#And pour one out for the dead (links) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lupinqs · 7 months ago

Text

SANTA BABY ━━ wnba!paige bueckers x reader

𝜗𝜚 ━ summary: during your christmas trip to NYC, you have a surprise waiting for paige back at the hotel.

𝜗𝜚 ━ word count: 4.9K

𝜗𝜚 ━ warnings: sexual content (munch p, scissoring)

𝜗𝜚 ━ links: my masterlist

𝜗𝜚 ━ author’s note: my christmas eve gift to y’all …. it was almost taken away tho because of that usc game ask the gc man i was crashing out

THE CITY is buzzing even at this hour, cold wind cutting through the streets as Paige makes her way back to the hotel. She tugs her coat tighter around herself, her hands jammed into her pockets to ward off the sting of the December chill. New York City is magical this time of year, but it’s also freezing, and she can’t wait to get back to the suite, where it’s warm—and more importantly, where you are.

This trip has been a mix of business and pleasure. She had a couple of sponsorship obligations to knock out and a media appearance scheduled for tomorrow, but mostly, it’s just an excuse to spend a few uninterrupted days with you. Both of your schedules have been so hectic lately—hers with the grind of off-season and the stress of Unrivaled about to start, and yours with work—and carving out this time feels like a luxury. It’s the last weekend before Christmas, and since you’re both gonna be spending the holiday with your families together, this is your time to celebrate just the two of you.

Paige hurries into the hotel, rubbing her hands together as she steps into the elevator. She flexes her fingers, still stiff from gripping a basketball for hours during her workout with Stewie and Sabrina. She promised you that she wouldn’t let it run late, and, as she glances at her phone to see the time, she’s satisfied that she fulfilled it.

Her sneakers hit the polished floor with soft thuds as she unlocks the door to the suite. The space is lavish, the kind of indulgence she spent because one, it’s the holidays, and two, she wanted this weekend to be perfect for the two of you. The warmth of the suite embraces her immediately, the city’s chill feeling miles away here. She shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the couch, and kicks off her sneakers.

“Baby, I’m back!” she calls, her voice echoing faintly in the spacious suite. When she came in, she assumed that you’d be in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket and whatever Netflix show you’ve been binge-watching. But the living room is empty, the TV off.

Her brows furrow as she looks around, scanning for signs of you. “You in the bedroom?” she calls out, though there’s still no answer. Her pulse picks up, not in worry, but in curiosity. She hums, wondering where you’re hiding.

The hallway feels quiet as she moves down it, pushing open the door to the bedroom. The sight that greets her makes her stop dead in her tracks, feet planted in the doorway.

The lights are dim, the warm glow casting a soft, golden hue across the room. A bottle of wine sits on the nightstand, one glass already poured and in your hand. But it’s you that holds her attention, that makes her brain short-circuit entirely.

You’re sprawled out on the bed, leaning back against the pillows with a smirk that could stop traffic. And you’re wearing—Paige feels her throat go dry—this tiny, ridiculously sexy Christmas lingerie set. The red satin clings to you in all the right places, barely covering what it’s meant to, and the white fur trim is so playful, so sinful, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan. The ribbon on the front of your bra is tied in a neat little bow, teasingly undone just enough to look like you’d barely bothered. The matching panties sit high on your hips, connected to sheer thigh-high stockings by the tiniest garters she’s ever seen.

She doesn’t even realize she’s standing completely still until you grin at her, your voice playful and sweet as you say, “Hi, baby.”

Paige blinks, her brain struggling to catch up as she stares at you. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline giving way to something much more visceral. The way you’re looking at her, the way the light catches the curve of your body—it’s like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again. She lets out a low, shaky breath, her hand running through her hair as her eyes continue to rove over your figure. Her stomach constricts, her whole body coiled so tight she’s not sure if she wants to drop to her knees or throw herself at you. Maybe both.

“Fuck, ma,” she finally manages, her voice low and husky as she steps forward. Her hands flex instinctively, wanting to touch you, needing to touch you. “You tryna kill me?”

You giggle, the sound light and sweet, but the glint in your eyes is anything but innocent. “No,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you take a slow sip from your wine glass. Your smirk widens, and Paige swears her knees almost buckle.

She exhales sharply, inching closer to the bed. “You look…” Her voice trails off, her gaze roaming over you like she’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. “Jesus, baby, you look insane.”

You’re still grinning as she reaches the edge of the bed, her hands resting on the mattress as she leans down slightly, bringing her face level with yours. Her pulse races, her body buzzing with anticipation as her eyes lock with yours. “You did this for me?” she asks softly, though she already knows the answer.

“Who else?” you ask, grinning, your voice a teasing lilt that makes Paige’s chest tighten. You set your wine glass down on the nightstand, your eyes never leaving hers.

Paige is already leaning forward, her hands sliding to your thighs, the warmth of your skin and the delicate fabric of your lingerie making her head spin. “You’re gon’ be the death of me,” she murmurs, shaking her head a little as her lips brush against yours lightly, hands tightening on your legs. And God, if this is how she goes, she’ll thank you for it.

Her lips finally lock onto yours, slow at first, like she’s savoring the moment. The kiss is soft, tender, but there’s an edge to it—like she’s holding herself back, barely. Her hands tighten on your thighs, sliding higher, the heat of your skin burning through the thin satin, and she swears she feels you shiver beneath her touch.

You kiss her back, your arms looping around her neck to pull her closer, and that’s all the invitation Paige needs. She shifts, climbing onto the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress as she presses herself against you. The warmth of your body sends a rush of heat through her, and she deepens the kiss, her tongue brushing against yours as she loses herself in the taste of you.

“You’re fuckin’ unreal,” she murmurs against your mouth, her voice barely above a whisper but heavy with meaning. Her lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

Her hands roam as her mouth works. One slides up to cup the back of your neck, her thumb brushing over your jaw to tilt your head just the way she likes. The other settles firmly on your hip, her grip strong enough to keep you exactly where she wants you, though her fingers twitch like she’s desperate to touch you everywhere at once.

The scent of you—the faint lotion you always wear, mixed with the wine you’ve been drinking—fills her senses, and Paige feels drunk on it, drunk on you. Her lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, and when she hears the soft, breathy sound you make in response, it sends a jolt of electricity straight through her.

“Damn,” she mutters, her teeth grazing your skin lightly before she soothes the spot with her tongue.

Your hands tug at the hem of her long-sleeve shirt, and she sits back just enough to let you pull it over her head. You toss it somewhere behind her, leaving her in her sports bra. Her abs flex slightly in the cool air, but the way your eyes roam over her makes her feel anything but cold. She watches you, her chest heaving, her pupils blown wide as you reach out to touch her, your hands sliding over her shoulders and down her torso, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

And then she’s diving back in, her kisses lower now, lips finding the delicate line of your collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses there like she’s starving for you—which, she is. Her tongue darts out to taste your skin, her teeth scraping against you enough to leave you shivering. She feels your fingers tangle in her hair, undoing her ponytail as you pull her closer. Her breath quickens slightly, chest heaving with just how much she wants you.

Her fingers find the ribbon on your bra, tugging at it gently as her lips brush over the swell of your cleavage. “This,” she mutters, her voice muffled against your skin, “is fucking killin’ me.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing over the satin. “You tied it so pretty for me, huh? Knowing I’d lose my damn mind?”

You laugh softly, breathily, fingers tangling further in her hair. “Maybe.”

“Slut,” Paige mutters, grinning as she tugs the bow loose with one sharp pull, letting the fabric fall open, your perky tits popping out of it. Her breath catches as she sees you fully now, blue eyes darkening with something heavy, something primal.

“Goddamn, mama,” she breathes, her hands sliding along your sides, thumbs brushing over your ribs. She leans down again, her lips brushing against the curve of your breast. “You’re so beautiful, so sexy, so perfect, baby. It ain’t even fair.”

And then her mouth closes around your nipple, her tongue swirling over the sensitive skin as she sucks gently, and the sound you make in response sends a jolt straight through her. She groans softly, her free hand sliding up to cup your other breast. She alternates between kisses and soft bites, her lips tugging gently at your nipple before soothing the spot with her tongue. Her breath is hot against your skin, and she presses closer, hips grinding against yours just a little as her mouth moves.

“Such perfect tits,” she murmurs against your cleavage, her teeth grazing you again as she switches to your other breast.

