't thought he would see Buck today, he thought their jobs would keep them separate and he would see him in a few days to talk and go over what had gone on today.

"Buck?" Paranoia flooded Eddie's voice as he narrowed his eyes and looked around the emergency room.

He found Buck easily. That sandy blond hair, damp and curled to the max. Those broad shoulders, towering over everyone else within reach. Those ocean blue eyes that held so much pain and panic within them that it physically made Eddie feel sick.

"Buck, what are you…"

(Y/n).

His wife. There she was. Not safely tucked up at home. Not at home snuggled up with Chris watching a movie or listening intently to the news.

She was laid on the gurney, looking worse for wear and clinging to her brother's hand.

What had happened?

"No, no no!" The pen light dropped to his feet, his hands began to shake and his shoes clicked against the floor as he skidded over towards his wife.

He didn't know the other people gathered round the gurney, but it didn't take much to work out that they had to be Buck's team who he worked with. There were three of them, to be exact, all gathered round the gurney like they were waiting for a premonition to take place.

The moment he reached the gurney, Eddie was stooping over. His trembling hands cupped (Y/n)'s face that was damp, although he couldn't tell whether it was sweat or sea water. His thumbs glided over her cheeks that were a mix of hot and cold all together, all at once. He creased his abdomen to double over the gurney and his elbows pinned into (Y/n)'s arms.

She shakily let go of her brother's hand and tried to open her eyes. They were still burning like the fires of Hell from all the water. She could barely breathe. She couldn't see properly. Eddie's figure looming over her was almost as if she was seeing an angel, guiding her to the afterlife.

A halo of light surrounded Eddie's frame, but (Y/n) just managed to make out the creases around his eyes, the bridge of his nose and those ruby red lips that were barely touching her own.

"Mi amor," Eddie didn't trust himself to speak properly and he couldn't drag his eyes away from his wife.

He pecked her lips, feeling just how frozen cold they felt against his own and it made him cringe. His thumbs continued to glide across her cheeks while he tilted his head to the right and looked up at his brother in law.

"Eddie," (Y/n)'s voice was quiet and each breath she took hitched higher than the last, but the look in her eyes had Eddie's heart breaking. She was relieved. She was staring at him like she had taken a long pilgrimage and had finally found safety and sanctuary with him.

She knew she was safe now.

"What happened- w-where's Chris?"

"We found them clinging on top of a swamped fire truck. Chris is in our truck, h-he's fine I swear. But you need to help her."

A small ounce of relief dwelled in Eddie's stomach. His son was safe. Chris was patched up and clearly didn't need any medical attention like (Y/n) did. They had found both of them and managed to get them out of the wreckage. (Y/n) had been saved by her brother and his team. She had managed to stay with Chris and not get separated, at least, not for very long. They had both been found.

"Let me look at you, mi amor." He hushed quietly and pecked her lips again before he reeled up enough to assess her.

His hands wandered up and down, checking for any deep abrasions or broken bones or anything that didn't seem right.

Both (Y/n)'s arms were pinned to her chest, but she deadlocked her hands around Eddie's arm. Tears flushed her face, sniffles and gasps left her split lips and she was trembling back and forth. Her knees were lifted up like she was trying to curl up and get into the fetal position to make herself feel better.

Eddie could see hundreds of cuts littering her arms and her exposed chest. Her shirt had been cut down the middle, presumably so they could assess her chest and there was a cut just under her fifth rib. It didn't look extensive, but it would need stitches.

When he tried to press down on her abdomen, (Y/n)'s knees jolted up and a mewling sob left her lips. Her head tilted back into the gurney, pushing her throat out and she gurgled through each breath.

"Hurts!"

"Shh, sorry baby, I'm sorry. Let me see, please." He gently moved her arms away so he could assess again but when he pressed down on the right side of her abdomen just above her hip, she coiled inwards again. "Intestine's ruptured. Shit."

"I'll go sit with Chris." Chimney patted Buck's shoulder before he jogged out, they didn't want to leave Chris sat on his own for too long.

"Her breathing's very laboured and mismatched." Hen had tried to assess (Y/n)'s chest, but she was still breathing. Every now and then she would cough or take five sharp, thin breaths all at once. She couldn't hear any water in her lungs and she was still breathing so that couldn't be the case.

Eddie swiped the stethoscope from his neck and pressed them to his ears. He let (Y/n) smother her face against his right arm while he leaned over her and pressed the stethoscope against her back to listen to her lungs.

But he suddenly felt (Y/n)'s forehead slamming into his arm and her fingers scraped through his jacket sleeves, digging into his arm so tightly she was cutting off his circulation.

He dropped the stethoscope and reached forward, taking the small torch light from Hen's top pocket before she could ask what he was doing.

He twisted (Y/n) so she was laying on her left side, facing him as he crouched down in front of the gurney.

"Open. Open up."

Eddie shone the light in her mouth and squinted to try and see if there was any obstruction.

(Y/n) clasped her fingers around his wrist, closing her eyes tightly as she started to shake. Something didn't feel right. Her chest felt constricted, her lungs weren't opening up and taking proper breaths anymore. She felt like she was going to be sick.

She could feel someone's hand at the back of her neck and when she started to cough, her body shuddered and she jerked her legs out when Eddie's hand moved to her mouth.

"I'm sorry- baby just keep breathing it's okay." Eddie grimaced as water spluttered past (Y/n)'s lips and dripped down onto the floor. He pushed his fingers past her lips towards the back of her throat, hating the way she squirmed and tried to push him away, but he could see she was choking on something.

Buck wrapped an arm around his front and gagged, turning his head away when he watched Eddie slowly pull a long stream of either seaweed or some sort of tangled up plant from (Y/n)'s lips. She must have inhaled it during the struggle when the first wave hit. She didn't even know she had inhaled that into her lungs.

Eddie tossed the seaweed onto the floor by his feet, shaking his hand, relieved he was wearing gloves for doing that.

"Janice!" He tossed his head to look over his shoulder at the receptionist who was dumbstruck, unsure what to do. "Find me an OR and a surgical team. Ruptured intestine, I need to operate now."

"Um… theatre four, floor two should be free."

"Someone bring Chris."

Eddie reeled up back to his full height, grabbed the edge of the stretcher and began steering them towards the back corridor through the middle of the ER. Chris could come up, he could wait in Eddie's office where Buck could wait with him once (Y/n) was in theatre and being looked after.

This was his worst nightmare. This was something Eddie had always been fearful of. Having his wife and son caught up in something horrid like this. He had been extremely lucky last year that Chris had been safe at school and (Y/n) had been at home when the Earthquake hit. Both of them had been out the way and in no danger.

Not like today. They had been caught up in this natural disaster and now Eddie had to operate on his wife. He had never done this before. He had stitched (Y/n) up at home a few times, but he had never had to operate on her or have her need any type of hospitalisation like this.

He wasn't supposed to operate on family members. It was too dangerous in case something happened or she died or Eddie made a mistake. But this was an emergency. All their staff had been redirected, no one was where they were supposed to be. Any doctor was being diverted to any theatre, operating room, ward and scan that they could to observe and help and intervene.

Eddie didn't have time to wait around for another colleague to come over and operate on (Y/n). He had done this procedure hundreds of times before and he wasn't going to trust anyone else to look after his wife the way he would.

"E-Eddie," (Y/n) gave a soft tug on Eddie's hand that she had confiscated and pinned against her chest. She could barely open her eyes to look up at him, but she was relieved when he leaned down and kissed her temple.

She managed to focus enough to watch him scan his badge against the doors and guide them out of the emergency room and into a more secluded corridor with less casualties around ever corner.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Don't l…leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere without you, mi amor." He kissed the back of her hand before the three of them crammed into the lift.

Bobby was hanging back with Hen, waiting for Chimney to come out with Chris so they could catch them up. The team weren't leaving, they would wait and stay with Buck so they could comfort him and wait on any news of his little sister. It had been a stroke of luck that they had found (Y/n) rather than any other team. Buck had made it his mission to look after his sister and he told them exactly which hospital to go to, although none of them had known why Buck was fixated on this hospital. Until they saw Eddie.

Once they were up on the second floor, Eddie flagged down a passing nurse before he turned to face Buck.

"My office is around that corner, second door on the left. I'll find you as soon as it's done." He unclipped his keycard from his scrubs and handed it over. Buck was welcome to wait in his office, Chris had been in there hundreds of times before so he would know where to go and he would be okay there. Chris had a few of his books in the office to occupy him.

Once Buck headed back into the lift so he could go find the rest of the team, Eddie began his descent down the corridor, pushing the gurney single-handed.

"Okay, reception said we have an emergency?" Cranston placed his hands on his hips and stood outside the empty operating room he had been told to get scrubbed up for another surgery.

But once his eyes landed on the girl on the stretcher, his hands fell at his sides and he shook his head. (Y/n). He had seen her here many times when she came to visit Eddie or when she brought Chris down for a visit. Eddie couldn't be here for this. He couldn't be the leading surgeon, he wasn't allowed.

"No, Diaz you can't-"

"No one else is touching my wife. I'm her doctor now, got it?"

[azsazz]

Brr-eakdown

Hockey Player!Azriel x Figure Skater!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: I love love LOVE your Hockey!Azriel x Ice skater reader series! So good! 😍 I just read the one where Azriel gets in a fight on the ice and the reader is worried about him getting hurt and I can just imagine how upset Azriel would be if it was the opposite and you didn’t hit the landing or something during practice on the ice and you end up in the ER and everyone’s talking about how there was so much blood so Az is worried and trying to get to you and he wants to punch something so bad while he’s waiting to hear about your condition but there’s no one to fight. He’s so soft and takes care of you while you get better though ❤️🥹 (I need a hockey player Azriel in real life asap… seriously thank you for bringing him to life ❤️)

Warnings: Mentions of an accident (reader falls and cracks her head open) and blood.

Word Count: 1,475

Notes: Okay, I didn't quite hit everything, but hopefully I did it justice with what I was able to add 💙

_________________________________________

“Again,” your coach demands, and you want to melt into a puddle of tears.

Your limbs are aching, legs quivering from practicing the same jump over and over and over again, but you still haven’t mastered it and the championship is only three weeks away. If you don’t land this trick during your routine, you’re never going to nationals.

“I can’t, Coach,” you pant, graciously accepting the water bottle she passes you. Coach Weaver is the most decorated figure skating trainer in the country, and not only is it a privilege for her to be an employee at your university, but to be working on your solo routine with her is an opportunity not many receive. “My legs are shot for the day.”

The water is crisp and fresh on your tongue, wetting your parched throat. If you focus on that, you’re almost able to forget about the quivering muscles of your legs from so many attempted—and failed—jumps today. You’ve been running your routine for the past hour and for once, you’re saddened by the lack of presence from the university’s hockey team, who are usually bombarding your ice time by now, you notice as you peek at the clock on the timeboard pinned to the side of the stadium.

“If you want to make it to nationals this year, you need to spend all of your free time practicing, not chasing around those hockey players,” Coach Weaver says. She doesn’t look up from her phone, eyes glued to the most recent video of one of your many unsuccessful runs. Her eyes are narrowed, scrutinizing, and all you want right now is for her phone to run out of battery. “Are you doing enough core work on your time out of practice?” She finally lifts that inspecting gaze to your stomach and it makes you want to squirm. “Your edge work could use some practice, too. Your control isn’t nearly as strong as it should be.” 

Again, because my legs feel like fucking jello, you think sourly, clenching your teeth. You don’t respond. It’s futile, anyway. All Coach Weaver would do is come back at you with another demand, wondering why you seem to have so many excuses, and you can do without today. 

“Yes, Coach,” you agree, because it’ll be the quickest way to get you out of here. All you want to do is collapse on your couch with some much needed dinner and kick your feet up into Azriel’s lap, praying for a massage. You’ll beg if you have to, but there’s no way you can get down on your knees for him tonight. No, it’s pillow princess night for you, if you don’t fall asleep on the couch first.

“Run it again,” Coach Weaver says, straying away from nitpicking you. “And make sure that air position is tight this time, I don’t want a hair out of place.” 

Spoke too soon.

There’s no point in arguing, even if you know there’s no possible way you’re going to be able to land this jump today. Coach won’t quit until you’re unable to move, until she sees that you’ve had enough. 

Other skaters whiz by and you envy them. A girl and her partner glide past looking like two graceful gazelles, and in an intricate jumble of limbs, he throws her into the air, catching her, and they spin in tight circles, quicker than your eye can follow. 

Maybe you should’ve done partnered skating instead.

“Let’s go,” Coach barks. She’s looking at her watch like she has some place to be, which you know is untrue because of the rumors you’ve heard the other skaters whispering about her. How she drove off her second husband the same way she did the first, how all she has at home is a bottle of rum and a karaoke machine. 

You quickly take position, and then you’re off. You try to clear your mind of all of your earlier attempts but your legs are screaming in protest. You press your lips together, gaining speed, making sure your edges are set and your core is tight.

You don’t even notice Azriel sneaking into the rink. Well, he’s not sneaking, because he’s been in here more times in the past few years at college than you have. He catches you as you glide past, a determined look to your eye that makes his chest tight with pride.

You lift, spin once, twice, and it’s euphoric. Surely, you must almost have it this time. Something blooms warm in your chest, but halfway through your third rotation everything comes crashing down. You nearly would have had it that time, if your lethargic leg didn’t give out as soon as your blade makes contact with the ice again. 