She licks a slow, careful path across your skin, savoring every inch of you as she begins to lower once more. Her mouth leaves a wet trail down your stomach, her tongue occasionally flicking out to taste the faint salt on your skin. Her hands slide down from your chest, settling on your waist. She grips the skin hard, pinching slightly. Her lips brush over the curve of your belly, then down to the soft plane just above your hips, like she’s mapping every part of you with her tongue.

She pauses for a moment, just long enough to lift her head and admire the way the red lace hugs your skin. The fabric is delicate, so inviting, it’s like it was made to drive her insane. The sheer material leaves almost nothing to her imagination, and the sight of it—of you and your perfect pussy—sends a rush of wetness to her own core.

She just shakes her head a little, as if in disbelief, before lowering again, her lips grazing the edge of the lace as her fingers grip your hips tighter. She can feel the heat radiating from you, the way your body tenses slightly beneath her, the way you say her name, and it makes her head spin.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing the edge of the fabric, teasing. She presses a kiss just below your navel, then another, breath warm. “You got any idea what you’re doin’ to me, baby?” she asks slowly.

You don’t even get the opportunity to answer before her teeth catch the edge of your panties lightly, tugging just enough to make you gasp. And then she lets it snap back into place with a soft, playful grin. She glances up at you, eyes dark and blazing, blonde hair falling into her face as she leans closer again. The way you look back at her—pupils wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—spurs her on.

Her lips hover just above the lace, and she kisses you there, slow and careful, her mouth pressing over the thin barrier like she can’t stand not to be closer. “So pretty,” she murmurs against you, her fingers brushing over the lace now, testing the material as her tongue flicks out once more, tasting you even through the fabric.

Her big hands slide from your waist to your thighs, spreading them just enough to give her room to work. Her teeth catch the edge of the waistband, tugging gently, and she groans low in her throat as the fabric gives way slightly under her pull.

“Fuck,” Paige mutters, and it’s muffled as she grips the lace between her teeth. She pauses just long enough for you to whimper, “Paige,” before she tugs again, this time pulling the panties down your hips with deliberate slowness.

She moves inch by inch, her teeth grading the lace lower, and she’s completely transfixed. The garters make her work for it, the straps pulling taut against the tension, but she doesn’t mind—if anything, it drives her wilder. Her lips slide along your skin as she works, kissing the sensitive spots where the panties leave a faint imprint.

As she reaches your thighs, Paige shifts, letting the fabric slide past her lips and catching it with her fingers instead. She tugs it the rest of the way down with her teeth again, dragging it along the curve of your legs, her mouth brushing your inner thighs as she goes.

When the panties finally slip off completely, Paige lets them drop from her teeth to the floor, her breath shallow as she grips your thighs, holding them apart. Her eyes rake over every inch of you—the way your face has gone bright pink in a flush, the way your tits peek from the opened lingerie top, the way your cunt is absolutely glistening for her.

She licks her lips slowly, the corner of her mouth curving into a smirk as her gaze flicks back up to your face. “Shit, mama,” she says lowly. “Look at you. Fuckin’ dripping for me.”

Paige doesn’t waste any more time. She slides down on her elbows, lowering herself between your legs, her mouth attaching to your clit with an intensity that makes you cry out. She sucks and licks with fervor, her tongue working you over with a skill that leaves both of your lungs aching, Paige’s face buried so deep in your folds she has to fight for air. The sensation is overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and desperation that has you writhing beneath her, hips bucking.

“Babe… mmm, shit,” you whimper, voice trembling as you reach down to grasp at the sheets, knuckles white with the effort to hold on. You can barely keep your eyes open, pleasure so intense it’s nearly blinding. “Please, fuck, don’t stop.”

Paige has no intentions of stopping. She moans softly against your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place firmly as she devours you like a woman starved. Her tongue moves expertly, flicking and swirling across your clit before laying it flat, shaking her head from side to side messily, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, ma, you taste so good,” Paige groans, pulling away just long enough to let a glob of her spit land on your cunt. She leans back in, lapping it up, eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Could eat you out all night, baby…”

Your back arches off the bed at Paige’s words, causing the lingerie top to slide down your shoulders a little more. Your hips buck involuntarily as you chase the pleasure Paige gives you, one of your hands coming up to knead your own tit, mouth dropping open at the way Paige’s tongue slides along your wetness effortlessly. You’re desperate, every nerve ending in your body tingling with need. “Paige, baby, ‘M so close,” you choke out.

Paige only intensifies her efforts, her tongue flicking against your clit faster, her mouth working you over with an urgency that has you teetering on the edge. She’s relentless, giving you exactly what you need, pushing you closer and closer until you’re trembling, your thighs quivering around her head.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, Paige pulls back slightly, her mouth leaving your clit. You let out a desperate whine at the loss, body screaming for more, but Paige is already moving. She slides two fingers inside you without warning, thrusting them in deep, hard, and fast. The sudden intrusion makes you gasp, hands flying to Paige’s shoulders as you cling to her, body trembling with the force of Paige’s thrusts.

“Mmm, mama,” the blonde breathes out lowly as she pumps her fingers into your cunt with a brutal pace, the slick sound of her digits moving in and out echoing in the otherwise quiet hotel room. “So fucking tight, so wet for me. Shit, baby.”

She glances up, gaze on you as your head falls back against the pillows, your eyes squeezing shut as you let out a strangled moan, hips moving to meet Paige’s thrusts. She feels a rush of wetness flood her own boxers and picks up the pace even more, the pleasure becoming overwhelming for you, a white-hot fire that consumes you from the inside you. “Paige, oh my God… holy shit…”

Paige leans in close, biting lightly at your inner thigh as she whispers, “Think you can take three, baby?”

She watches as your eyes fly open at the question, brows furrowing as you nod frantically. “Yes. Yeah, do it,” you force out breathlessly. “Please, P.”

Paige smirks at your reaction, but doesn’t need to be told twice. She pulls her fingers out briefly, adding a third finger before thrusting back inside, her movements deliberate and rough, stretching you out. Your hips buck up to meet Paige hand, chasing the pleasure. Paige scissors her fingers inside you, making you choke a little on your own whimper, nails digging into her skin, gripping the strap of her sports bra.

“Such a—God, you’re such a fuckin’ slut,” Paige groans, eyes locked onto your face, watching every single expression of pleasure that crosses your features. “Wearing that lingerie, knowing I’d lose my goddamn mind. Shit.”

Your entire body is one fire, senses overwhelmed by the combination of the relentless pace of Paige’s thrusts and the dirtiness that coats her words. You can feel every inch of Paige’s fingers inside you, can feel the way they stretch you, the way they hit that perfect spongy spot deep inside that makes you see stars. “Baby, you’re gonna make me cum. God, I’m—” You cut yourself off with a loud moan.

Paige leans forward, her mouth finding your clit again, tongue swirling slick circles over the sensitive nub as she continues to thrust her long fingers in and out, faster and harder, pushing you to the brink. “Shit, ma, do it,” she urges roughly, humming against you as she laps at your pussy. “Cum for me. Cum all fucking over me, mama.”

That’s all you need to hear. With a strangled cry, your entire body tenses, back arching off the bed as you come hard, walls clenching around Paige’s fingers, gushing against her face. The pleasure is blinding, overwhelming, and you can’t do anything but ride it out, body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

Paige keeps thrusting her fingers, lapping at your wetness lazily, riding out your orgasm with you. She prolongs the pleasure until you’re nothing but a quivering, panting mess beneath her. When your body finally goes limp, Paige slowly withdraws her fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your trembling thighs.

And then she starts crawling back up your body, her lips trailing over the lingering marks she’d left along her descent. Your eyes meet, a shared intensity overtaking the laziness you were just feeling, Paige’s lips finding you’re once more in a searing, desperate kiss. It’s messy and heated, tongues tangling, hands grasping and pulling at each other. You can taste yourself on Paige’s lips and it only makes you kiss her harder.

You let Paige flip your positions with her strength, your thighs now straddling Paige’s waist. She groans a little against your mouth as her hands find your bare ass, fingers digging into the skin and kneading it, your bodies pressing together.

“Ma,” Paige breathes out when you pull away slightly, sliding her sports bra up and over her head. Her hands reach down for her sweatpants and you help her yank them—and her boxers beneath—down in one swift motion. Paige’s hips lift off the bed, and the two of you finally rid of the barrier. You toss the clothing aside without a second thought.

Paige’s lips curl into a smirk as her eyes lock with yours again, pulling you closer with her hands on your ass, bodies flush against each other. “C’mon,” she murmurs thickly.

Your breath hitches at the feel of Paige’s hands on your hips, guiding you to align your cunts together. The sensation is sinful, and you can’t suppress the moan that escapes your lips as you feel the heat and slickness of Paige’s wetness against your own.

“That’s it, mama,” the blonde encourages, sending a shiver down your spine. “Ride me, grind on me. Lemme feel you.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You start moving your hips in slow, careful circles, your slick pussy sliding against Paige’s with every movement. The sensation is overwhelming, and your head falls back as you let yourself get lost in the pleasure, hands gripping Paige’s shoulders for support.

Paige’s eyes are glued to you, tracking every move, every expression. She’s mesmerized by the way your face contorts with pleasure, your mouth falling open slightly as your hips move with increasing urgency. Paige’s hands tighten on your hips, helping to guide your movements, pushing you down harder against her own aching cunt.

“Shit,” Paige groans, blue eyes flitting between your flushed face, the way your tits bounce slightly with every thrust of your hips, and where your pussy grinds against hers. “You look so fuckin’ hot riding me like this.”

You whimper at Paige’s words, pace quickening as the heat between you builds to an almost unbearable level. The friction of your clits rubbing together is enough to make you lose control, unable to hold back the desperate sounds that escape your lips.

“You like that, baby?” Paige rasps, voice dripping with lust as she watches you lose yourself in the pleasure. “You like grinding that pretty pussy against me, yeah?”

Your only response is a choked moan, body trembling as you lean forward, hands sliding up to grip the headboard for support. The new angle allows you to press down even harder against Paige, and it sends shockwaves through both of your bodies.

Paige’s eyes roll back in her head at the increased pressure, her own hips bucking up to meet the roll of yours. She’s completely entranced by the sight of you riding her, chest heaving as she helps you, gripping your ass and pulling you quicker against her.

“Feels so fucking good,” she groans roughly.

You whimper at her words, body moving faster, more desperate, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter. You’re both so close, bodies trembling with the effort to keep going, to chase the high that you both desperately need.

“Paige,” you gasp, breathless and needy. “I’m almost there.”

Paige’s grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as she urges you on. “That’s it,” she encourages, your folds so slick against hers. “Cum for me again. Need it right fuckin’ now.”

You cry out, your entire body tensing as you reach your peak, hips grinding down hard against Paige as you finish with a shuddering moan. The pleasure washes over you in waves, leaving you trembling and breathless as you ride out your orgasm.

Paige isn’t far behind, the sight of you coming undone above her enough to push her over the edge. Her own orgasm hits her hard, her hips jerking up as she lets out a low, guttural moan, her fingers digging into your ass and hips as she rides it out.

You collapse onto her, your body melting into hers, every muscle in you soft and spent. Her skin is warm beneath yours, slick with the same thin sheen of sweat that glistens on your back. Paige’s chest rises and falls erratically under your cheek, her breath heavy and labored, matching your own. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat pounds faintly against your ear, grounding you.

Her arms come around you almost instinctively, wrapping you in a hold that’s firm yet gentle, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other lazily circling between your shoulder blades. Her fingers drag lightly over your skin, soothing and possessive at once, as though she’s trying to memorize every inch of you. She shifts slightly beneath you, her body fitting against yours with an intimacy that feels effortless, as though this is where you’re meant to be.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the soft, uneven breaths you’re both still trying to catch. Paige’s head tilts back against the pillows, her eyes fluttering shut as she lets the tension drain from her body, your weight on top of her a comfort she never realized she needed so much.

And then, with a low, raspy chuckle that vibrates through her chest, Paige breaks the silence. “Damn.”

The single word, said with so much raw awe and disbelief, makes you laugh. The sound is quiet, breathy, but it shakes through you, your shoulders trembling lightly against her. Paige feels the warmth of your laugh against her neck, and a lazy smile spreads across her face, her lips curving up in a way that makes her look soft, completely undone.

Her hand moves from your back, trailing slowly upward, the tips of her fingers grazing your spine before they find your jaw. She cradles it gently, guiding your face upward so your eyes meet hers. There’s something so special in the way she looks at you—like you’re the only thing that exists in her world right now. Her thumb brushes over your cheek, and then she’s leaning in, her lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow and lingering, deep and unhurried.

She hums softly into it, the sound vibrating against your mouth, and when she pulls back just enough to speak, her voice is low and rough. “Did so perfect for me,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning your face as if committing it to memory.

Your lips curve into a small, sleepy smile, and you let your head rest against her shoulder once more. “I love you,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

Paige’s arms tighten around you in response, her fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. She doesn’t say it back immediately, but the way she holds you—the way her lips press a gentle kiss to your temple—says it louder than words ever could.

The two of you stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the weight of the moment settling around you like a warm, comforting blanket. Paige’s breathing steadies, her chest rising and falling beneath you in a rhythm that feels calming, almost hypnotic. When she finally moves, it’s only to reach for the nightstand, her fingers curling around the bottle of wine that’s been sitting there, untouched until now.

She pours herself a glass first, then grabs yours, her hand steady as she offers it. “Here,” she says softly, her voice still husky.

You take the glass from her with a small smile, your fingers brushing hers, and Paige feels that familiar spark, that electric current that always seems to buzz between you. She watches you as you take a sip, the way your lips curl around the rim of the glass, the way your eyes meet hers over the edge of it.

After a few minutes, Paige sets her empty glass aside and leans over the edge of the bed, her hand brushing against the discarded lingerie top. She picks it up, holding it up in the dim light, letting it dangle from her fingers as she turns back to you with a lazy grin. “This,” she says, her tone playful but still thick with awe, “was crazy.”

You smile at her, wide and teasing, your head tilting slightly as you reply, “You loved it.”

Paige laughs softly, shaking her head as she leans down to kiss you again, her lips lingering against yours as she murmurs, “Course I did.” Her voice is warm, sincere, and when she pulls back, the grin on her face is so full of love it makes your chest tighten.

The two of you settle back into the bed, the wine forgotten on the nightstand as Paige tucks you against her side, her arm draped over your waist. The city hums softly in the background, but all Paige can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing, the steady rhythm of your heart against hers. And in this moment, with you curled against her, Paige thinks there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #uconn #wbb #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #wcbb x reader #wnba #wlw #wlw smut #lgbtq #christmas fic

1K notes · View notes

conelluwrites · 18 days ago

Note

I think about reader fucking up so bad, it makes Nam-gyu pause and re-evaluate his entire plan before deciding "I was going to leave with just a billion, but now? Now you're not leaving until we're the only two players left. You're going to split the prize money with me, and then I'm going to marry you."

Do whatever you want with this idea, I'm going to go pour one out for Nam-gyu's dead boyfriend and wonder how tf someone could threaten to marry you

You Shot Your Arrow Through Me

AO3 Link

Words: 3.5k

Requests open!

Warnings: Dark content (canon-typical Nam-gyu misogyny, violence, etc), manipulation, drug use, dry humping (dub con, public), forced kissing, special game doesn't happen, Nam-gyu has a VERY low opinion of reader, Thangyu isn't an explicit ship here but Nam-gyu does hallucinate his voice durign the fic so take that as you will, reader is pathetic (sorry for my strong girls, I projected a lil too close to the sun.)

Other: Longest fic i've done lessgooo. Mind was blank on how she could fuck up since she wouldn't be in the bathrooms for Thanos's death which was my first idea, so I just made it to where she voted to go home lol. Canon Nam-gyu I love you, you absolute bastard. I love the chance to write for more serious topics like this even if I usually just do cutesy type shit, so thank you for the opportunity, I hope it's kinda what you had in mind When I re-read it I feel like I didn't hit all the marks ( • ᴖ • ｡) My apologies if it's not exactly what you wanted.