You don’t have time to scream, to brace as you come smashing into the ice with the force of a bull.

The sound of your skull cracking against the ice rings through the arena, silencing everyone except for the distressed shout of your name that follows you into the blackness.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Oh my Gods,” Azriel sighs in relief. His brows are furrowed deeply, the same frown you’ve come to know and love deeper, more sad as he stares at you in relief. His fingers tighten around yours and you squeeze back gently, blinking groggily. “Thank fuck you’re awake, sweetheart.” 

“What happened?” You ask, but you don’t know why. You remember everything clearly, up until you slipped into the ice. You remember Coach Weaver demanding you try your trick again, despite your protests not to. You remember feeling confident in the air, even though your legs were an aching pile of muscle that gave out with your landing. From then, it’s all fuzzy. All you know is that Azriel was there. He still is.

“You didn’t land your fall,” he explains wearily, like he’s not sure he should be the one explaining this. Fuck it, he doesn’t care. You’re here and you’re hurt, but you’re okay. You’re going to be. Azriel will see to it himself. “Your body  just crumpled, sweetheart, and you—” He takes a shuddering breath that has you reaching out to caress his cheek. He leans into your touch, kissing your palm before continuing the haunting story. “You hit your head. There was blood everywhere. Please, don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You groan in response, reluctantly removing your hand from the warm skin of your boyfriend, reaching up to finger at the bandages wrapped around your head. You grimace at the thought of what you must look like right now, worse for wear.

Azriel gently takes your hand, removing it from where you’re still poking at your head, trying to find the wound. You don’t feel anything, probably because of the numbing the doctors used when fixing you up. 

You suspect you’re not going to feel all that great later.

“You have five staples in your head,” Azriel answers your unspoken question. If it will keep you from dislodging your bandage, he’ll tell you what you want to know.

You hum softly. “What did Coach say?”

You don’t miss the way Azriel clenches his teeth. “She called the ambulance. She actually insisted that she be the one to ride with you but I shut that down right fucking quick,” he spits, and he’s getting all worked up again. It was hard seeing you fall, his stomach dropping to the floor, but once he saw the blood weeping from your skull, he’d only seen red.

Your shoulders sag. It’s a relief that she isn’t here right now, though a part of you wants to shove this in her face. Hopefully, it will be the last time she ignores her student’s limits.

Leaning your head back against the pillow propped behind you, you ask the question you’re dreading. Swallowing harshly, you inquire, “How long am I going to be off ice?”

Your boyfriend is silent for a long moment, two. It makes your heart twist in your chest, bracing for the terrible news.

“Doc says you’re out for two weeks,” Azriel says, brushing his lips across your knuckles in an apologetic manner. He knows how much skating means to you, and hates to be the one to break the news to you, but he’d rather be the one doing it than you having to hear it from the doctor.

“Two weeks?” you exclaim, eyes nearly bugging out of your head. You wince at the sudden movement and when the roaring of your voice makes your headache. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea, but there’s only three weeks until the championship, and if you aren’t able to land your trick within one week returning to the ice, your entire season is fucked.

Azriel cringes, and the bad news isn’t over yet. “Minimum.” 

And your season is officially down the drain.

_________________________________________

Hockey!AU Tag (will be tagged for any hockey fic, no matter paring):

@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @going-through-shit @crazylokonugget @lilah-asteria @girl-who-writes-stuff @moosemahboi @sherayuki @lyinginameadow @acourtofatboydreams @blackthorngirl @shadowsingercassia @evergreenlark @hannzoaks @bloodicka @whyshouldihaveanam3 @elle4404 @cherry-cin @quinzzelx @blackthorngirl @i-am-infinite @feerique @blightyblinders @kennedy-brooke

[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

[band--psycho]

Sylus x Reader - Beautiful

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated!

Thank you all for the continued support! I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over.

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms.

For the anon who requested the below request (thank you for your kind words; and I'll be doing another story soon based off of the ptsd part of this request)

Main Masterlist / Sylus Masterlist / Join My Taglist

Warnings: Body Insecurities, Scars, Self-Consciousness ( do not read if any of these subjects are triggering for you)

“It’s beautiful,” you gushed, completely mesmerized by the black dress in front of you. 

 it was truly the most beautiful dress you’d ever seen; and you wanted nothing more than to buy it there and then. 

But deep in your heart, you knew that you would never wear it no matter how beautiful it was nor how much you wished to wear it. 

You didn’t have the confidence to do so.

Your body was littered with scars from various wanderer hunts that you had been on, and you had a particularly big one that travelled down most of your leg; which would easily be seen from the slit in the dress.

“Why don’t you get it?” Sylus asked, noticing how intently you were looking at the dress. 

Even by his standards it was a beautiful dress and he couldn’t help but feel a little excited at the thought of seeing you in it. 

“It’s too expensive,” you said, brushing off his question. 

It's not like it was a lie, the dress was expensive, you’d certainly never paid that much for any item of clothing in your life.

But saying that  to the man who could've brought the whole store, was a mistake, one that you realised when  you saw him pull out his card from his leather jacket, “I’ll buy it for you,”

“It would be a waste of money,” you lied, shaking your head whilst grabbing his arm, pulling him away from the dress. 