When it comes to bad days, Nam-gyu has had his share of them. Between drug deals gone wrong, fights in the club, bad trips and wrong drugs at the wrong time, he could never get a break. It was always one thing after another, no slowing down- slowing down meant death and he wasn’t ready for that yet. When he got invited to these shitty games, he knew he had to take it. He needed the money; he needed a way out, or at least an illusion of a way out of his shitty life. Who could blame him? Certainly not any of the other players who seem to look down on him. They’re all the same pathetic type of garbage that he is. The bathroom was a murder scene, he wasn’t even in control of his own actions as he fought and stabbed and mocked. It was like he was just watching himself do it all, some astral projection shit. He could barely register the blood as it decorates his face, his clothing, his hands. When he’s done with the dumbshit on the ground, he stumbles over to Thanos. He doesn’t know how to feel when he sees him convulsing on the floor and gurgling on his own blood. Does it hurt? He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, not when he needs that cross around his bloodied, oozing neck. He grimaces when blood pulses out of his neck as he tugs on it to pull it off. Fucking sick, dude. Keep it to yourself. It’s slimy and wet when he puts it on, sticks to his skin in an uncomfortable manner. Makes his skin crawl. It feels like a hazy nightmare as Nam-gyu stumbles to his bunk. His breathing is hard and uneven, his movements stiff and uncomfortable. He practically hears the whispers of Thanos in his ear, taunting and goading him, calling him that stupid fucking name Nam-su. It eats him alive, makes him want to vomit, makes him want to peel his own skin off and replace it with steel. When she comes into his line of sight, he feels himself lurch forward on his bed and click his tongue like he’s calling a dog. The sudden movement and calling sound isn’t lost on her and she looks at him before looking down. That dumb cunt is really there fidgeting as she walks forward, it aggravates him. Can’t she think for herself, utterly pathetic. “Sit.” He orders, his voice rough. It cuts through the noise, at least in his own mind. The way her head jerks back up and she nods slightly before walking over to him makes him smirk. It’s a cruel, disgusting smirk that only exists for the sleaziest men to do. Perfect lil thing, too bad she’s as dumb as a fucking box of rocks.She sits obediently on the bunk, though she’s all hunched up like a damn shrimp. Makes him stick to his fucking stomach. What’s she got to be scared about huh? He doesn’t take into the account the blood all over him or the way he looks like a tweaker. Why should he take that into account? She’s obeying like a good lil pup despite it all anyway. Hell, this way she looks even weaker than that Min-su loser. When he’s satisfied with her, he gives her a sharp hit on the back and leans back against the wall behind the bed. She voted to go home, of course that cunt did. He couldn’t blame her, a poor thing like her expected to stay and mess up her pretty lil body for more money? It’s laughable, truly. Still ate him alive, made him wanna rip her limb from limb. She agreed to vote O, so why did she think she could get away with that dumb shit?! Must have thought that there were more pussies left over from the last game. Too bad, so sad, she didn’t get to go home. Now she’s stuck here with him. It’s not like she has other options, nah… She wouldn’t rely on that pussy Min-su and by now the players all had their own little groups.

Hey, Nam-su

He grunts, there’s his annoying ass voice again. Smug bastard disturbing him even in the afterlife. Fuck, is he even dead yet or still twitching in the bathroom like some bug. I know you can hear me. He feels himself sweat even more. He wants to tell him to shut up, that his name isn’t fucking Nam-su, but he doesn’t. It barely did any good to say shit when he was alive. Talking to a ghost in front of a bitch, well that’s not a good look at all. He runs his hand over his face, shaking his head. Disgusting.

It’s hard for her to even look at Nam-gyu, he looks like shit. Smells like it too- sweat and blood cling to him like a tight fitting glove. Not to mention the red X on her jacket sticks out like a sore thumb against her green tracksuit, it makes her feel self conscious as he sits staring off into space and murmurs to himself. The room, much emptier than when the games begin, feels like it’s closing in on her. She’s barely even able to process the way Nam-gyu acts, her hands tremble as she busies herself with the bottom of her tracksuit jacket. It’s bloodied, but the blood has long since dried to where it doesn’t rub off of her hands. “Face me.” His voice comes out trembling, making her look up. Her heart is pounding so damn hard that it aches. She obeys, of course she does, moving to where he can see her better. She looks terrified, it’s so damn cute. The way she looks like some lost, scared child. It’s almost enough to calm down the incessant Nam-su, can you hear me, Nam-su ringing in his ears. “Nam-gyu,” she whispers, her voice cracking. She knows she needs to ask for forgiveness, to come up with some excuse, some- some reason he could possibly give. She hit the wrong button? It was just an accident? It was- it was- it was-

“Keep those eyes on me. Stop looking around like you're so damn nervous, it’s annoying.”

“Sorry.” It sounds so weak and small.

“Worthless apology. Keep it to yourself.”

She has to bite back another apology.

His hands tremble as he pops open the cross in his hands. He’s getting real sick of this shit, the way she looks, the way she sounds, the way Thanos’ voice still rings out in that annoyingly happy cadence. He needs something, anything to numb the pain and he isn’t about to pump his limp dick in some whore like her for temporary relief. He takes one pill in his mouth. It’s disgustingly sweet, overwhelming sweet as it explodes over his tongue. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and then open again, wide and wild as he looks at her. The way her eyes glance down to his lips as he licks them before darting back up. It’s enough to make his chest clench in a twisted way. Another pill, he needs another one. He can’t afford to be feeling like a pussy over such a dumb cunt. It’s even sweeter this time, it makes him close his eyes tight for a second and then they’re wide open again. They don’t take a long time to work, thank fucking Chirst for that. He can’t imagine it taking a normal time to kick in. “You don’t need to do that.” She warns, it comes out without her even thinking. She doesn’t want to feel responsible for him if he overdoses and starts seizing next to her. He grumbles something under his breath, definitely something derogatory- definitely something that doesn’t need to be said.

The world ignites in more vivid colors, though within the confines of the walls it really only makes the green of the jumpsuits stand out even more starkly against the gray walls. The red of her velcro badge sticks out even more though, drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. Her tugs on it, then his thumb brushes over the patch. Fuck, it feels good agaisnt his digit. All soft and shit. He licks his dry lips again, patting her shoulder. Hah, shit, guess he really is becoming a pussy over this whore. The way she looks at them with those concerned eyes, her fingers curling up tight in her sleeves, and of course her lips… He wonders what it’d feel like to push his against her, he wouldn’t care if she kissed back or not but he imagines she would feel like velvet even if he smashed his against her so hard that it hurt her. Fuck, he imagines what kinda pretty noises she’d make, if she’s grab onto him tightly or struggle to push him away. He’s so far in his simple thoughts that it makes her concerned.

“Hey, you okay?” She stammers out, leaning in to press a wrist over his forehead. Fuck he’s so sweaty, but at least his eyes follow her movements so he’s okay enough, he’s not so out of it that he’s impossible.

“Yeah, I’m good. Real good.” He gives her a smile he thinks is charming. She gives him a nod, she remembers when he and Thanos were discussing what kind of shit he’s done so surely a couple pills won’t kill him. She’s just on edge, as much as she wants to go home she knows that she can’t lose the last strong person on her team. Sure, she can go to Min-su, he wouldn’t turn her away at least, but if the next game was a team game relying on strength then they’d be a bit screwed.

She’s jerked from her thoughts as he suddenly cups her face. She grimaces at the feeling, his sticky, bloodied hand leaving a mark on her delicate skin. She flinches away, but he just holds her cheeks harder. His short nails dig slightly into her soft cheeks. “You’re not going anywhere, right now you’re mine. Let me see your pretty face.” Let me remind myself what it’s like to feel alive.

I want to spend the rest of my life with this piece of work. Make her my bitch forever, make her permanently tied to me. I don’t love this whore, I could never. Just want her to remember every day of her life that she’s stuck with me- a constant reminder of this hell. I bet she’d love the hell out of that, waking up every day with a reminder of the blood on her hands from voting correctly up to this point. What a way to get married, huh? What a perfect goddamn reason to wife someone up.

Make sure she wakes up every day to see my face, maybe even get some of that dumb fake blood to decorate my face just like this. Fuck, imagine the look on her face- it’d be so damn perfect. She’d never be able to escape the reality we’ve faced. The reality we’ve faced together, the reality we’ve forged with simple votes. Remind her dumbass every day of the people we knew, maybe even dye my hair goddamn purple. Wouldn’t that be sweet? I bet I could even paint a pretty, vivid picture of his damn corpse, tell her all about the gurgles and sputtering coughs. Maybe instead of a ring I could just have her wear his damn necklace.

I wonder if she’d even put up a fight or just accept it right out, no questions asked like some good little bitch. She’d probably look at me with those dumb confused eyes and wonder what the hell’s gotten into me, thinking it’s just the drug talking when this is far better than some singular trip or a thought I’d only have while I’m high.

He doesn’t say anything audibly, he just stares at her like a freak as if he thinks she can read his mind. His pupils are blown so wide, his lips parted slightly and his breath coming out in pants. His mind is racing so fast he can hardly finish one thought before another takes its place. He knows he’s scaring her, the way she bites her bottom lip and looks frantically over his face while taking in every microexpression he makes.