“I’d never have a reason to wear it,” you continued, leaving the store with him. 

~~~~~~

When you returned home from work a few days later, you saw a square box wrapped with a decorative red ribbon on your bed. 

Naturally, your hunter instincts kicked in, you were the only one who had a key to your apartment and that parcel definitely wasn’t there when you left for work this morning. 

You were about to scour your flat, in case there were any threats lurking in your apartment, but then you saw a small card on top of the box. 

‘Now you have a reason to wear it, be ready at 8, S,’ 

Tentatively, you pushed the ribbon off of the box and took the lid off, revealing the gorgeous black dress that took your breath away a few days ago. 

You should’ve expected this….

You glanced at your clock, seeing that it was already 7. 

You had an hour to try and work out what you were going to do. 

An be hour to come up with a reason why you couldn’t wear the dress he’d so kindly brought you. 

‘First things first’, you thought to yourself, ‘I need to figure out what else to wear’

You’d pretty much emptied your entire wardrobe, attempting to find an outfit that was as beautiful as that dress. 

Unfortunately nothing you owned could ever capture the beauty of that dress. 

A sigh left your lips as you stared at yourself in the mirror, wearing your favourite pair of black jeans, a white shirt, with a tan cropped tank top and your boots.

It wasn’t the dress. 

But it was going to have to do. 

Though the more you stared at yourself in the mirror, the more you hated the outfit you were wearing. 

You couldn’t stop yourself from pacing back and forth, trying to think of another outfit to wear for tonight. 

Thought your thoughts were cut short when you heard a knock at the door.

Sylus was here…

‘Shit’, you thought to yourself, the realisation dawning on you that you’d been so busy trying to choose an outfit, you hadn’t even had time to do anything else, hair…makeup, nothing. 

You heard another knock at the door, this one halted your pacing steps.

You could just ignore him, maybe he’d go away after a while ... .but you knew in reality that he would only worry if you didn’t answer and then he’d probably use his evol to break the door down. 

Avoiding him wasn’t going to work. 

But the thought of answering the door and admitting  the real reason why you weren’t wearing the dress to him, made you feel even more anxious and in all honesty, ashamed. 

You’d never told anyone about how self conscious your scars made you…would he think you less of you for such a thought? 

Would he agree with you that the scars that marked your body were unattractive…?

The thoughts kept spinning around in your head, the fear of possible reactions making your breathing quicken with anxiety.. 

“Are you okay in there, sweetie?” You heard him ask through the door; somehow even with the door between you both, the warmth of his voice was able to calm you. 

“Yeah,” you stammered, trying to pull yourself together, before opening the door, revealing a slightly worried looking Sylus behind it. 

He didn’t say anything at first, taking a few steps until he was standing directly in front of you.

“Are you okay?” He repeated, hooking his finger under your chin; noticing instantly the slight dilation in your pupils. 

You nodded, not trusting your voice to not be shaky. 

“Don’t lie to me, sweetie,”

He knew you’d lie to him at the store; he just didn’t know why…

“Why did you buy me that dress?” You questioned, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“You said you’d never have a reason to wear it, so I gave you one,” he stated very matter of factly, his thumb still hooked under your chin, “Or was there another reason you didn’t want to wear it?”

You could feel his eyes burning into yours as though he was trying to seek out the truth of the reason just from your eyes. 

“The dress wouldn’t look good on me, okay?” You admitted; hoping that your answer would be enough to make him stop this inquisition. 

But your words had an adverse effect. 

He couldn’t understand how you could think such a thing; he knew you would look nothing but beautiful in such a garment, “What makes you think that?” 

“I just know it wouldn’t,” you bluntly retorted, pulling away from his touch, wanting nothing more than for Sylus to just leave your apartment so you could wallow by yourself. 

“Have you even tried it on?” 

“I don’t need to try it on to know it would show my scars,” you snapped back harshly.

“What’s wrong with that?” he questioned; his face remaining neutral despite the abrasiveness of your words prior.

“What’s wrong with that?” You scoffed back sarcastically, running your hands over your face as you tried desperately to not have a full blown breakdown infront of him,“Sylus you’re taking me to fancy restaurant, I doubt people there, or you would like seeing them;  they’re ugly and-”

Before you could finish your sentence, you felt his hands on either side of your face, holding you in place and forcing you to look directly at him. 

His touch wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. 

“I want to make something very clear to you,” he began, his thumbs rubbing your circles into your cheeks in unison.

“You are the most beautiful person that I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on, nothing changes that, don’t ever doubt that.” 

His declaration made you want to cry. 

No one had ever said something like that to you before, and certainly never with the amount of conviction in Sylus’ eyes. 

He meant what he said. 

And you believed that he did; but he’d never seen your scars, so how could he possibly know whether or not you were beautiful with your scars? 

“You’ve never even seen them,” You whispered, feeling his hands gently squeeze your cheeks as he watched the sadness building in your eyes. 

“It would never change how beautiful you are to me,” he cooed; placing a soft kiss on your forehead, “We all have our own scars sweetie, what’s the point in hiding them, it won’t make them disappear.”

For the next few moments the two of you stood in a comfortable silence; Sylus’ arms were now wrapped around your waist, and yours were wrapped around his neck. 

Maybe it was because of the sincerity his voice held, or the truth in your eyes  but as his words processed in your mind, you felt the rekindling of a confidence you thought had vanished long ago. 

“ I should change….” You mumbled into his chest. 

Sylus pulled away from your embrace slightly at your words, “Wear what you feel comfortable in, you don’t have to wear the dress,” 

The last thing he wanted was for you to feel uncomfortable. 

“I want to….” you quietly admitted, still slightly terrified of wearing the dress but trying hard to not let those thoughts or the fear  control you. 

You’d spent years of your adult life hiding in leggings, jeans or long skirts or dresses that would hide the scar; even on the hottest days you would wear enough to cover it.

But your scars were a part of you as much as anything else, you couldn’t change them, so maybe instead of hiding them away, you could try to start accepting them.

Tagging:

@xacatalepsyx @book-dragon03 @fangirlsfandomsss @the-slytherin-poet @albert-moriarty-fan @deathkat657 @worm-in-a-bug @elegantangelenthusiast @darkphoenix2332 @xenasolos @tasha-1994 @randomruff @mrs-masen-cullen @taronyuhunter @reverbsworld @serenitymaria @babygirl-panda19 @themagicafox @kisukiis

[pullupinarari]

Waiting for love to walk through the door [LH]

author’s note: yall request me some angst and yall shall receive 😍 this one has a happy ending because I’m sick and I was feeling soft. Thank you to the lovely anon that requested this, I hope yall enjoy it! Mwah

• masterlist

wc: 2773 - English is not my first language! Feedback is always appreciated

You and Lewis had made a promise, early in your relationship: no matter how ugly your arguments could get, no matter how angry you two could feel, you would never, ever, let that consume you, and you would never go to sleep mad at each other.

And both of you managed to keep that promise for the last few years. The fact that you rarely argue also helps a lot, but you could scream, say everything that was going through both of your minds, but you would both try and calm down after, so you could have a serene conversation before bed - exposing your sides, your concerns and the way you were feeling.

It would always end up with your bodies wrapped around one another, hugging each other close and tight, apologizing for losing your tempers.

The finitude of life was something that haunted both of you - afraid of the way everything could end in the fraction of a second, how your life can slip through your fingers at a moment’s notice. That’s why you would always remind each other of how much you love one another, sending cute goodnight texts when one is away from home - making both of you going to sleep with a light heart, surrounded by the feeling of peace and love.

But now, here you are: lying in bed, getting ready to sleep with tears in your eyes. Lewis isn’t home - he left a while ago for work after you two had a pretty nasty fight. The clock on your bedside table reads 11:39pm, and still, no sight of Lewis coming back anytime soon. You tried and sent him a text, wondering if it will still be long until he gets home, but he just replied “I’m stuck in a meeting, don’t wait up”.

For the first time in years, you are going to sleep angry at him. To clarify: you’re not even angry anymore, you’re just sad now. Sad at the way he slammed the door when he left, not even looking you in the eye before turning his back at you. And now, he didn’t even bother sending a simple “I love you” over text. He told you not to wait up for him, he knows what he is doing: breaking your promise.

You toss and turn around the sheets, your mind replaying all the words exchanged during the argument. You were both hot-headed, not thinking clearly - that’s obvious - but your brain can’t just let it go. Your head is wrapped around the words that left Lewis’ mouth, the bitter way he called you “self-centered”, making it seem like you don’t care about anything but yourself - when, in fact, you were just trying to help him, worrying about him.

Lewis is a stubborn man, always insisting on having it his way, and it’s hard for him to give in sometimes - you know that. You know all his qualities and flaws like the back of your hand, and you’ve grown to learn how to deal with him in the best way, during all the years that you’ve been together. But people are unpredictable sometimes, and you really didn’t expect to see Lewis acting this way towards you now.

A couple of hours later, you’re still awake. Your body feels tired from all the turns and twists you’ve done, in some failed attempts to make you fall asleep. So you just give up, now. You’re lying on your side, facing Lewis’ spot on the bed - that’s still empty and untouched. And you feel that emptiness lingering in the air, like something is missing, not just beside you, but inside of you as well.

After a while, you hear the front door opening, signaling that Lewis is finally home. You check the time, it’s 1:47 am now. You let out a small sigh, using the sheets to cover your body, to hide your face stained with tears now. Analyzing all the options that you have at this moment, you realize that maybe it’s better to drop the subject for now - you’re not about to start another fight at nearly 2 in the morning, while you feel exhausted and you’re pretty sure Lewis is running on absolutely no patience.

His body reaches the bedroom, and you can feel the intensity of his presence while you close your eyes, pretending to be asleep - trying to avoid any contact with him while you’re both feeling bitter. You hear the little sounds echoing through the silent room, while he changes his clothes, putting on some comfortable shorts before brushing his teeth - eager to get to bed and get some rest after such a tiring day.

You feel the mattress dipping as he gets under the sheets, and you note him sighing exasperatedly, like he’s trying to get rid of all the tension in his muscles at some point. Lewis immediately turns his back to you, matching you while you’re both lying on your sides, but he decides not to face you, and he doesn’t even bother leaving a kiss on your forehead before sleeping - something he would always do whenever he got home late.

Your heart stings a bit more now, slowly opening your eyes, only to face his back, and you see how his body is distant from yours, as if he is actually trying not to touch you, like he doesn’t want to feel your body close to his. You hide your face a little more in your pillow, trying to hold in the sobs that are threatening to leave your body, not understanding why he is acting like this.

The next morning, you wake up to the sound of Lewis talking on the phone. The sound is a bit muffled, due to all the doors being closed, but it’s enough for you to know that he’s home, and for the pit in your stomach to come back, just at the thought of having a conversation with him - but it’s a very much needed conversation. You don’t want to be angry or sad at him anymore.

You get out of bed, taking a hot shower, hoping that it could help you wash away all the bitterness and the regret surrounding your heart and mind since yesterday. You put on some comfortable clothes before heading for the kitchen - where Lewis is sitting now, entertaining himself with Roscoe while he eats his breakfast.

Your figure comes into sight and Lewis needs to hold a sigh inside, taking a look at you for just a mere second before looking away, focusing on his plate, on the dog, anything but you. “Morning” - it’s all he says before finishing his food and getting up from his seat, like he suddenly decided that he was in a hurry. He doesn’t look at you while putting his dishes away, he doesn’t kiss you like he used to do first thing in the morning. Hell, he doesn’t even let his body get close to you.

“I think we need to talk-” - you try to say, but he immediately cuts you off.

“Yeah, I need to run, I have some stuff to solve at work” - he quickly informs you, running to get his belongings.

“I just need a minute…” - you hopelessly reply, only to hear him huffing.

“We can talk once I’m back”- Lewis says, petting Roscoe one final time before putting on his jacket and walking through the door, leaving you to feel dumb and ignored.

“Okay” - you answer, talking to yourself, to the empty house, to the dog that’s curiously looking at you, now. Everything except to Lewis.

But still, you decided to hold on to his words. You will finally talk once he’s home, and maybe everything will feel alright again. You spend the day trying to distract yourself by getting some work done, your insides swirling when you notice the hours passing by, waiting for your husband to get home, feeling anxious to see him, to actually have a calm conversation with him - hoping you two can put all this behind your backs, feeling consumed by the way you miss his touch, the giggles that would escape his body when you would make him laugh.

But yet again, the clock reads midnight already - and still, he’s nowhere to be seen. You get tired of waiting, realizing that this was just another meaningless promise that he made you, and you turn off your computer, putting on your pajamas and crawling back to bed.

You spend some time thinking about what’s happening. When did your marriage turn into a puddle of promises left unmade? Some small tears escape your eyes, but you make sure to wipe them clean immediately - Lewis doesn’t deserve your tears if he keeps acting like this. He knows what he is doing, and at this point, he’s just slowly letting you burn down, burying your body in the flames of the promises he keeps making but never actually fulfills.

Your body gives in, making you fall asleep - exhaustion taking care of your body now. You don’t notice Lewis coming home, you don’t know what time it was when he laid next to you, you only know that he’s not there anymore when you wake up.

He has already left once you got out of bed, and another day passes by where you don’t see him, don’t hear from him - not even a stupid text makes your phone light up. And this keeps going for the rest of the week, making the feelings of desperation, hurt, emptiness fill your body.

The truth is, Lewis doesn’t know how to deal with his own emotions. This time, he doesn’t know how to approach it. He doesn’t remember a time when you two had such an ugly fight, when such unmeasured words left his mouth. He knows he hurt you, he noticed the way your face was down, how your eyes were puffy from crying and how the dark bags decorated your face when he saw you the other morning - and the sight destroyed him.

He keeps blaming himself all the time for how cowardly he’s been acting lately, but he can’t, for the life of him, find the courage in himself to approach the situation. And most importantly, he doesn’t want to start another fight - he would give everything to not argue with you ever again, to never have a fight of this magnitude, wrecking both of you.

But for now, it’s just easier for him to bury himself in work, occupying his mind just enough for the day, while you still linger in the back of his head - knowing damn well that he needs to step up, he needs to solve the mess that he created.

It comes to a point when you don’t even cry anymore. You just sigh, rubbing your temples as multiple migraines influence your head lately. Tonight, you don’t even want to lay in your bed - you just want to be alone, done with the feeling of sleeping next to a ghost, tired of sensing that you have a hand around your throat, choking on your thoughts and emotions.

So you enter the guest’s room, making yourself comfortable as you lay down, trying to get some rest after you took a painkiller, hoping it would end your headaches, firmly believing that the hundreds of intrusive thoughts are what’s making it hurt even more now. You just wish you could stop waiting for your love to walk through the door. You wish you didn’t miss him anymore.