“Stop looking at me like that, it makes you look ridiculous.” He says, rolling his eyes but his words don’t sound venomous in the slightest. He’s too high for that shit, it’s a wonder how he could even get the words out without slurring them so bad it was incomprehensible. “Right, sorry.”

“Again with the pointless apologies. Don’t you ever get tired with that bullshit?” “No.” A simple response, but it’s the honest one. Apologies spill from her lips like a robot at this point whenever someone expresses even the slightest displeasure with her.

He can’t formulate a response that makes sense even to him, what is he supposed to say- No, no, you’re supposed to say ‘yes’ so I can keep seeing those pretty little lips of yours moving.

Her lips, her lips, her lips. They’re so damn kissable, part of him wants to slip one of those lil pills that make him feel so damn good but he’s already taken two… He’s gotta be smart about rationing the rest of the pills if he’s gonna make it through the games without losing his damn mind. He doesn’t even notice he’s leaning in until she pushes against his shoulders slightly. Goddamn his vision is hazy, she must be an angel of some kind surely to not slap him across the face. C’mon, some druggie trying to kiss on someone who’s visibly uncomfortable- get a damn hold of yourself. “Don’t push me away.” He commands, his voice sharper than intended. It makes her curl her fingers into his tracksuit jacket, her swallowing audible. Good girl, real good. How cute of her. He could get real used to this. “Just let me kiss you, just once.” He grunts, leaning in again. He watches as her cute lil eyes clench up tightly like she can will herself to be anywhere else, it’d be cute if it weren’t so fucking pathetic. “Just like that…” he whispers, then his lips touch hers. He imagines it’d be powerful even without the drugs running wildly through his system like electricity rapidly zapping around. But with the drugs? Oh shit- with the drugs- it’s so intense it makes him gasp like some loser pussy. Sure, she’s far from the first person he’s kissed while on some dumb shit, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a kiss like this. Her lips aren’t pliable, far from it, but it still feels good enough that it makes his heart race. He presses his lips harder to hers as if it’ll make her kiss him back or relax her lips. He growls from the back of his throat, his hands moving to cup the back of her head. His lips move demandingly against hers until she loosens up more. Man, when she loosens up? It opens a whole new world for him to explore. His tongue feels disconnected from his mouth as it moves into her mouth. She’s delicious, he figures that’s gotta be an objective fact. Her resistance, her fear, her everything- it’s perfect. He tries to goad her tongue into moving with his, but he doesn’t care at the end of the day if he’s the only one actively kissing. He wants more- needs more, needs to feel that body of hers moving against his more. He wants to feel her on his lap, wants to feel those fingers curling up into his greasy, sweaty hair. He can’t calm himself down, not after those thoughts start. When they start, they don’t stop. Her riding him, the way her whiny little moans would fill the room full of these damn cockroaches. Showing everyone that she’s his in the best way possible, a way that she would be unable to take back. He knows she’d never agree to something like that and he’d never be able to get away with it, not here. She’s also stupid, but not stupid enough to come with him to the bathroom. Sure, he could threaten her, but he wants her to want him too. The second best thing makes his skin crawl, he’s not some fucking teenager anymore, but it would be better than nothing. “Not so bad, huh?” He pulls away after a moment, his lips turned up in some sort of a bastardized grin. He could eat her up, really. Mark up that pretty skin of hers.

“...” She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. She looks disgusted, angry even, but doesn’t say shit. “Tell you what, girl, why do you sit your pretty lil self down on my lap, hm?” He pats his lap invitingly, nodding down to his legs. “C’mon. Let’s talk.” He purrs, though it’s not nearly as charming as he believes it is. She knows he won’t give up and if she tries to stand up and go anywhere else he’ll just tug her back down on the bed. She relents after he nods his head again, rolling her eyes and climbing onto his lap. He lets out a low groan, adjusting her so she’s straddling him rather than sitting sideways. “Good, good, just like that.” His erection is obnoxiously apparent, he knows she has to be able to feel it against her ass as he stares up at her. She’s the prettiest damn thing he’s seen he decides in that moment. The way she looks into his eyes, her hands twitching and hesitating in the way before her hands settle on his shoulders. One of his hands rests on her hip while the other cups her cheek. It’s some cruel mockery of affection, one that makes her blood run cold. “Gonna move you ‘round now, ‘kay? Don’t draw attention to us.” With that, he begins to slowly rock his hips up. It’s not enough to be visible to anyone unless they’re watching the pair closely, but it’s enough for Nam-gyu’s sensitive cock to jerk and twitch. He won’t last long, the drugs making his sensitive cock even more sensitive. Each movement makes him leak in his underwear. It’s damn embarrassing but he doesn’t have time to care, not when she makes a cute lil gasp.

“Nam-gyu…” She doesn’t explicitly tell him to stop, which is enough for him to wrap his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck, and inhale deeply. Her scent is marred by the sweat that is on everyone’s skin, but it’s still so… so her. “Shh. Don’t talk, just let me do this.” Slow, slow, slow, he can’t move too fast and risk her getting so uncomfortable that she starts to fight back or make more noise. He just needs to rut enough to come, he can go to the bathroom afterwards and clean himself up- surely the corpses that litter than damned floor have been cleaned out by now. He grunts, biting into her shirt. All he can think about is how good her panty clad ass would feel against his bare cock, he doesn’t even care about fucking into her at this point, he just wants to feel her skin against his. He knows it's not possible, not yet, but fuck when they’re the final two and they vote to leave and make it out with all that fucking money? He’s gonna celebrate by feeling all of her. He ruts against her harder, he’s close… so, so, so fucking close. “Say my name.” “Wha-?”

“Say. My. Name.” It’s almost hard to understand him with the way he’s biting her shirt and growling silently.

“Nam-gyu?”

There it is, he nods. He wants to hear it again and again and again for the rest of his damn life.

“Nam-gyu.”

Ah- she repeats it, this time without that stupid fucking confused intonation. He buries his face harder against her shoulder and grips her harder. “Again.”

“Nam-gyu. Nam-gyu… Do it for me.”

Fuck, her voice is so breathless and needy. He loves it. He can’t hold back, not when she sounds like that. A low, gurgled groan leaves him as his cock pulses and pumps out spurts of cum. He can feel it spreading through his boxers and to the front of those stupid tracksuit pants. “Yes, for you, for my fuckin’ girl.”

His legs tremble slightly as he comes down from his high, hips languidly rolling up to get him through his high until he’s fully spent. It feels beautiful. It’s perfection, really, heavenly even. It’s a spiritual experience. A few moments pass, “Gonna make you marry me, baby doll. Gonna be just us at the end of this shitshow. Split the money, start a new life, it’ll be perfect.”

#nam gyu x reader #nam gyu #squid game #squid game x reader #fic request

313 notes · View notes

nicksolemnlyswears · 4 months ago

Text

FORGED UNDER FIRE

THE UNPLEASANTRIES OF A SURPRISE

blurb: the sorrengail siblings reunite...what starts as a joyous surprise turns into an unpleasant moment as the realization of what brennan did sinks in

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: nothing crazy, some violence and cursing, iron flame spoilers

a/n: hello, hello! sorry it took me a couple weeks to update, i've been studying for an exam and i was also catching up with some of my other writing. i had a long fic to update and a marcus acacius oneshot to write for a challenge but that is done!

i'm back and i hope you enjoy this part of forged under fire. it's not that long but it captures the essence of what needs to be said. you can now find a more detailed masterlist of this series on my main masterlist under fourth wing!

enjoy and let me know what you think at the end!

At the mention of a riot, Brennan sprung into action, calling out orders to the cadets under his care and the guards under his command. He knew the time would come when the Navarrians would find them, but he didn't expect it to be so soon.

Brennan curses when Violet speeds past him, running towards the courtyard and calling her dragon. He wishes to follow, but he has a protocol and orders to give. If it were up to him, he'd be following her and calling Marbh to meet him in the courtyard ready to battle.

"It is not a riot. More are coming to join us, forty of them. Teine leads them," Marbh tells him through his link.

"Mira?" Brennan whispers, the corner of his lips turning into a smile. The arrival of his sister is a welcomed surprise.

With a string of new orders and the reassurance they won't go into battle any time soon, he follows after Violet. He's excited to see Mira, his younger sister who he shared a childhood with. At one point, she was his best friend.

The two bickered more than acceptable, but it was part of their dynamic. At the end of the day, Mira and Brennan were each other's biggest supporters.

Brennan smiles when he steps outside, spotting his sisters together. He hurries down the steps, eager to join them and have a proper family reunion.