Lewis opens the door to your shared house earlier today. The clock reads 8:03pm - in his mind, he can still cook a nice dinner for you after sitting down and talking it out, exposing both of your feelings, apologizing and making up for the way he acted like a dickhead.

His eyebrows furrow slightly when he meets a silent house. All the lights are out, the tv is off, there’s no music playing, nothing. Roscoe is sleeping in the living room, and he wonders what is happening for the entire house to be dead silent at such an early time.

Lewis’ feet walk around every room, looking for you, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he realizes that you’re nowhere around the house, not even in your shared bedroom. There’s only one door left to open, and his mind asks why the hell would you be in the guest’s room, but his instinct tells him to push the door open.

And when he does, he finds a sleeping wife, your body gently tucked under the bedsheets, the only light in the room coming from a scented candle that you decided to light on the bedside table - your favorite scent, hoping it could bring some comfort to your senses.

The thought of you not wanting to sleep next to him anymore is enough to completely break Lewis’ heart, realizing how badly he fucked it up this time. His body moves to the opposite side of the bed, kicking his shoes off as he dives on the mattress, lying his body next to yours and immediately engulfing you in a hug, spooning your figure.

You are startled by the sudden movements, waking you up from your slumber, and you groan slightly when you see that he is beside you now. “I know, I know, baby. I fucked up. I am sorry, I am so sorry” - he whispers in your ear, hiding his face in your hair as he lets some tears spill from his eyes now, his arms holding you closer and tighter, afraid that you might run away if he loosens his grip on you.

You sigh at his words, feeling some tears of your own starting to tingle in your eyes as well. You can’t say anything, you can only turn your body around, facing your husband for the first time since what it felt like forever.

His eyes are glossy, just like yours, some tears are running down both of your features, and silence fills the air - but it’s not the deafening type of silence anymore, it’s a comfortable silence, an apologetic one. Your bodies apologize for yourselves, with the way he doesn’t let you go, pulling you closer, nestling your body with his, and your hands carefully travel through his scalp, caressing his hair, his beard, making his own body melt into yours.

“You really fucked up” - you tell him, your voice laced with sleep but with a glint of light in your eyes now as you pull him into a kiss, welcoming his lips into yours after being away from each other for so long.

“I’m sorry” - he repeats, leaving a small peck on your lips again. “It won’t happen again, I’m sorry” - it doesn’t matter how many times he might repeat these words, it feels like it’s never enough for him, to compensate for the hurt he caused you for the last few days.

“Stop breaking our promises, please” - you beg him, the tip of your nose gently touching his, while your hands are caressing his cheeks lovingly.

“I was a dick for that. But I love you, my love. I love you forever and I will never break our promises ever again. I swear on my life” - his eyes show you the honesty that you’ve always known when being next to Lewis, the transparency calming you down.

“I love you so much” - it’s all you say before lying your head on your husband’s chest, hugging each other as he leaves kisses on the top of your head, one after the other, gently cradling you to sleep, one of his hands caressing your back.

You can finally breathe, the restraints holding you down have finally disappeared, and you can finally relax and enjoy the scent of your husband’s perfume mixing with your favorite candle, the smells lingering in the atmosphere between you two. You can’t help but nuzzle your face a bit deeper into his skin, a silent way to let him know how badly you missed him, how happy your heart feels to have him back into your arms again.

He feels how your breathing finds its peaceful rhythm, signaling him that you’re off to sleep in just a few minutes. Lewis sighs deeply, finally feeling right again and at peace - where he belongs: lying next to you, with the love of his life peacefully asleep in his chest, feeling protected and secured by him. And there’s no way he would give up on this, mentally picturing this moment, only to make sure that he will never make the same mistake ever again.

[pjohoo-reclists]

hey I know this ask Is a little specific but are there any fics where Percy likes reveals his like struggling with guilt, and suicidal thoughts to people other than Annabeth? I love Percabeth I just really want to see other characters reacting to Percy's struggles! Thxxx!!!!

Hey Anon!! This wasn't too specific, don't worry. I read it and two fics immediately came to mind. One is a spot on match - Percy goes to therapy and talks about his guilt and suicidal thoughts/attempts. Took a little while to find a few more tho. Enjoy!

Percy Confides in Others Rec List

A list of fics where Percy confides in people other than Annabeth about his guilt and suicidal tendencies. Enjoy!

How you remind me. by youngjusticewriter

T | 700 words | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Suicidal Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Grover Underwood

(Look, he didn’t want to be a half-blood.) For a moment Percy felt the urge to ask Grover if he was ever going to be free. But he didn’t so the words stayed in his mouth and there they would rot like fruit left out for days in the summer heat. Percy opened his eyes. He stared at the bathtub. “...Grover, do you think I’ll graduate college?” Percy heard a sharp inhale. “Yeah, Percy. I do.” A noise escaped his throat. His vision grew blurry. “I agreed to go on a quest,” Percy said, finally admitting it to someone.

She’ll Rage For Him by aiden_salva00

T | 900 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Clarisse La Rue, Silena Beauregard & Clarisse La Rue

Survivor Guilt, Percy Jackson is a Mess, Camp Half Blood

Clarisse La Rue knows rage. Percy Jackson knows loyalty. As the boy breaks, she summons rage to protect him like he has always protected them.

A Son's Prayer by AJDoesStuff (ApophisWrites)

T | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Post Tartarus, Suicidal Thoughts, Good Parent Poseidon

Percy Jackson had been through hell and back, literally in his case, and he just wants someone to talk to where he won't be a burden. He prays to Poseidon, knowing his dad will most likely not bother listening to him, why would he want to listen to someone like Percy anyway. Poseidon listens anyway.

Similarities by HK44

G | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Carter Kane

Short and Sweet, Carter is a good friend, Angst

“It’s different,” Percy cut in, pulling back, moving away, getting ready to leave. “They wouldn’t get it.” The words were firm, edged in steel, lined with barricades. He was falling back into himself again. Carter cursed everything and grabbed his arm. “Hey. What’s up?”

Dying is easy, living is harder by One_Real_Wrimonkey

T | 1.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue

Grief/Mourning, Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue Friendship, Clarisse La Rue has PTSD

She found him on a rock looking over the ocean, waves crashing below them, lit by a brilliant moon. It felt too pretty, given the state of the world, but he couldn't look away. Percy expected her to try and drag him back to camp, or maybe shove him off the cliff, but she only sat next to him. "Wanna talk about it?" . Three weeks after the war, Percy and Clarisse finally allow themselves to grieve.

and the ships are left to rust by Duck_Life

T | 1.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Jason Grace

Survivor Guilt, Bathing/Washing, Grief/Mourning

Jason goes looking for Percy after the final battle.

Rest Me And My Bones by Freddie_77

Not Rated | 1.9k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Clarisse La Rue, Clarisse La Rue & Will Solace, Percy Jackson & Will Solace

Grief/Mourning, Post Gaea & The Second Giant War, Trans Characters

“Hey,” Percy says, and it’s three AM, and Clarisse has finally got Ellis and Sherman to stop fucking fighting and go to bed, so why is he on the cabin doorstep, and really, how did he get around the landmines? Sure, all the counselors got to know cabin protections, but he hasn’t been at camp in… seven months? Eight? (Sure, Clarisse knows the exact date, deep down, a doomsday clock ticking away, your friend has been gone for this long and this long and this long– But she doesn’t need to admit that.) “The fuck do you want?” Her voice is gruffer than she means for it to. She loves him, deep down. (Very, very deep. You may need a gun pressed to her head to make the words come out. Doesn’t make it less true.) “Donuts,” he responds without pause, holding up one of the camp SUV’s keys. “I figured we could go out with Will. He’s waiting in the car already.” Or: post battle, Percy, Will, and Clarisse go out for donuts and talk for a while.

I'm going to make you wish you were dead by nlpiersee

T | 2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Aphrodite & Ares & Hades & Hephaestus & Hera & Persephone & Poseidon & Zeus (Percy Jackson)

Angst and Feels, Near Death Experiences, Family Drama

The council of the gods gathers expecting to smite a demi-god, only to have the tables turned on them. No one expected one hero to have gone through so much.

i'm a young man built to fall by bakedbean15

T | 2.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Paul Blofis & Percy Jackson

PTSD, Post the Second Titan War, Rachel Elizabeth Dare is a good friend

Percy has a flashback at school, Rachel and Paul help.

Just Because I Left Doesn’t Mean That I’m Not Still There by SiederTreeStudios

G | 2.7k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Post Tartarus, Post-Gaea & The Second Giant War, Protective Poseidon

Posideon couldn’t be there for his son when he needed him. But he could be there now. OR Posideon’s perspective on Percy’s adventures (mostly the Lightning Thief) and the aftermath of it all.

life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints by Thatcrazyfan

T | 2.7k | Complete

Clarisse La Rue/Chris Rodriguez, Percy Jackson/Annabeth

Survivor Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Percy Jackson needs a hug

Chris noticed it before anyone else. He heard the whispers, saw the stares and was vividly reminded of the first few years after he had re-joined camp. The distrust in everyone’s eyes and in their actions and in the voices was something he would never, ever forget. Or, Something's wrong with Percy, and Chris is worried. Percy hasn't been his usual self in a long time.

Call Me by orphan_account

G | 2.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Nico di Angelo

Attempted Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Trans Male Character

Percy and Nico made a promise on the River Styx, if either ever felt really depressed or like they might attempt suicide they have to call the other. Nico receives an Iris Message on a Tuesday.

the ghost of you by beforedaybreaks

G | 3.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan

Canonical Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Minor Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson

"Hello," the ghost of Luke says from its perch atop Percy's bedroom drawer. It tilts its head; grins, baring shiny white teeth. Luminous gold eyes bore deep into Percy's soul. Percy freezes. "You're not real,” he says, accusatory. Luke seems unphased by this development. In which Percy Jackson is haunted by the ghost of Luke Castellan, deals with unresolved feelings of guilt, and learns to say goodbye, all at the same time.

Percy's "Wonderful" Adventures in Therapy by Inlovewithsnow2002

T | 3.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Sally Jackson

Past Child Abuse, Percy finally gets Therapy, Suicidal Thoughts

After a series of unfortunate events Percy has landed himself in therapy.

You Can Kid The World, But Not Your Sister by HK44

T | 4.7k | Complete

Sadie Kane, Percy Jackson, Walt Stone

Panic Attacks, Monsters, Mental Health Issues

It was like the world had slowed between the seconds that it’s tongue lifted off of Felix’s hair and it’s entire body convulsing. It went so painfully still, a broken yelp echoing from it’s mouth. She saw the way it’s eyes bulged, Percy stepping in close. As though the parasite alien from Alien was breaking through, she could see the shift of muscle and bone underneath it’s thick mass of fur. And then the room was splattered in blood and yellow sand.

Apricity by TheProfoundSilence

T | 7.5k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Apollo

Kidnapping, BAMF Percy Jackson, Protective Poseidon

Percy gets kidnapped. He thought the pain was easy to deal with, but hell is just that, hell to live through. In the aftermath, a lonely infirmary, sheer willpower, and Percy Jackson attempts to rebuild himself back again with a little help from godly friends.

the light in the darkest depths of the sea (why can't i hold on?) by AchillesComeHome

Not Rated | 8.3k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

Angst with a Bittersweet Ending, Good Parent Poseidon, Depressed Percy Jackson

He’s sinking down, and down and down. His throat burns from the seawater aggravating the soreness of it. The water carries him down, or maybe that’s him. He doesn’t know. He lets the sea take him. Maybe she’ll give him the peace he’s never truly had. Maybe she’ll let him rest for once. So he drifts, throat choking and burning with tears, eyes focused on the dimming light above him. Maybe this was his fate all along - to be swept away by the sea to a place even his father can’t find him. And maybe, he’s okay with that. Maybe he can sleep now. Or in which Percy Jackson has given up, but Poseidon has not.

Stars on the Water by liketolaugh

T | 116k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood & Annabeth Chase

Percy Jackson has Self Esteen Issues, Percy Jackson Goes to Therapy, Abused Percy Jackson

"I dunno, I just think it would make a lot of things easier for a lot of people," Percy said to Thalia, when she just stared at him. His cheek rested in his hand, a rare pensive look leaving his eyes distant and unfocused. "Mom has Paul now, so it’ll be easier on her if she doesn’t have to worry about me mucking things up. Dad won’t have to keep threatening war every time Zeus gets his toga twisted. The prophecy’s done, so I won’t be bringing it down on Nico. And no one will have to worry about me blowing up another volcano."

Star Light, Star Bright by liketolaugh

T | 192k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Paul Blofis

Therapy 2: Electric Boogaloo, PTSD, Past Child Abuse

Subject: Percy's back Hello, Raine. I know that you're on leave right now, but you asked me to tell you as soon as we got further news on Percy. He's home. He's safe. But can you please get back to me as soon as possible? He's not doing well, and he's been asking for you. I hope that you've been resting well. With love, Sally

[cannibalisation]

i literally loved the tattoo artist!sirius fic you wrote it was literally pure gold!!

if you take requests could i request a James Potter x reader where reader works at the record store and he is a regular— some romance after a while of the two exchanging small talk :3 thought that would be cute!

ill just put 🐙anon whenever i make a request

i. flirt

james potter/gn!reader

thank you so much for your request! and i’m glad you enjoyed my sirius fic. i might write a second part if it is asked for ♥️ (1.3k)

caution. flirty (cringy) james, reader is nervously whipped(?), bastard cat, uncreative title, so many music references, i’ve never written for james before as he is to me the most challenging marauder to write for, i hope that i haven’t butchered his character.

i’m new to the marauders fandom and have limited knowledge, sorry for any character inaccuracies.

THREE hours and twenty-five minutes have passed since you first clocked in.

For roughly two of the three hours, you spent stacking shelves with cassette tapes and lining racks with ageing vinyls. It wasn’t a challenging job; you’d prefer it to anything else, but that doesn’t make the work any less tedious.

You’re more than grateful that the manager of Blackbird Records is not a cruel one. He allows any type of music to your liking, and fortunately he hasn’t insisted on a Christmas carol mandate until late November.

Glenn Frey’s smooth croon of lyric sounds out in the store, and you hum along to the words. It’s mostly empty inside; a handful of customers are dotted around, shuffling through the record bins. A young girl with messy copper-coloured pigtails lurks near one of the clearance bins at the end of an aisle; you pretend to not notice as she pockets a lone cassette tape with a sly grin—she has good taste after all.

Angus, the fat ginger cat of the store, sits to your left. He is a favourite among customers, and his picture even rests beneath the “Employee of the Month” plaque. He is lazy, though; he doesn’t even give you a piece of his mind when you attempt to push his sleepy form off the till during busy hours. He likes lying in the sun, so you are kind enough not to bother him right now.

The entrance doorbell chimes, and somehow, without even looking up, you know who just walked through.

James, though he insists you call him Jamie, has been a regular at Blackbird for quite some time now. And for the last few months, he has been trying to convince you to at least go on one date with him.

He’s nice about it, which you’re grateful for; he isn’t pushy or demanding; it’s really just casual flirting. Every time he comes up to the register to purchase his chosen items, he manages to throw in a cheesy pick-up line. On each occasion he does so, you either grimace in embarrassment or your face happens to heat up.

Sometimes he comes into the store with his mates; they laugh at him when the amorous quips clearly don’t woo you.

James clicks his finger in your direction and winks as he struts past you. He looks nice today, in dark denim jeans and a red polo jersey, much too big for his frame.

With a subtle glance, you watch as he flicks through the LPs that sit inside a storage bin. His supple fingers are adorned with silver and gold rings; you can’t help but admire the flex of the veins in his hands as he skims over the albums.

You retreat your gaze quickly as he turns his head in your direction, how humiliating it would be if he had caught you essentially checking him out. From what you knew about him, which was a limited amount of knowledge, as the only time you see him is during your midday shifts, James was a playful type.

Once you had thought that you’d recognised one of his friends sitting at the same table as you during your psychology class, but he wasn’t exactly discernible. He was quiet and kept his head down for most of the class, but that tweed grey and navy sweater he had on (something you think your grandfather would wear) was too familiar.

James moves on to the listening station now, where the staff picks are located. He turns one of the record player dials and shifts a pair of battered headphones atop his mess of curls. You busy yourself with caressing Angus’ patchy fur as James nods his head along to the running track.

The one-eyed cat observes you with an astute gaze, like he knows exactly what you are thinking. You stare back at him, matching his gaze with equal telling—furrowing your brows to intimidate him. Obviously that does not work, and the beast just looks at you as if you were a fool (he’s right).

The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks you out of the staring contest shared with the cat, and you plaster on your customer service facade with grace.

James stands in front of you now, bronze skin gleaming in the sunlight. God, there was truly no reason to disagree with the fact that he was a cut above the rest. His eyes, chestnut in theory but hazel in the sun, eyed you with a playful look.

You stutter out a quick “Hello” and ask, “Did you find everything alright today?” As he places an album onto the counter. The Clash’s Sandinista!—your staff pick. He had listened to your pick of the week and is purchasing it.

He laughs with a small nod and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, eyes not leaving yours as he does so. You smile politely in return and move to scan his item; your hands are shaking.

Under his gaze, you can’t help but grow self-conscious. He has pretty eyes; there's no denying that, but they are especially heavy on your form today, and you don’t know why. Was the Beatles shirt a no-go for today? You work at a record store; musician-based articles of clothing are practically compulsory.

Despite that, you choose to ignore any building thoughts in your mind and read him the price owed. He complies with a more-than-friendly smile and hands you the exact number of bills. In an amicable—or rather teasing—manner, you bid him farewell.

For a brief moment you think he looks almost dejected, that once again you have rejected his kind-hearted attitude. That idea is quickly erased as James puffs out his chest and clears his throat once more.

“Hey—Do you live on Abbey Road? Because you got me crossing the street just to be near you!”

Oh god.

You see James again on one of your closing shifts. He saddles himself up beside the wall as you finish stacking a shelf with CD albums. His arm rests right in front of your face, and you try not to urge forwards.

“Can I help you?”

“Sure can. You, me, local pub. My mates are in a band and are performing there on Friday, think you’ll like them.” He states, voice like honey. It’s true, you probably would enjoy watching a local band perform, but you doubt you’d even be able to be calm in such a situation. Hours, if anything, spent in an enclosed, stuffy area with James? Your heart would burst right out of your chest.

As he awaits your answer, James grabs onto each CD you place down and flips it around on the shelf. You say nothing as you repeat the action; neither does he. You doubt you’ve ever met someone so annoying, yet beautiful at the same time.

“Come on—I’m dying over here.” He gasps dramatically, dragging his fist across his chest as he jokingly heaves out a final breath before sliding down to the floor. You can’t help but laugh as he does so, removing yourself from the task at hand to peer at him with a small smile. You can already feel the judgmental gaze of Angus before you even speak.

“Fine, fine! I finish at half five on Friday; now will you get up off the floor? It’s grimy.” He quickly does so at that declaration and looks with hopeful eyes. James places his hands on your shoulders and grips them lightly; it leaves you breathless. “Seriously? You’re being honest this time?”.

With a laugh, you grab a hold of his hands from where they rest on your shoulders. “Yes, will you pick me up?”

“Obviously, here, half five.” He lilted before turning away and skipping over to the front door, “You won’t regret this, I promise!”

You hope that you won’t.

authors note. my first request, thank you again and i hope it was to your liking 🫶🏻 please feel free to request anything else! this is my fandom/character list and I’ll practically write anything so long as it inspires me to do so.

[silk-flower]

Gentle Glow, A Heart's Whisper [James Sunderland X Reader]

anon asked: it seems like James just suffers so much even in fanfics 😭 can he and female reader have something good happen to them at least on Christmas? I just want this man to be happy...

synopsis: It's Christmas Eve, and it appears like the time is against him in these final days of the year. James' darling is waiting for him at home to have Christmas dinner together, but he is working late and doubts he will make it in time. What's the holdup on a holiday like this? You fall asleep on the couch while waiting.

status: oneshot, read on AO3

content warning: female reader, reader described as pale in some parts [?], self-deprecating thoughts, grieving and trying to move on, men crying, established relationship, fluff, romance and kissing n stuff, a Christmas trope

author's note: This was a request that came in before my previous blog got suspended and I didn't have a chance to post it! Wherever this finds you, sorry if this took too long, hope you'll enjoy. Also, this is really long, I got a little carried away...

Aside from the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the sporadic click of keys and clinking of coffee cups as James works on his computer, the office is silent. In an attempt to finish some last-minute work before the holiday break, he has been at his desk for hours on end, sustaining himself on copious amounts of caffeine. Outside, the world is blanketed in snow like in a magical fairy tale, but inside, it's just another bland day at the office. Except today, he's eager to actually leave early instead of taking extra hours.

James glances at the clock on his computer screen. A bunch of gray pixels mockingly blinks 9:30 PM at him. His fingers drop and pull off his computer glasses as he groans and runs a hand through his hair in annoyance. Sensing the impending headache, he closes his eyes and rubs the lids. Just his luck, huh?

He knows you're waiting for him at home, expecting to have dinner together, and there's nothing more he wants than to be wrapped up in your embrace right now, sipping some hot cocoa under a warm blanket. But with the way things are going, he doubts he'll be able to make it in time. It's unpleasant enough to be working on Christmas Eve, but staying late is just on another level of evil, especially when he has someone special, all wrapped up in holiday cheer waiting on him.

He picks up the office phone and dials your home number. James knows he's not exactly allowed to use the corporate line for personal calls, but he doesn't care in the slightest. This is important. He can feel the inside of his palm sweating, waiting for you to pick up anxiously as he fumbles with the ballpoint over some stupid spreadsheet. A few painfully slow rings of the dial are followed by the distinctive rustle of the handset and your well-known, sleep-drowsy voice. James feels sick to his stomach from all the coffee he's guzzled. How is he going to deliver this?

— Uh, hello? — you complain softly, your voice still raspy from sleep. James can hear the faint sound of some holiday program in the background, the audience's laughter and music tugging on his heart strings. You are all alone in your small flat.

— Hey, it's me, — James coos, feeling partly guily for waking you up, the ballpen running in circles on the white sheet, — Merry Christmas.

Several of his few coworkers are gazing up at him curiously from their cubicles as he nervously looks around. Calling you casually in public is still something he's not used to.

— James? — Your voice brightens up a little as you clear your throat and he hears you rise up from the couch, — Where are you? Are you coming home soon?

Home. James feels a pang of guilt surge through him.

— I'm still in the office, — he admits begrudgingly, feeling the wave of anxiousness rise up as he hears your little "oh" through the dial, — I'm sorry, hun.

Over the phone, he hears you whine deeply, his own disappointment weighing hard on his chest.

— I know, I know. I'm so sorry, — he drops the pen, annoyed with himself as he fidgets in his seat, — There's just so much to be done with these blasted invoices, you know how it gets before the holidays.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and James can almost imagine the expression on your face turning from sour to bittersweet compassionate.

— It's okay, don't worry about it, — you utter finally, your voice softening, — I understand. But I still think they work you too hard, James.

James feels a surge of gratitude for your understanding, even as he knows he doesn't deserve it.

— Thank you, — he says, his voice quiet but thick with adoration, his lips turning up slightly, — I'm just... Sorry I can't be with you right now.

You two keep chatting for a few more minutes, making small talk about your plans for the holidays, the presents you got each other, and his favorite food you've made. Although James attempts to make his part of the conversation lighthearted and upbeat so as not to upset you too much, he is a jumble of self-loathing on the inside. Some partner he is. He should have insisted on a day off or taken an unpaid leave, but he left you on your own on a day like this.

— I miss you, — he whispers finally, a slight blush creeping up his ears as he tries to stare at his computer screen to avoid unwanted eye contact, — I'll see you soon, okay? I'll be there, I promise.

— I also miss you, — your voice is filled with longing as you respond softly, — I'll wait for you and keep the food warm, so drive carefully.

After hanging up, James feels the burden of his guilt pressing down on him. The idea of disappointing you again makes him nauseous, even if you claim you're not angry with him. He knows he's already let you down. He has to make it home before midnight at least, even if continuous typing will make his fingers blister.

With a weary gaze, James surveys the office, taking in the abandoned cubicles and the shadowed windows outside, the only sound being the buzz of his computer. The scarce remains of his coworkers gradually leave the office, waving him warm goodbyes and happy holidays as they head home to be with their families. Leaving him alone and jealous of them in the dead quiet of the building, just the way you are now. He sighs, turning his attention back to his computer screen.

As he types away, his mind wanders to thoughts of you, curled up on the couch at home with your cozy blanket keeping you warm. As you sleep, James imagines your face, calm and soft, your chest rising and falling with each delicate breath. He sees himself sitting next to you, holding you close and engulfing you in his arms. The way your eyes would brighten when you saw him get home in time to wake you up with a tender, passionate kiss. The way they would sparkle with laughter, the lovely pink pearl earrings he got you catching the light, outlining your shoulders' slope and your neck's exquisite curve…

God, how much he longs to see you. James closes his eyes and sighs in anticipation. He has to focus on finishing the paperwork now and stop daydreaming about you, or none of this is going to happen with the way things are going.

He puts in another hour of effort, but his progress is frustratingly slow. The dates don't match, the figures won't add up, the last person working on the file is making him angry and swearing under his breath, and he's anxious about finishing on time — everything seems to be trying to slow him down.

By the time he's finished, it's nearly midnight, and the office feels even more empty and desolate than before. James gathers his things, hurriedly swiping them into his briefcase, and grabs his coat, dismissing his hat and gloves to save the little time he has left. Legs heavy with fatigue, he rushes out of the office and to his car, never minding the strain in his feet. There's so little time left he doubts he will make it, but he still pushes. You must've given up on waiting for him, feeling disappointed and abandoned, finally falling asleep, and the thought clutches at his heart, making him walk to the parking lot faster.

The cold night air hits him like a slap in the face, prickly snowflakes getting caught in his eyes, but he barely notices, his mind focused solely on marching through the snow slopes as quickly as possible. James hurries across the parking lot, his feet pounding against the white pavement with each step, the snow crunching under his feet, reminding him of the forgotten holiday. The strain in his legs is starting to take its toll, but he pushes through it, determined to make it to you on time.

He fumbles with his keys as he gets closer to his car, the lock severely frozen and his fingertips numb from the cold. After a while, he unlocks the door and enters, slamming it behind him in despair.

— Come on baby, don't let me down now, — he breathes out pleadingly to his old but still beloved light blue Pontiac as he turns the keys, the roar of the engine making him instantly elated.

James starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, the tires screeching against the icy pavement. The roads are empty, but he still drives with a sense of urgency, his heart racing in his chest. As he drives, his mind drifts to thoughts of you, curled up on the couch at home, waiting for him. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his grasp on the driving wheel as a wave of shame sweeps over him. He ignores his icy limbs, even though the leather seat and the wheel are frozen cold with the car staying out on the street all day.

With the Christmas lights glittering in the distance, he rushes through the deserted streets. The sight would be lovely to him normally, but tonight it simply reminds him of what he's missing out on. Despite James' best efforts and the radio music blasting, the negative thoughts continue to bombard him. He feels terrible, like a monster that leaves his family alone on Christmas Eve. His mind tracks back to the last year when he met you, and his heart soars with warmth and adoration. His mind's eye brings out your smaller frame before him, giving the most beautiful smile to the weird, not really there, stubbled stranger at the bar. Was it back then when he started catching these feelings for you?

He sees your flat's window ahead as he turns onto his street, the living room's muted lights still on. The sweet feeling of knowing you're there somewhere puts an excited smile on his face. James pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine, his heart pounding in his ears as he pats on your present in his breast pocket, snug and secure. For a short while, he sits in the car and looks out the window at the lights you strung on the Christmas tree while trying to soothe his racing heart.

James walks up to the door, fumbling with his spare set of keys once again. At last, he gets inside by carefully turning the key in the keyhole, hardly making a sound, and meticulously shutting the door behind him.

— Sweetheart? — James calls out gently, his voice laden with unspoken worry, — I'm home.

The house is quiet, save for the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. James walks down the hallway, his heart in his throat. He feels a surge of gentleness as he quietly discharges his boots and coat, tiptoeing to the living room that is only lit up by the lights of the Christmas tree that you so diligently decorated all by yourself. His socks and the edges of his slacks are effectively soaked with snow.

The man walks quietly to the living room, only the light sounds of your breathing and his soft footsteps echoing in the stillness of the room as he takes in the sight of his lover. The sight of you sleeping with the phone clenched in your hand makes James' heart skip a beat as he walks over. You've been calling the office, searching for him.

With the colorful lights creating a rainbow of hues on the walls and ceiling as well as your serene features, the space is filled with a cozy, joyous glow. He pauses to look at you, huddled on the couch, slumping over the edge with the pastel-colored phone handle clenched in your hand. James feels a wave of affection rush over him as you appear so tiny, so comfy, so much like home.