Teine has put a considerable amount between him and Tairn, considering the bigger dragon had his jaw around his neck not long ago.

Mira falters at the sight of Brennan. Her face pales as her brother, who was supposed to be dead, gets closer. The image of him is clearer and clearer. The sleep deprivation must be getting to her because it simply can't be him.

"Hey, Mira," he says as he approaches, preparing to give Mira the biggest hug.

His voice just about confirms his status as alive and breathing. Her older brother is alive. Her partner in crime.

Deep inside, she's elated that he's alive, that she didn't lose him, but there are layers of anger and resentment to sort through. He's alive, but at what cost?

Memories of her grieving and burning his belongings flash through her mind. Her mother's distance, her father's death, her sister-in-law's suffering, and her nephew growing up without a father figure. They all dealt with his death while he was hiding.

Without much thought, she allows that anger to flow straight through her as she lifts her fist and swings. A satisfying crunch and blood pouring from Brennan's nose lets her know she hit true. It's not the first time she's broken his nose, and it certainly won't be the last.

Violet guides them inside in a flurry, shooting orders left and right. Brennan clutches his nose with a handkerchief as blood pours down his face while Mira glares at him and everyone who tries to touch her.

Once they are alone, an argument ensues between the three siblings. Different questions arise about Brennan faking his death, the rebellion Violet is seemingly leading and their status as family. Violet may have forgiven Brennan, but his betrayal is too fresh for Mira.

It is chaotic and messy, but it describes the Sorrengails perfectly.

Xaden joins them in the office, watching amusedly at how they argue. Perhaps it's for the best he doesn't have siblings. The resemblance between them can be seen perfectly in how their mannerisms overlap and mimic each other.

The room turns quiet at Violet's order. The siblings all stare at each other. Mira ignores the fact that Violet has more guts than she used to. They've changed so much over the years, yet they are the same.

"How is she?" Brennan breaks the silence to ask about his wife. The last time Violet was here, he didn't get the chance. They were in and out in a hurry.

Not a day goes by when he doesn't think about you. Leaving you is his biggest regret. Your relationship was a pillar that kept him strong for so long. You often discredited yourself by thinking you needed him more than he needed you. You were wrong. Brennan needed you just as much.

The moment his signet manifested he stopped being Brennan. All they saw were his healing abilities and how they could use him in their battles. He loves his signet, but it felt dehumanizing when all they saw was a tool.

Except you always saw him as Brennan. You never asked to be healed by him. You’d rather bandage your injuries and deal with the pain. He never let you. If there’s anyone he’ll heal without protest, it’ll be his family.

"Who?" Mira asks, crossing her arms and raising a judgemental eyebrow at him. She knows exactly who he's asking about.

Brennan rolls his eyes, "My wife. How is she?" He asks directly at Violet this time. Reasoning with Mira will be impossible when she's in a mood.

Violet's expression softens, but before she can answer, Mira interjects, "Your wife? You don't have a wife, do you, Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh? Brennan Sorrengail had a wife, but he's dead."

Mira sneers at Brennan her anger eating at her fervently. She doesn't understand how Violet forgave him so easily. Doesn't she realize the gravity of what their brother has done?

"Mira, come on! Enough of this." Brennan pleads, driving his hand through his hair. A sign he's stressed out by the situation.

There were so many times he wanted to reach out to his family. To tell them he was alive and well and that he missed them. It was not realistic when telling them would've endangered them further.

Navarre doesn't want its citizens to know about the venin and what's going on outside the borders. Telling them could've led them to be charged with treason. That is, if Lilith Sorrengail admitted to the information she kept secret.

"You really want to know? Fine, she's dead, Brennan!" Mira exclaims, giving her back to him.

"What?" Brennan pales and falls back on his seat, burying his head in his palms. It can't be. You can't be dead. His heart pounds in his chest at Mira's words, the world spinning around him. The one thing he always counted on was you outliving him by staying safe within Navarre's wards.

"Dead to you! You lost the right to know when you faked your death," Mira says, spinning back around to stare accusingly at him. Maybe that will give him some idea of how they felt when he faked his death.

Violet and Xaden stare at the pair with wide eyes. That was cruel even for Mira.

"Fucks sake, if you think leaving her, leaving any of you, was easy, then you're wrong. I know you're upset, but I had to do this. I couldn't ignore the threats outside of Navarre. Threats our parents were hiding," Brennan shouts back, his chair tumbling to the ground as he stands.

His face matches Mira's as they glare at each other and share the same flushed complexion. It reminds Violet of the good old days when they'd argue about the smallest things.

"You didn't stop to think about me or Violet? You were my brother Brennan, my best friend!" Mira yells, pointing at him accusingly, "And then you try to hug me like everything is okay? This is all levels of fucked up."

Brennan sighs in defeat. "I really am sorry."

Mira looks down and says, "You didn't just leave us. You made us believe you were dead and that we'd never see you again. We mourned you: Dad, Mom, Violet, your wife, and the worst part of it all is--"

She almost told Brennan about his son but couldn't tell him. Mira can't bring herself to tell him about the best thing that happened to their family since he 'died.' It's not her call, and it's not like he deserves to know, either. He gave up that right when he chose to fake his death.

Brennan waits for her to finish her sentence, expecting a string of words to pour more salt into the wound.

"You don't really realize everything you've given up," Mira says ominously, standing across from her brother, no longer pointing fingers or looking to argue. Mira is tired. It's been a long day.

"Will you hate me forever?" Brennan asks her.

Mira smiles sadly, "I don't hate you, Brennan. I love you, but this hurt more than you can imagine."

Brennan opens his mouth to apologize once more, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, a word?" One of the Aretian soldiers asks. Brennan nods, telling him to wait outside.

"I hope you know I really am sorry. I hope we can work through this because I missed my best friend." With that, he steps outside the room, Xaden following him.

Brennan is sorry, but he doesn't regret it. It was a sacrifice he had to make. He's hopeful Mira will come around and understand his intentions were good.

"You didn't tell him," Violet speaks softly, glancing at the closed door.

"Neither did you," Mira rolls her eyes, leaning back against a desk, "Not like it matters, he'll find out very soon."

"What do you mean?" Violet asks instantly.

"Because she's coming here," Mira says, playing with a paperweight, "Mom convinced her it's for the best, but she had to go get Benny before coming."

Lilith Sorrengail gave the riders a choice. They could stay in Navarre or join the rebellion. You chose to stay with her, not because you believed in Navarre but because you owed Lilith a lot. She deserved to have someone in her corner. So, it came as a surprise when she insisted on you joining Mira.

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"I'm not worried about Brennan. I'm worried she'll lose her shit and make Calliss eat Brennan," Mira responds with a smile at the imagery she's made up in her head.

"He'd deserve it," Violet laughs, knowing Calliss won't eat Brennan. "On the bright side, I'm excited to see the little bugger."

Little Bennett and Violet share a close relationship. Violet looked after him constantly, and Benny became attached to his aunt. She missed him most when she left for Basgiath.

"You can't be his favorite forever," Mira chimes, determined to take the title from her sister.

Violet laughs, and Mira joins her. It's crazy to think their family will be together soon. That is, if you don't murder Brennan first.

oop were getting closer to readers reunion with brennan! ain't that exciting! for the next one i think i'm bringing it back to when brennan and reader were in basgiath. i want to talk a bit about her signet so yes!

let me know in the comments or in my asks if there's a specific bit between them you'd like to see! i don't know if this is dragging for you guys, i personally love it but if you'd like me to just write them meeting up then let me know too.

tag list (if you'd like to added to future parts let me know!) : @berry-marys @cherubinn7 @ladynyx91 @kylaisra @detectivehailey @liahaslosthermind @thebreadisthetruevillian @bbkissme99 @honethatty12 @sunny1616 @akshstudios @yadirrez @xoxomoonlightbabe @jaynawayna @littlepippilongstocking @itsmytimetoodream @honethatty12 @poseidont @lveegsoi @cheappremingerfromdelululand @tattee-18 @bxm-2121 @hannahjsworld @holb32 @hannah-schooler

#fanfiction #nicksolemnlyswears #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #forged under fire #fourth wing #iron flame #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail #violet sorrengail #mira sorrengail #xaden riorson #onyx storm #fanfic #oneshot

405 notes · View notes

weemssapphic · 20 days ago

Note

Witch reader who has the gift of seeing ghosts. Some spirits whoa re particularly stubborn dont pass on like theyre supposed to. Most of the time she ignores them becuse they're still freaking out over dying and... Well dealing with hysterical people all day would be awful. She starts her new job at nevermore (teacher or soemthing idk) and while meeting the new principle in her office she sees the old one. Leant agaisnt the desk rolling her eyes and commenting on everything the new lady is doing wrong. She accidentily laughs a few times and manages to play it off, unfortunatley Larissa is sure that reader can see her and takes it upon herself to annoy her until she acknowlages her.

Oh god hello, bet you don't even remember sending this request 😅 but I really loved it and wanted to write it even if it has been a while so here you go, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Falling Behind

Words: ~2.1k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: Larissa is dead/a ghost but it's a silly little fic I promise, also lots of flirting

Knock, knock.

You rap your hand twice against the smooth oak of the door to the principal’s office. A ball of nerves tangles in your belly but you do your best to ignore it — you got the job, after all, and you’ve already technically ‘met’ the principal a few times via phone call. You’re just here to go over some of the details of the job before your official start date on Monday — standard procedure, nothing to be anxious about. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door and you try, subtly, to wipe the sweat from your palms on the back of your coat, which is already damp from the rain outside.

“Ah, hello, come in, come in. Welcome to Nevermore,” Principal Porter says as she swings the door open, giving you an easy smile and reaching out to shake your hand before stepping back and allowing you to step into the office. “Let me take your coat — it’s pouring outside, I hope the drive up here wasn’t too difficult. Would you like some tea?”

You smile gratefully as you step into the office and shrug off your coat. “Uh, no, thank you though.”

Your attention is momentarily diverted by a tall, blonde woman in a modest, cream-colored dress and kitten heels, perched at the edge of the principal’s desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s frowning at your feet. “What’s the use in oiling the floors if everyone is just going to track mud throughout the school?” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, but you glance at your feet and find that, indeed, you’ve got a trail of dirt behind you, likely from walking up Nevermore’s gravelly drive. Your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeak out, glancing pleadingly at the blonde as you subtly shuffle around, as if that will help.

“Sorry for what, dear?” Principal Porter asks — you frown in confusion. She’s smiling at you kindly, paying absolutely no mind to the woman perched on her desk, as if she hadn’t even heard her at all.

“For, uh… for tracking all this dirt in.” You glance sheepishly at the blonde, who looks absolutely perplexed as she stares at you.

“Nonsense, dear, it’ll be easy to clean.” Principal Porter waves away your apology. “Please, have a seat at my desk. Excuse the mess, as you might remember from our calls this is my first semester here as well and I’m still getting sorted.”

You nod politely, shooting a furtive glance at the other woman, whose presence is all but ignored by Principal Porter. You remember what you’d read about the school’s former principal — the first one in Nevermore’s long and fascinating history to be murdered on school grounds. Apparently, finding a replacement after that incident had been rather difficult.

The office is indeed still somewhat bare, the walls lined with half-unpacked boxes of paintings, trinkets, office supplies. The only furniture in the room is a rather modern looking desk with a glass top, a grey, ergonomic office chair on one side and a rather plain chair on the other side, and a somewhat uncomfortable-looking chaise longue in front of the fireplace. There’s a white filing cabinet behind the desk which has definitely seen better days. Principal Porter reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a manila folder, before taking a seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

Rummaging around in your bag, you prepare yourself by pulling out some signed paperwork that you’d been sent.

“Oh, thank you,” Principal Porter says as you hand her the paperwork, taking a moment to leaf through it. “Now… where was that form regarding staff housing…” she mumbles — the woman perched beside her rolls her eyes and lets out a huff.

“You’ve flicked past it twice,” she deadpans, clearly annoyed, and you suppress a chuckle. But Principal Porter doesn’t react and your suppressed smile turns into a frown. Who the fuck is this woman and why is Principal Porter acting like she’s not - oh. It finally dawns on you, and you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece it together.

The woman perched at the edge of the principal’s desk isn’t ‘real’ in the most accepted sense of the word — she’s a ghost. As a child, you learned early on that your special ability was seeing and communicating with the dearly departed. A week after your grandfather’s funeral, your mother found you, then only five years old, sitting at the kitchen table talking to yourself about something you’d drawn — though you recall your grandfather sitting beside you clear as day.

It wasn’t until you got older that you were able to tell ghosts apart from their living counterparts more clearly, though on rare occasions you still found it a bit tricky as they appeared to you as solid, corporeal beings. It was usually the more stubborn spirits that got stuck in the mortal world, unable to fully pass on into the afterlife, and (as the mortal world was a sort of hell for most spirits) those who did get stuck here were usually in a full-blown panic. Easy to identify.

Unless you were actively involved in helping a spirit pass on, you tended to ignore them as you went about your day — it was easier that way because, usually, as soon as they realized you could see them, they would not leave you alone. And this one — the tall, statuesque blonde leant over Principal Porter’s head — has clearly realized that not only can you see and hear her, but you also seem to find her a bit funny, and she’s eyeing you with great interest.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way the woman’s eyes burn into your skull.

“Ah, here it is!” Principal Porter exclaims, abruptly bringing your attention back to the meeting as she stuffs your forms into the back of the envelope, pulls out another piece of paper and slides it towards you. “I’ve already sent this to your email last week but just in case, here’s a copy of your class schedule for this semester. You’ve got two planning periods, here,” she points to a space on Wednesday morning, “and here,” she points to a space on Thursday afternoon — the woman perched on her desk interrupts her.

“I’m sure the woman is old enough to read,” she snarks, and you let out a little snort.

“Pardon?” Principal Porter’s brows knit together in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You frown. Your eyes dart to the other woman, but you quickly look away and shake your head, missing the smirk that forms on her face. “No, I’m sorry, everything’s alright.”

Unfazed, the principal continues with a shrug, explaining to you how office hours work at Nevermore, and you nod along politely.

You find it hard to keep your eyes off the blonde, especially when she seems to get bored of Principal Porter droning on about your classes and decides to stand up and pace the length of the office, her heels loud against the hardwood floors.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“We have a small but reliable pool of substitute teachers, so if you–”

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It’s damn near impossible to focus on a word that’s being said, almost all of your attention is on the rhythmic clicks of the woman’s kitten heels, and you’re starting to wonder if she’s trying to distract you on purpose. You can feel her presence behind you, the back and forth, the way the air stirs with her every step, all unbeknownst to your new boss.

“I’m afraid we’ve had to up the class sizes for our sorcery class this year, and you’ll have 35 students–”

You don’t catch the rest of the principal’s statement because the other woman has let out a loud sigh and started to complain. “Why don’t you tell her why–”

“... due to a shortage of staff…”

“Due to complete and utter mismanagement by the school board!” The woman rounds the desk again, coming into view.

Something about her irritation is endearing to you and your cheeks twitch as you hold back a smirk — rather unsuccessfully, as you can feel her eyes on you again.

“So you can see me,” she says, and you know without looking at her that she’s talking to you — you open your mouth to answer, then snap it shut again when you remember that, though you can see and hear her, the principal can’t.

“You should tell Principal Porter,” the woman starts, the title spilling from her lips as though it's poison, “that her administrative skills leave as much to be desired as her taste in interior design.”

You let out a shocked laugh and Principal Porter wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

You nod, stutter out another apology, and spend the rest of the meeting trying to tune out the woman’s comments.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about half an hour, you finally leave Principal Porter’s office with the keys to your new quarters in hand, insisting you’re fine to go check them out by yourself. You navigate the halls of the school, following the instructions your new boss had given you to get to the staff wing, and let yourself into your new living space for the school year.

Your quarters are spacious but homey, and beautifully quiet after the last half hour of splitting your attention between two people, and you lean back against the door after closing it behind you, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to Nevermore,” an oddly familiar voice purrs, and your eyes snap open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You don’t miss the way the blonde’s lips curl into a smirk at your statement. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

She ignores your question. “Your application didn’t say that necromancy is your specialty.” Her voice is smooth like velvet and she’s batting her lashes at you, her eyes raking down your form. She’s incredibly alluring — even in death. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a necromancer on staff, it’s a pity, really, such a useful ability, don’t you think?”

“It’s a bit annoying, actually,” you retort with a frown, trying to piece together who the fuck this woman is. ‘We’ve’ never had a necromancer on staff…?

“I’ve been called many things but I think this may be the first time I’ve been called ‘annoying’, my dear.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, her voice is still sweet as honey and she takes a step towards you, towering over you.

“You’re… who are you?”