His hand reaches out to brush a stray hair off your forehead as he kneels on the plush cream carpet next to the sofa. You stir slightly at his touch, your eyelids fluttering, but you don't wake even as he slides the back of his palm gently on your cheek. Seeing you waiting for him and missing him makes him realize how fortunate he is to have you in his life and to be allowed to be in yours, even if he knows he let you down tonight.

James gently presses his mouth against your forehead in a kiss, his lips still a little dense from the cold. You radiate warmth in return.

— Merry Christmas, — he whispers, his voice barely audible in the silent room, as he gazes upon your ethereal form.

James sits back on his heels, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping form. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart, keeping himself from planting gentle kisses all over your face like he yearns to; your rosy cheeks, adorable tip of your nose, soft eyelids and lips. Reaching out, he removes the phone from your grasp, delicately uncurling each finger individually before placing it on the coffee table. You've been waiting for him all night, and he doesn't want to wake you up.

He stands up slowly, his joints popping from the long day of sitting at his desk. He doesn't stretch, though, to not let them crack and destroy the tranquility of the peaceful haven that you've turned your living room into. James looks around the room, taking in the decorations you put together. The tree he took care of mainly; the stockings hanging on the wall, and the wreath on the door were of your making. You did it all for you both, for your first holiday together.

Admiring the antique ornaments he chose especially for you, he approaches the tree and runs his fingertips down its branches before placing the small jewelry box underneath. He smiles as he remembers the way your face lit up when you opened the colorful store box and saw the ornaments, the way you hugged him tight and thanked him for making your first Christmas together so special. James recalls the way he laughed and teased you for how you found joy in the simplest things; those were just silly trinkets after all. But seeing joy on your smiling face was worth so much more than this ordinary gift. He would give you the world if he could, everything you'd ever ask for, though he knew you wouldn't.

It has now been five years. He finds it hard to comprehend how quickly time passes sometimes. It's been nearly five years since... The pain never truly left, not really anyway, lingering somewhere deep in his subconscious and daring to come out in the late hours of the night. Recently, however, things have been beginning to improve a little bit; his heart craving for new things that are beautiful, warm, and welcoming, drawing him into their embrace and instantly numbing his guilt and hatred for himself, even if just for a short while.

"Mary, I... I think I'm falling for someone else", he thinks to himself, and surprisingly, he does not feel distraught.

The way you accepted him and continued to gaze up at him like he was your treasure, your beacon, even after revealing what he's done. Like he was the only man in the world for you. Sometimes, it made him think of the dark side you shared with him. James was aware that he did not deserve it, but perhaps fate — or whatever it was — was offering him a second chance to try to change and start again. Perhaps he will have an opportunity to make amends soon as well.

James' hazel eyes catch a particular shiny ornament, a silver bell that hangs too far on the branch, threatening to fall off. He touches the ornament on the tree, attempting to adjust it a little, causing it to jingle slightly, melodically erupting through the silent room, disturbing its peace. He lets out a startled moan, yanking his hand back immediately, but it's already too late; the fiddled branch gives under the weight of the mischievous toy. James' hand freezes in midair as the ornament falls with a pitiful thud, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. As he turns to look at the couch frantically, he finds you fully awake, looking at him with your eyes still half-lidded, hands rubbing your face.

For a moment, your face is a mask of confusion, brows furrowed comically as you try to process the sight of him. But then, recognition dawns, and your expression shifts, a smile spreading across your face. Your bleary eyes widen with surprise, and your face immediately changes when you realize that your love is home. Still clad in his office job suit, his clumsy silhouette illuminated by tens of sparkling lights. You glance at the clock rapidly; it's minutes before midnight.

— James! — you exclaim, voice filled with joy and relief.

You jump off the couch, almost tripping on your wrinkled blanket, his rushed "careful!" following suit, arms outstretched and ready, as you leap towards him with abandon.

James extends his arms to embrace you, his heart bursting with affection. You collide with him, your heated body molding against his chilled one, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face buried in his shirt, inhaling his cologne and the faint smell of coffee.

James holds you tight, bones almost cracking, his hand running through your freshly washed hair, his lips pressing against the top of your head. He breathes in your wonderful scent, a mix of floral shampoo and the faint smell of cinnamon apple pie you've baked, as his blonde hair mingles with yours. He feels your pajama-clad body relax against his frame, arms tightening around his waist, fingers digging into his back. He knows you've been waiting for him all night, so beautiful, so perfect.

— I'm sorry for waking you, — he murmurs, apologizing yet again this night, his voice muffled against your fluffy hair, seemingly unable to stop inhaling your heavenly smell as he takes long and deep whiffs of your locks.

You pull back slightly, your delicate hands cupping his face, your eyes searching his deep hazel-green puppy gaze.

— It's okay, stop apologizing, — you grumble, your voice softly scolding him for berating himself, — I'm just glad you're here now, it's all that matters.

James leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes meeting yours, and his lashes lowering in delight at your closeness.

— I missed you, — he murmurs, his voice full of feeling, — Missed you so much today.

— Missed you too, honey. I've been waiting for you, — you mumble gently, trailing off as he daws closer to you, his breath fanning against your face.

James leans in, his lips chapped from the cold, brushing against yours in a soft, gentle kiss. As you sigh, granting his mouth and tongue much-needed permission, he pours all of his love and passion into your hungry lips. His cold hands cup your warm face, and his thumbs caress your cheeks, allowing him to sink in their warmth. He presses his torso into you until there is no more space, pulling you up and closer by your waist, hands raking your middle. Deepening the intense kiss, your lips moving gently against one another, and the room filling with the subtle sounds of wet skin on flesh.

Just when you start feeling your insides tingling with the added sensation of his stubble rubbing against you, he pulls back, his eyes searching yours, his heart racing in his chest under your palm.

— Merry Christmas, — he whispers, his voice husky and low.

You smile, eyes shining with joy and love,

— Merry Christmas, — you whisper back, voice filled with warmth.

As you stand there, surrounded by the glow of the Christmas tree, James feels a sense of peace wash over him. For the first time in a long while, he feels truly content, truly... Happy. And the thought of it doesn't scare him.

James cradles you close, his chin resting on top of your adorable head, his heart bursting with love and yearning. He can feel the warmth of your body, the softness of your hair against his chin, tickling him slightly as he blows it away gently.

He listens as you mumble into his chest, voice still sleepy and groggy from the sudden awakening.

— I love you, James. Thank you for being with me this year.

James's eyes sting, his throat tightening with your sudden heartfelt confession. He knows the past years hasn't been easy for either of you. The loss of his wife still raw in his heart, the tragedy of Silent Hill, the struggle to rebuild his life again and again, starting therapy and failing, then trying to quit his addiction. But through it all, you've been there, a constant source of love and support, his never-giving-up unwavering light in the dark, guiding him to his better self. Giving him the resolve to try, not for Mary or you, but for himself.

James tightens his arms around your waist, grabbing at your pajama top as he does, as if afraid that you'll slip away like a dream if he does. His lips press against your ear, breathing out almost brokenly,

— I love you too, — he whispers, his voice thick with sentiment, — More than you know.

— You deserve this, James, — you say gently as you cradle James' face in you arms, sensing his distress. Gazing directly into his eyes, your own gleaming like two brilliant stars under the sparkling lights, — We both do.

— We both do, — he echoes, his voice soft and filled with wonder. He leans into your touch, savoring the warmth of your hands against his skin, relishing the feeling of your palms cradling his tired face as he closes his eyes in bliss.

And you deserve it more. You deserve more than him, in fact. You've been there for him through everything, a beacon of light in the darkness. You've loved him unconditionally, even when he felt like an unlovable monster, even when he pushed you away at the beginning. James's eyes begin to water, tears spilling down his cheeks. He doesn't try to stop them, doesn't try to hide his emotion from you, knowing you of all people won't judge him. For the first time in a long while, he feels truly free.

— I love you, — he repeats, his voice breaking slightly, feeling embarrassed of his wet cheeks suddenly.

As you give him butterfly kisses all over his damp face, lips gently fluttering against his skin, his heart rises with joy and awe. James can feel the sweetness of your breath, the softness of your rose petal lips, the tenderness of touch.

— I know it. And I do, too, — you whisper back, tasting the salt on his skin.

James knows this is the best present he could have asked for. Not the presents beneath the branches, not the decorations on the tree, but this moment, this bond, this emotion he hopes will last forever.

With his hands on the small of your back and his arms still around your waist, he goes to spin you around a little, which makes you laugh slightly. Inhaling the pleasant scent of your warm skin, he buryes his face in your dainty neck.

— Thank you, — he murmurs, his lips brushing against your nape, making you shiver and hum pleasantly, — For everything. For being here, for loving me, for giving me a reason to keep going.

You tighten you arms around him, holding him close, fingers tangling in his golden rye hair.

[lilithschosen]

what if Agatha wants to watch the super bowl, but Rio has other plans...

a very go birds to you and yours (if you celebrate) and a very smooch to the forehead to anon for this prompt because holy shit LMFAO i love you

also on AO3 :)

Agatha fidgets with the brim of her hat, eyes glued to the television as the countdown drops under 4 minutes. 

“Hey,” Rio calls from the kitchen, “You want a beer?” 

She doesn't pull away from the screen, just turning to the side as she shouts back, "Yeah!" 

Rio snags a beer, hip checking the fridge door shut, and makes her way to the living room. She twists the cap off, handing it off to Agatha, and flops down next to her girlfriend. 

"So this is the big game?" 

Agatha nods, lifting the beer to her mouth as she sips it. She holds the bottle between her legs as she fidgets with her hat again. 

"So who are we cheering for?" 

"Eagles." 

Rio tucks her legs underneath her as she situates to get comfortable. "And they're the guys in green?"

"Yup." 

The countdown clock in the corner of the screen winds down to 0:00 and Agatha pumps her fist in the air. Rio laughs, leaning her elbow on the back of the couch, and rests her cheek against her fist. 

"You're not from Philadelphia, though." 

Agatha glances at her girlfriend over her shoulder. "You don't have to be from the city to support the team. Look at Patriots fans, they're fucking everywhere." 

Rio frowns. "I know you love sports and all, but are you going to be this intense all game?" 

"Yup." 

Agatha sets her bottle on the coffee table and twists her hat around, clapping as the kicker sends the ball flying. Rio attempts to pay attention throughout the fifteen minutes of the game. She laughs any time they mention the "tush push" because of how absurd it sounds. Any time someone does something, she asks who that was, and Agatha explains. Name, college, position. She has it all memorized. 

Honestly it's impressive. 

Suddenly they're in the end zone, the pile of green and white jerseys jump on top of one another, but for whatever reason the pile moves and the green jerseys all cheer. 

"Let's fucking go!" Agatha jumps from the couch, "You can't stop it!" 

Rio laughs, watching her reaction. Agatha spins around and kisses her, hand holding onto the back couch as she leans in. Rio kisses back, attempting to deepen it, but Agatha pulls back too fast. 

"Babe," Agatha scolds, "The game is on. You know that." 

She looks up at Agatha, batting her eyelashes. "Does that mean I won't get kisses?" 

Agatha rolls her eyes playfully, "I'll give you kisses if we do something good." 

"Oh, I'm tied to the Eagles now too?" Rio asks. Agatha nods, giving her another quick kiss. "I guess go Eagles then." 

Agatha smiles as she pokes the tip of Rio's nose with her forefinger. "That's my girl." 

"Big fan of the backwards hat aesthetic right now, by the way." 

Rio bites down on her lower lip, dragging her eyes up Agatha's body as the woman goes to stand up. Agatha just waves her off, grabbing her bottle and sipping it again. 

"Back, temptress." 

Rio scoots closer to her once she sits back down. Agatha's entire body is turned to the TV, only shifting to look at Rio whenever a commercial plays. Her thighs press into Agatha's, looping her arm over hers as she presses a kiss to her shoulder. 

The game continues. Agatha shouts randomly at the TV, chanting last names that Rio vaguely recognizes from the back of a jersey. She sighs, bored. 

Agatha rests her hand on Rio's thigh, finally leaning back to relax into the couch while still focusing on the game. Rio hums in approval, snuggling into Agatha's side. 

"So," Rio begins, lifting her legs to drape them over Agatha's lap, "There's nothing I can do to entice you?" 

Agatha stutters her attention, head turning to look at Rio and then back at the screen. "No, babe. Come on. I wanna watch this." 

As she says that, she grips Rio's ankles in excitement as a man in the green uniform speeds down the field before being taken out by someone in white. 

"I want to send the Giants GM a fruit basket." 

Rio frowns. "What? Why?”

Agatha pauses, patting Rio's ankle, before she tries to explain. "That guy that ran? He's arguably the best running back in the league. He was on the Giants and the Giants released him, so the Eagles got him. Now we're here." 

Rio nods along as Agatha speaks, winding her hand up her arm and twirling her finger around some of her hair. Agatha rarely has her hair down, but she does tonight, and Rio loves it. 

"You owe me a kiss, by the way." 

Agatha huffs. She turns to Rio and quickly kisses her cheek, turning her attention back to the game. 

"A real one." 

"Babe." 

Rio tugs the hair around her finger and Agatha yelps, whipping her head to face her girlfriend. "You're pushing it, baby." 

"Good," Rio responds, shifting her head up to the back of Agatha's head as she scratches just under the backwards brim of the hat. "Maybe I wanna push it." 

Agatha pokes her tongue into the side of her cheek, not wanting to look back at the TV, while Rio scratches her head. Rio shifts up from the couch, legs on either side of Agatha's waist as she settles in her lap. 

Agatha's hands instinctively raise, gripping Rio's hips. "You're dangerous, you know that?" 

"So I've been told." 

Agatha's hands slide down Rio's waist, grabbing at her ass as she raises her hips to meet Rio's. She feels the bulge underneath her baggy joggers, knowing Agatha packed with her "lucky" toy. 

Rio grinds into Agatha, rocking in her lap. Agatha's fingers dip into the covered flesh of Rio's ass, holding her firm as she rides her.

"What if," Agatha can't fight the smug look on her face as the thought hits her. "You get my cock nice and wet and then cockwarm me. I'll fuck you over halftime, if you sit nice and pretty." 

Rio squints at Agatha, pressing down onto the strap as they both inhale simultaneously from the contact. 

"You sure you can handle that, daddy?" 

Agatha nods, "I don't fuck around when the birds are on." 

"Deal." 

In the blink of an eye, Rio slips from Agatha's lap, dropping to her knees in front of her as her hands immediately reaches under the waistband of Agatha's joggers to pull out the green toy. 

"Look, baby," Agatha strokes the toy, simply smiling. "It's even your favorite colour." 

Rio doesn't respond, tucking her hair behind her ear as she immediately wraps her lips around the toy. She flattens her tongue, slurping it into her throat. Agatha lifts her arm up to hold onto the back of the couch. The brim of her backwards hat sticks into the cushion, partially lifting the hat from her head. Rio feels her wetness causing her underwear to stick to her as she looks up through her lashes at her girlfriend. 

Agatha pulls her attention from Rio's bobbing head between her thighs to the TV for a moment. She curses under her breath as the Eagles turn over the ball on downs, annoyed. 

Rio forces the full length of the toy into her mouth, gagging as her eyes water. Agatha snaps back to her, hands in Rio's hair as she pulls off of it. 

"You fight dirty."

"I'm just doing what you asked, daddy," Rio muses, "If you didn't want my mouth around your cock, you shouldn't have asked for it."

The crowd on the TV erupts in excitement, and Agatha looks up, catching the graphic of the Eagles logo on the screen as the team scores again. She nods, paying attention to the game now. 

Rio stands, turning as she bends at the waist, and she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts. She flips the waistband down, pulling the fabric over her ass. She stops, looking behind her to see if Agatha was watching her or the game. 

"Go on," Agatha goads, hand around her strap as she pumps it up and down. "You wanna keep showing off?" 

Rio falters, forgetting what she was doing as Agatha works her hand around the saliva covered toy. Agatha purses her lips, proud of herself. 

"You did a good job greasing the pole," Agatha quips, "Bet they'll hire you once the game is over to make sure those idiots don't start climbing."

Rio's brows knit together in confusion, but shakes the comment off as she removes her underwear. She faces Agatha, standing up, and places her hands on her girlfriend's shoulders.

"Easy now," Agatha's eyes wander from Rio's body and back to the television. She whistles low, catching the score. "We've got another ten minutes until the half. Think you can manage ten minutes?"

"I'm sure." 

She raises her leg, throwing it over Agatha's lap once more. She eases herself down, knees pressing into the cushions as she goes. Agatha's eyes stay to the TV, with her hand around the toy.

"I remember the last two times you wanted me to cockwarm," she begins, her own hand layering Agatha's on the toy as she lines the tip to her entrance. "You were the one that folded." 

"Huh," Agatha sucks air through her teeth. "We'll see."

Rio suddenly flips, her back to Agatha's front, and sinks down onto the toy. Agatha mumbles a prayer as she bites down hard on her lips to control herself. The TV screams, another midnight green graphic appearing for another Eagles touchdown. She wants to look, see what player did what, to celebrate along with them, but she can't pull her eyes off the rapidly disappearing green toy into Rio's cunt. 

Rio braces herself on Agatha's knees, leaning forward as she bounces once on the toy. Agatha strains a moan, keeping it in her throat. Rio tightens around the toy, flexing her thigh muscles and practically purrs. 

"Think you'll be able to last?" Rio questions, glancing over her shoulder to Agatha. Agatha only widens her eyes in response, the brim of her backwards hat pushing off her head with her relaxed posture into the couch.

Agatha hones in on the play clock on the screen. Six minutes left in the second quarter. To Rio, that's literally six minutes. To Agatha, with the annoying Superbowl ads, timeouts remaining, and potential plays and penalties that'll stop time? It's an eternity. 

The players line up, crouching as the ball is snapped. The man in the green jersey with the football shifts back before tossing the ball through the air. Agatha sits forward, pushing Rio forward as she goes, and cheers as the ball is caught. The man is thrown to the ground, but they're that much closer to the end zone. 

Rio settles back, forcing her hips down into Agatha's, and she whimpers at the full feeling. Agatha rolls her hips up, the tip of the toy shifting further inside of Rio's center, and she lets out her own defeated noise. 

"That clock isn't going very fast," Rio points, still leaning on Agatha's knees, "I'm not sure if you'll be able to hold back, my love." 

Agatha goes to her previous position, back to the couch, but her hat gets in the way. She huffs, grabbing the hat and fixing her hair by running her fingers through it, and fits it back on her head. Something to distract her for a moment, at least. 

Rio moves in little ways over the next actual ten minutes, but in game time only four. Agatha curses louder and louder for every ad that plays. 

"They really paid that much money for this?" 

Rio snorts in a laugh. "Sounds like you're struggling, I thought you said you loved the commercials?"

Agatha's palm strikes Rio's ass hard, holding it on the stinging flesh for a beat before she lifts it and admires the handprint left behind.

"You're going to regret it once that clock his zero." 

Rio gasps, keeping her hips still. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

The two-minute warning comes and goes. Agatha counts down the remaining seconds until they kneel it and the first half of the game finishes. The exact moment the whistle blows, Agatha wraps her arms around Rio's waist and stands. She keeps the toy deep until she lays Rio haphazardly on the carpeted floor by the couch. 

"You did it, baby." Rio chides, fingers grabbing at the carpet for the inevitable. "What's the score?" 

Agatha reaches forward, a hand to the back of Rio's as she pushes her into the floor and slams her hips into her. Rio chokes out a moan, teeth together as she breathes harshly. 

"Don't know," Agatha puffs, pummeling Rio with the toy, "Don't care.”

She keeps snapping her hips in and out, in and out, in and out until Rio manages to grip the hand in her hair. She tries to pry it out of her hair so she can sit back. Instead, Agatha twists her wrist, shedding Rio's hand, and instead grabbing her by the back of the neck. 

"You," she thrusts, holding herself as deep as she can for a moment before pulling out, "don't," and again, "get to-." 

Rio moans, jumbled words that tumble from her lips as Agatha wrecks her. Agatha growls, rumbling through her chest as she pauses her sentence and slips out of Rio's cunt. She kneels down close to Rio's soaked hole and spits onto her hole and shoves two fingers inside. 

"Wait," Rio stammers, struggling to lift up despite Agatha's hand at her neck. "Want your cock, wanna cum on it." 

Agatha keeps thrusting, fanning her fingers out as she buries them deep. 

"You don't get to set the rules," Agatha's voice is deep as she whispers down to Rio. "You couldn't wait until after the game, you had to be a fucking brat."

Rio nods, delusionally giddy despite her thoughts actively melting in real time. She tightens around Agatha's fingers, eyes rolling into her head as they close. Just as she's about to cum, Agatha draws her fingers out, and she clenches around nothing. Rio whines, needy and incoherent. 

"That's what happens," Agatha wipes the slick that pooled against her knuckles and coated her fingers off on the back of Rio's thighs, "When you try to fuck with me."

The halftime performance wraps up, loud explosions of fireworks as the crowd erupts in applause. Agatha sniffs, rubbing her nose with her thumb as she straightens her posture. She looks down at her joggers, soaked from Rio's arousal, and removes them. The sound of the waistband snapping against her hips has Rio mewling, distraught that Agatha was leaving her there. 

"Oh, my poor baby," Agatha drops back to her knees, hand cracking against Rio's ass once more. "All fucked out but never got to cum, huh? Game's about to start again, guess you'll have to think of something fast."

Rio presses her thighs together, hoping the friction would sate her, but she grumbles in frustration. Agatha watches her struggle, only lifting her eyes for a moment to see when the second half would start. 

"I'll be here," She tucks her fingers around her hip, pulling her back to the toy attached to her hips. "But you need to get to work if you want anything." 

She shifts back, knees burning from the carpet underneath her, and wiggles her hips until the tip of the toy lines with her cunt. She doesn't hold back, her gasp and groans too guttural and thick with desperation. 

"Come on, baby," Agatha doesn't help her, only keeping a hand on her hip to guide her back to her strap initially, "Fuck yourself on my cock."

Rio pants, eyes squinting as she focuses the best she can with such a fucked out brain. Her hips snap back, the wet slapping noise from taking the toy against Agatha's harness drowning out the television. 

Agatha has to swallow down her own noises as the green toy rapidly appears and disappears into Rio. She feels her own orgasm building, she tries to shift the harness so it doesn't press against her clit, to no avail. 

Rio's moans and motions grow shallow as she rushes to her pleasure. She whines, high in her throat and breathy. She mumbles a string of partially coherent "yes" and "uh-huh" with each cant of her hips into Agatha's. 

"Cum with me." 

Rio's body spasms, legs giving out as they shake while her orgasm takes root in her bones. Agatha falls forward, burying her cock into Rio as she thrusts frantically, on the precipice. 

Rio's mouth parts, face furrowed in a silent cry, while Agatha follows behind her. One final thrust has her cumming, fingers digging into Rio's hips with a bruising strength. 

They remain together, Rio splays out on the floor and Agatha on top of her with her face against her back. The TV drones on, various whistles being blown with cheering and booing.

Agatha finally picks her head up, blinking hard as she sees the game nearly over and the Eagles handedly winning. She holds herself up on her palms and eases the toy out of Rio, who quietly whines at the emptiness. 

She stands, shedding the harness, placing it on the coffee table next to the beer she's long since abandoned. Rio shifts, testing her limbs as she sits up. She laughs, throat dry.

"Congrats on winning, I think?" 

Agatha removes her hat, tossing it behind her on the couch as she helps Rio stand. She wraps her arms around her, breathing in the scent of their shared floral body soap and sweat. 

"I can't believe you distracted me," Agatha says, "You really won, didn't you?" 

Rio can only nod, flashing white teeth in victory, before her head drops to Agatha's shoulder. 

"Bed please?" 

Agatha pats her on the back, scratching her blunted nails against the fabric of her shirt. "Yeah, baby. Let's go to bed." 

"Go birds." 

She breathes a laugh. "Go birds.”

[another-supernova-girl]

The New Normal ( Part 1 : Alibi ) - Cooper Adams/Abbott x Fem Reader

Based on the following request from an anon : "Even after everything you've done I still love you with all that I am" with cooper adams hehe 💓 This is clearly canon-divergent, but I doubt anyone will mind. I re-worked the prompt quote just a tiny bit, but I'm sure it will still get the point across ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Gif is mine. MY JOSH HARTNETT CHARACTER MASTERLIST CAN BE FOUND HERE.

(( word count : ~ 1,100 ))

Much like any job, being the administrative assistant to the chief of the local fire department had its pros, and cons. Up until recently, said pros had only barely outweighed the cons : a steady paycheck, relatively predictable working hours, and a reliable view of a certain charming, handsome, and unfortunately married firefighter. Ever since the dissolution of that marriage, however, the clerical employee's working environment had become substantially more pleasant.

Her long-standing crush on him hadn't exactly been a secret, and although she had not made any attempt to act on it – the rumor of an affair between herself and Cooper Abbott had begun to swirl as soon as news of his impending divorce had hit the fire station. The theories between the firemen and various staff had of course been false, but even Cooper had begun to actively take notice of her, and her obvious attraction to him. And when he'd asked her out to dinner at the end of a shift one night, weeks after he'd ceased to wear his wedding ring, she'd answered in the affirmative before he'd even managed to finish his invitation. Months had passed since that first night, and they had been an item ever since.

🔪

“I really don't understand why I'm even being questioned,” Cooper stated, irritation in his voice, as he loomed over the police officer interrogating him, arms crossed, shoulder twitching slightly.

“It's protocol, Mr. Abbott. We're questioning everyone that fits the description,” the cop answered. “If you have nothing to hide, answering a few questions shouldn't be a problem,” he explained. “Now, we've spoken to every other fireman of the estimated height range and build, and your own chief confirmed you were unaccounted for on the eighteenth, so we just need to know your whereabouts.”

None of your fucking business, Cooper thought as he felt his eye twitch, glancing around for some sort of diversion. He'd managed to make it out of a marriage of fifteen years without his violent proclivities being detected, and he certainly wasn't about to be discovered now.

“He was with me,” a feminine voice declared, and both the officer and The Butcher glanced in surprise toward the direction of the source. “He was with me,” she repeated, and Cooper's firehouse paramour stepped into view, reaching for his hand when he offered it, his brows knit together in bemusement as he watched her eyes that avoided his own.

“Ma'am, you've already been accounted for, that's not-”

“No, um...we've been...dating, and it's sort of frowned upon with the two of us working together, and all...I was on the clock, and we shouldn't have...we just couldn't help ourselves,” she gave a half-hearted smile, shrugging her shoulders as Cooper's hand abandoned hers, only to find a new home at her waist, his thumb rubbing absently as the stark white blouse she wore. “Cooper just...didn't want me to get in trouble.”

There was silence between the three, the cop, the killer, and the alibi. The officer seemed to be contemplating their story, deciding whether it would better serve him to simply move on to the next possible suspect, when a shout from down the hallway drew all their attention. Cooper glanced down to the young woman beside him as the sound of the fire chief's bellowing voice called out her name, and with the briefest grasp of her hand, his thumb grazing over the inside of her wrist, the unmarred spot that mirrored his tattoo, she slipped from his embrace. “I'm...I'm sorry again, officer,” she called as she exchanged a glance with Cooper, before disappearing from sight.

🔪

Late afternoon eventually drifted into night, the assistant managing to hide away in the filing room and distract herself with paperwork, guiltily thankful when sirens had gone off in the fire station shortly after the confrontation with the investigator, Cooper being pulled away to preform his protective duties. His girlfriend had managed to avoid him the rest of the night, or so she thought, as she clocked out on her computer and gathered her effects, disappearing down the empty hallway that led to the back door of the facility.

“I know you don't think we aren't going to talk about this,” Cooper's voice sounded before she managed to round the last corner, just before the exit, her body visibly shuddering at the sudden rasp of his voice.

“I...I think the words you're looking for are 'thank you',” she stated as she tried to slide past him, reaching for the door handle, Cooper's large hand circling her wrist before she could rotate it.

“Someone's been keeping secrets,” he mumbled as he tugged lightly at her wrist, guiding her further away from her escape, out of the field of vision of the closest security camera.

“I prefer to think of it as playing dumb,” she breathed out as her back finally made contact with a wall, The Butcher cutting off any inkling of an escape between the smooth, painted surface behind her and his imposing frame.

“And how long have you been playing dumb?” Cooper murmured, his empty hand finding her free wrist and capturing it as he had the other, placing them both against the wall.

Silence filled the emptiness surrounding them for several seconds before her voice finally sounded again. “Since you were still happily married,” she admitted, his thumbs ghosting over her pulse points, her heart beat accelerating from more than just the anxiety of standing in the grasp of his physical control. “Maybe I...maybe the 'dumb' part isn't really an act-mmph” Her words stifled in her throat as she felt his plush lips against her trembling mouth. The force she'd half-expected in the aftermath of her confession didn't materialize, his kiss just as sweet and tender as ever, the flit of his tongue teasing her own, punctuated by briefer, though no less appreciated caresses of his skin against her own. “Even after everything you've done, I...,” her words dried up in her throat as she felt him draw away, no more than an inch, his warm breath on her prickling flesh as his face disappeared against her throat, his lips finding more skin to manipulate, “I still...” The Butcher's hand fisted in her hair as her wrists fell from their perch on the wall, slipping between layers of fabric that clung to his body, winding along his back, beneath his heavy jacket.

“Do you love me,” he rasped, more manipulation of a different flavor as he stood up straighter, a hand finding her jaw and tilting her chin until she could look nowhere else but his cold, piercing eyes.

“With all that I am.”

🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪

((( This has turned into at least a 2-parter , CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 2 )))

tagging : @one-of-thewalkingdead , @gissellec1 , @pinkflowerwombat , @sashimeep , @strangererotica , @the-butchers-baby , @callsign-fangirl , @hibiskooks , @jessy02 , @charliehoennam , @pinastrihaven , @amethystblackkchaos , @bleeding-heartz , @gt-rxn , @simplymurdock

If I forgot anyone, I apologize, and please let me know if you want to be tagged in the next one

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS AND TAGS ARE DEEPLY APPRECIATED.💙

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Kiss Me Softly: Leon Kennedy x Pregnant!Reader (NSFW)

someone sent this to the old blog and I forgot to move it over here when I killed off the ask box but I do remember what you want the premise to be anon, I got you.

Contains: Pregnant sex, breast worship and good ol' dirty talk

The sensation was almost burning in your core. Slowly, heating up more and more somewhere deep in your gut to the point you had started to even wonder if you’ve ever felt normal since you had gotten pregnant; Especially since you’ve hit your third trimester. The sensation only got worse when he would leave, off to some little corner of the world for God knows how long before he would always find his way back home to you. Days like those were always exciting.

Even now, as you were alone and lying on the couch, you couldn’t help but feel giddy as you stared at the clock on your phone. He would be home any minute after spending all day in some office, and any minute, he’d walk right through that door.

The feeling inside of you was blazing at this point. It wasn’t heartburn or trapped gas, but a lustrous heat that only your loving husband could stomp out. It clawed up at your ribcage, spiking right through your heart, clawing right at your mind. The heat inside of you was heavy and warm, especially where it sat nice and pretty right in between your legs.

You could feel it pooling right at your cervix, you could feel your own heartbeat through the delicate skin. You could feel the warm honey dripping from your petals. Your own attempts of getting off didn’t work out well. Not only was it hard to do being so far along, it also didn’t feel right. You needed to feel the stretch only his fingers and especially his cock could give you.

Fuck, you wanted him- no, you needed him. You needed Leon to take you so badly that it started to hurt. You needed his touch, you needed his sweet words in your ear, you needed his lips on your body. Just the thought of him taking you like this had the heat blooming hotter.

And then you heard it, the soft clicking at the door of Leon inserting his key and turning. You sat up as quickly as you could but didn’t stand, eyes alert and staring at the door as you watched intently at it swing open to reveal your husband.

His face lit up upon seeing you, his normally cold eyes shined like oceans at just one look at you. And that smile, shit, how it made your spine tingle in all of the right places.

“You waited up for me?”

His words were sweet and dark, like a fine wine you craved to drink.

“I wanted to,” you purred.

You tried to stand up, barely able to lift yourself at an awkward angle before Leon had helped you out. His strong hands on either hip gently lifting you up from the couch, making sure you were steady on your feet, both of you facing each other now.

His hands drifted to your swollen belly, pressing his palms flat against the delicate skin as he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“How have my girls been?” he glanced up into your eyes before falling back to your belly.

“Your daughter’s been using me as a punching bag all day since you let,” you huffed. “And I’ve been missing you.”

“I’m sorry,” he pressed a kissed to your lips as he rubbed soothing circles against you. “But just think; One more month and she’ll be here.” And he’ll be given a very generous paternity leave too. “Can I get you anything? You have to be so tired by now, sweetheart.”

Oh, how the lightbulb went off in your head.

You brought your arms up and trailed them along his forearms up to his strong biceps to his broad shoulders. Your massaged at his shoulders and traced at the strong columns of his neck with a soft hum.

“There is one thing you can do,” you purred.

You know for a fact that Leon did not miss that little mischievous look in your eyes.

“And what might that be?”

You knew he knew just from his tone, all heavy and dark. His lips pulled back into a knowing smirk as he brought himself as close to you as your pregnant belly would allow. Just being under his gaze had your knees feeling weak.

“I need you,” you whispered to your husband. “Please, Leon, I need you.”

He could listen to your begging all day long and never get tired of it.

Before you could process it, Leon had wrapped his arms around and scooped you up, holding you bridal style as he stepped lively towards the bedroom. You gasped softly and clung to his shoulders, earning you a deep chuckle from him as pressed a kiss to your neck. The scratch of his stubble felt so fucking good that it pulled a soft moan from your lips, one of your hands came up to his hair and carded your fingers through his thick dirty blond locks. Were you this touch starved for him that just the scratch of his facial hair would do you in?

Leon barely stumbled through the hall before he gently kicked open the bedroom door with his boot. His long legs strode right across the bedroom as he gently set you down at the foot of the bed. He didn’t get up though, and only pushed you down until your back was flush with the sheets and he was hovering over you. He leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss once more, one of his large hands embedded itself in the sheets right next to your head while the other grabbed onto your body, gently kneading your soft hip causing you to purr into the kiss.

Leon pulled back with a smirk, your noses brushing against one another, his eyes cloudy with hazy lust.

“I’m barely touching you and you’re already a mess,” he chuckled darkly. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me, Leon,” you spurred him on. “Please?”

Leon pressed a kiss to your lips as his hand on your waist slid down to your thigh. He squeezed the soft flesh before inching your legs apart. He pressed his knee between the part he had created, you knew he could feel just how wet you were. He hummed against your lips as he stood up fully. He moved his knee away to make room for his other hand, agile fingers rubbing your pussy through the fabric of your pants and underwear. His eyes lit up with a devious glint at just the feeling of how horny you were for him.

“Already this wet for me, dove? All I did was just kiss you.” His eyes briefly looked down at your clothed pussy and then back at you. “Or did you already get started without me?”

“I-I’m sorry Leon. Please, I need you,” you whimpered.

His hand that had parted your thighs traced mindless shapes on the side of your belly.

“I can’t blame you. You’ve been insatiable since I knocked you up, always needing me, always begging for more.” God, just the way his hair fell into his eyes, how he was standing over you, how he just looked at you - it was all perfect. He slid his hand past the waistband of the loose yoga pants that sat around your waist and curled his fingers around your panties. You lifted your ass just a bit like a good wife so he could slide the damned things off your legs and let them pool to the floor. His eyes immediately locked onto your perfect pussy all wet and dripping just for him. “Look at this; All for me.”

“Leon-”

He snatched at your waist and hoisted you more onto the bed until your head hit the pillows, propping you up just a bit. Leon climbed onto the bed and spread your legs apart as far as they would go. The cool air of the room sparked at your exposed womanhood, the poor thing throbbed with a carnal need for your husband as he bent over. He grasped at both of your ankles and drew them over his shoulders as he finally buried his tongue into your pussy.

You found yourself crying out of pleasure instantly. Your back arched a bit off the bed as your eyes screwed shut, the pillows cradled at your neck while your mind went completely blank. Leon growled a bit into your pussy as he tongue fucked you, he held your ankles loosely, encouraging you to wrap them around and squeeze his head. You mewled and moaned, hands snatching at the blankets as you panted and cried. Your throat seized, your heart fluttered, your core was dripping with hot honey for him to lap up with that tongue of his.

One of his hands let go of your ankle to finger your poor womanhood, his finger rubbing with vigor as his tongue lapped up your sweet taste. He never left you empty, when his tongue would roll out he would immediately replace it with his finger only to repeat the process.

You squeezed your eyes closed and sank your head back into the pillows even more only for Leon to abruptly pull away. Your eyes flew open and your head shot up to look at him with those desperate eyes.

“Look at me,” he ordered, “and don’t stop looking.”

You shivered at his voice, all dark and bossy, just like how he would order you around in bed before you were pregnant. A part of you missed that side of Leon, the part that always pushed you past your limits, forcing you over the edge multiple times, dragging on your agony before he would let you climax. You missed how rough he could be. He never did that to you while you were pregnant, though.

You maintained eye contact to the best of your ability despite your fluttering eyelids threatening to squeeze shut as your orgasm started to clench at your core. He had propped you up so you both could look at each other over your pregnant belly, his stormy blue eyes were truly something to get lost in as you came against his mouth.

You cried aloud as he continued to tongue fuck you, adamant on lapping up your sweet taste and not missing a single drop until you had run clean. He gently placed your legs back down on the bed before he stood up. He wiped his lower lip with his thumb, gathering what little of your orgasm that had been left before he licked it off. His cheeks were blushed with a soft pink and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“It’s almost like you got sweeter when I got you pregnant,” he purred.

He shucked off his jacket and threw it aside before he swiftly pulled off his shirt with a single motion. You couldn’t help but flush at the sight of him. Sure, you’ve seen him naked, and especially shirtless, plenty of times but you couldn’t help it. You had him all to yourself. He snatched at his belt and undid his pants, letting them fall to the floor and leaving him only his boxers. His erection was obvious, the poor thing straining against the thin and dark material. You could a little wet spot forming as his head leaked his salty precum.

God, you wanted to taste it so badly.

He noticed you watching intently and decided to give you a little show. He slowly peeled away at the waistband of his boxers despite your soft groans of protest. His stupid smirk really only showed how much of a little shit he really was.

“Please, don’t tease me,” you begged, still out of breath from getting fucked with his tongue.

Leon dropped his boxers, letting his poor dick spring free. He groaned a little bit when it sprung free, one of his hands squeezed at the base of his cock and pumped himself a few times. He ran his thumb over the precum that had beaded out, smearing it across his head as he continued to eye you.

“I love how you look,” he said near-breathless, “all soft with my child. You look so fucking gorgeous. I should get you pregnant more often.” 

Your face lit aflame at his words. He really did have a pregnancy kink, huh? Leon once again climbed on top of you, caging you in his arms. His hands planted themselves on either side of your head, fingers curling against the wooden headboard. You spread your legs as you felt the head of Leon’s cock rutting against your swollen pussy, barely splitting your petals apart, teasing you unjustly.

He slowly thrust into you, your mouth fell open into an airy cry of pleasure that had drifted into a content sigh when he buried himself up to the root in you. Your chest seized and your back arched into him as much as you could. Your hands came up to grab at Leon’s brawny shoulders, desperately needing something to ground you as your nails sank into his skin. Leon moaned as your pussy squeezed around him, panting like a dog from just one thrust inside of you.

Leon unscrewed his eyes as he started to thrust at a slow pace, his hips rocking back and forth to ease open your clenching walls. His eyes landed on your breasts, his throat bobbed, his hands snatched at the headboard so hard that it started to groan and creak under his grip.

“God, just look at you. I love how you look like this, dove,” he said breathlessly.

He unlatched one of his hands to grab at your breast, pawing and kneading it as you bounced in his grip from his thrusts. It was heavy and warm in his hand, full of developing milk. He brought his head down and latched his mouth on your other breast, biting and kissing the plump flesh until he latched onto your nipple. You moaned aloud, the crown of your skull burying deeper into the pillow as Leon sucked at your breast like a man starved. His other hand had started to knead slower, his fingers coming up to pinch at your nipple. You hissed and sighed over and over as he drank from your breast, your nails driving in deeper.

When Leon had had his fill, he unlatched himself from your nipple but not without rolling his teeth gently over the poor abused thing to illicit a shrill moan from you. He buried his lips in your neck as his quickened his pace, his stomach flexing and his back arching in with his thrusts. His stubble scratched at your skin deliciously as his teeth ghosted over the crook of your neck.

“I could drink from you all day,” he growled in your ear. You moaned, you couldn’t form words right with your mouth, your mind was too fuzzy as you chased your second orgasm. Leon chuckled darkly in your ear, biting gently at your throat. “I can’t wait until I’m home on leave. I’m gonna pamper you, you’re not gonna lift a finger. I’ll take care of you. Do you want that?” You nodded your head, unable to form words, only moans and cries. “I can’t wait until I can knock you up again,” he growled right into your ear. “I’ll knock you up like the slut you are.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, your eyes started to flutter shut when Leon snatched at your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me when I’m fucking you.” Fuck, his words really drove it home for you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum right on my dick.”

[darius-shack]

I haven't seen GF in years but was abruptly reminded a while ago and found your blog and your Pinecest+Stancest posts while looking at the Pinecest tag so I gotta share this plot that's now trapped in my brain. If I got the details about canon wrong, blame the passage of time, not me lol.

Ok I'm sure I'm not the only one who came up with that but: Mutually Unrequited/Pining Stans that both never acted on their feelings and spent the entire separation depressed about it and blaming the way they were hiding their feelings partially for how things went down. Enter Pinecest, only just clocking that this is Not Normal Sibling Feelings.

Stan encourages it when he first realizes it because he never got to even try, but maybe Mabel and Dipper can be happy. So he bullies any boys Mabel brings home, shuts down Dipper's flirt attempts with Wendy & Pacifica - Dipper catches on to his feelings first and wants to prove to himself that he's NORMAL OKAY??? he is, in fact, super not normal, but he'll scream that he is at the top of his lungs - and then Ford returns.

Ford also immediately catches on to Dipper's crush. Because he gets Dipper, and of course, he'd love his twin. He can't see Mabel's feelings as easily because he's insta-transferencing her and Stanley and the idea of her liking Dipper back is unfathomable (read: heartbreaking) because then it means perhaps Stanley could've loved him too.

But he cares about Dipper, so Ford thinks the best he can do is maybe help cut off those feelings at the knees before there's no going back for him, at least Dipper might not totally lose Mabel the way he and Stan thought they had lost each other, might eventually lead a normal non-recluse full of regrets life unlike them. So Ford offers to let Dipper stay without letting on his real reason to do so, and Mabel FLIPS OUT.

The thoughts have been building in the back of her head for a while, and she's suddenly confronted with what she never thought possible. Losing Dipper. And it hurts so so much and then Weirdmageddon comes and things go completely off the rails and now she knows she loves him but he's her brother, the world is ending and maybe he doesn't actually like her at all.

It ends with Dipper admitting to Mabel why he was even contemplating separation and Ford is trying to stop him while Stan has been working for this for months, damnit, and Ford's attempts at shutting the confession down just kill him. Dipper says it anyway, and Mabel thinks she's dreaming, but yeah, dummy, I love you too. How could you even think otherwise?

And seeing their dramatic first kiss totally guts Ford. He's happy for them, clearly, but he wants this oh so much and he can't have it. Stanley is shocked at how much Ford's affected by this development and things just blow up from there, and before either of them know it they're kissing.

Meanwhile Mabel and Dipper finally remember where they are and who they're with and fuck this is going to be difficult to explain - wait wtf GRUNKLES WHAT ARE YOU DOING. Well nothing they weren't right before that.

The rest of summer is an insanely awkward transition period where both couples are trying to work out how to deal with this new dynamic and what it means for their lives, especially for when Dipper and Mabel go back home. But everyone is insanely happy and when Dipper and Mabel come back to GF it's together, to a married couple of Grunkles (in everything except the eyes of the law).

And perhaps someday a - but lbr it'll be two - Pinecest Baby crawls around the Mystery Shack to everyone's delight...

ANON YOU'RE SO CRACKED AAAAAAAAH

such a cute premise of them finding out about each other's budding relationships despite the warnings from Ford and adamant attitude from Stan. SO good. flavor.

also implying that ford and stan were like watching/listening from around the corner or something is peak. honestly? this ask means so much to me.