“Forgive me, it seems I haven’t formally introduced myself.” She stretches a hand out towards you — pale skin, perfectly manicured red fingernails adorning long, slender fingers, a heavy gold bracelet around her delicate wrist. “Larissa Weems.”

Larissa Weems. Weems…

Ah. It finally clicks for you, you’ve read that name before.

“You’re Nevermore’s former principal. The one who…” Your voice trails off, you feel a bit insensitive, but Larissa doesn’t seem bothered. She smirks.

“Died? Yes.”

You shake her hand. It’s cold, but it’s solid.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say it because you feel like you should, because you don’t know what else to say.

“The pleasure is all mine.” The way she says pleasure makes your mouth go dry.

“I couldn’t help but look over your resume,” she continues. “Quite an impressive background. I would have hired you, too.” Her voice drops an octave and her gaze travels down your body and your stomach does a backflip.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling your face grow warm in spite of yourself.

“I heard your voice during one of your interviews, the phone was on speaker. I thought you’d be beautiful, but it seems my expectations have been exceeded.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Larissa chuckles, her smirk widening. “Would that be so bad?” You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not.

“You’re dead.”

“And so bored, darling,” she drawls, making her way along the perimeter of your room, trailing her fingertips along the dresser against the wall, perching at the edge of the bed once she reaches it. She crosses her legs, those long legs, her skirt riding up a little, and gives you another once-over that sends a spark up your spine. “I have to admit it’s been a bit lonely these past few months… you’re the first person who’s been able to see me, you know.”

She’s dead. A ghost. She’s not ‘real’. You try to tell yourself that, but the trouble is that to you, she is real. She’s as real as anyone else and she’s sitting on your bed, giving you a look that makes you want to bury your head between her thighs.

“Am I?” you ask, your heart in your throat as you take a step towards her — you can’t help yourself, she’s magnetic. She nods and blinks slowly, as if she has you right where she wants you, and maybe this is wrong but you don’t quite have it in you to care.

She’s as real to you as anyone else, dead or alive, it’s all the same to you.

You cross the room to her.

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

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen Join my taglist here!

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #principal weems #principal weems x reader

221 notes · View notes

lemonlover1110 · 25 days ago

Text

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲

Zayne

[Chapter 5] Reservation

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist

Pairing: Zayne x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Tonight is your night off from everything and everyone. For the first time in what feels like a million years, you’re able to go out without a worry in the world. Greyson takes care of your two-year-old, ensuring that you have no worries for the night.

Instead of going out with friends and having fun, you choose to treat yourself to a meal. Except that the ideal place for dinner is packed, and you don’t have a reservation. They tell you that you have the option to wait until a spot opens up, or make a reservation for another day; except, you don’t have another day. Another day you have to work or watch over Jade, you don’t know the next time you’ll have time off.

Just one hour. If you don’t get a table by 8, you’ll leave the premises and opt for a cheaper dinner. You’re willing to be patient, after all, you’re used to it. That’s what being a parent is all about.

7:03 PM.

You sit outside the restaurant, scrolling through your phone when you notice your phone is about to die. You decide to turn it off, not wanting to go back to your car to charge it. You might need it for an emergency, you never know with Jade these days.

You’re forced to look around you, watching as people step into the restaurant. It’s mostly couples who wear their best outfits. Their arms are linked together, and they give each other their best smile. It’s like that with damn near every couple that walks by, and you feel the jealousy bubble in your stomach.

You start looking down at your shoes, having nowhere else to look.

7:15 PM.

You feel a cold drop of water land on your arm, and you sigh. The car is parked too far away for you to run back there and camp out. If you go to your car, you’ll end up leaving. Maybe it’ll be a drizzle and nothing more, you can wait out.

It’s not like a little bit of water will get you sick. You live with a two-year-old, you’re already constantly ill. You’re not made of sugar, you can handle a bit of water. You just have to hope that the water stops soon and that it doesn’t get worse.

If anything, that was your brain playing tricks on you. It’s not going to rain.

7:22 PM.

Your hope vanishes quickly, and it begins to pour. You stand in the entrance of the restaurant, soaking wet after not being able to hold on any longer. The moment the droplet fell, it began to pour down on you. You’re a complete mess right now, anyone that walks inside can see that.

The moment the rain dies down, you’ll go to your car and call it a night. You’ll get home and take a relaxing bubble bath, a weak attempt to forget this all. Who were you even kidding? You’re a mom, a place like this isn't your style anymore, whether you like it or not. Even when Jade isn’t with you.

You try to look at your phone, only to realize it’s dead. That’s your sign to head back to your car and go home.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but we won’t be able to accommodate you tonight. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” The hostess walks over to you, clearly lying through her teeth. You’re just making the floors slippery, of course she wants you out. There must be a dozen reservations canceled due to the rain. And yet you don’t have the guts to call her out on it.

“She’s with me.” An all too familiar voice says, your ears perking up. You turn to look at him, Zayne in the flesh. He wears a gray turtleneck with black slacks, looking as handsome as ever; it seems that he had the day off, or at least left the hospital early since this isn’t his usual working outfit.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” The hostess asks, and Zayne gives a subtle nod. You watch as Zayne follows the hostess to confirm the reservation before looking down at your soaking wet clothes. It’s best if you leave, you aren’t ready for the occasion anymore. Moreso, you aren’t ready to have dinner with Zayne, all on your own.

“Let’s go.” Zayne walks back to your side before you can take the initiative to move. You stare at him for a second, wondering if you’re really willing to pass up on this opportunity because you refuse to have an awkward dinner.

“Thank you.” You end up sheepishly smiling at him before walking alongside him to the table. You’re willing to have that awkward dinner. In all honesty, you’re willing to do anything as long as there isn’t someone throwing their peas around during dinner.

You sit down across from him, quickly handed a menu. You feel your chest heavy, words caught up in your throat as you stare at him. He’s reading the menu, deciding what he should get. You should do the same, but you can’t help it.

“Thank you.” You speak, and he raises his brows. He tears his eyes off the menu and looks at you. Before he can say anything, you speak again, “You didn’t have to.”

He hums in response. You can tell dinner is going to be awkward with no amount of small talk– You’re determined to change that. You came here to enjoy a meal, and you’ll enjoy it one way or the other.

“I’ll go to the bathroom real quick to…” You stand up, looking down at the clothes. You let out a chuckle before finishing your sentence. “Try to dry off.”

Again, he hums. Not a single word comes from his lips as you walk to the bathroom. You get to the bathroom, and when you notice it’s empty, you lock the door behind you and take off your blouse, holding it under the hand drier.

“Hurry, hurry.” You mutter, watching as water drips out from the shirt. One hand holds it under the drier while you grab as many paper towels as you can, and try to dry your skin. You can’t go back to Zayne looking like this, it’s simply embarrassing.

Once the shirt is dry enough, you put it back on and look over yourself in the mirror. You try to fix your makeup, using your powder and reapplying your lipstick. You’re not trying to look good for Zayne, at least not consciously. You tell yourself that you just don’t want to look like a hot mess. You lower your shirt a bit, showing off some cleavage before walking out of the bathroom.

There’s a pitcher of water when you walk back to the table, along with two empty glasses. You smile at him as you sit back down, something that goes unnoticed by him since his eyes remain on the menu. He’s doing you a favor, he doesn’t have to return any smile. You grab the pitcher, and fill up his glass.

“Don’t you want anything else to drink? A little wine? Maybe some juice?” You suggest, and he shakes his head. You fill your glass with water before you look over the menu. It’s a sight for sore eyes to finally see a menu where you can’t pronounce half of the food offered.

“You know, it’s nice to know someone won’t cry because the fries weren’t soggy enough during dinner.” You comment as you try to decide what you’ll pick. Zayne’s eyebrows perk up.

“Does Greyson give you an issue about soggy fries?” He dryly jokes, which earns a chuckle from you.

“You know, I’ll take a glass of chardonnay. I came here to enjoy an expensive meal.” You say, and once again, he hums. You hate the awkward silence, but you guess it’s what you deserve.

The waiter walks by and takes your order, taking the menu from your hands. He takes the one thing that you can hide behind. It’s not really an issue for you, but it is for Zayne who idly stares down at the table.

“Were you planning to come here alone?” You attempt to make conversation, though you should know better than to ask a yes or no question with Zayne. He’s not in the mood to talk. Well, perhaps he is in the mood to talk, just not with you.

He nods. You just want to laugh at how pathetic this is. You’re back to square one with Zayne– No, this is worse than square one since at least he’d have the courtesy to use his voice. Although it isn’t as bad as you might think since he helped you with the reservation.

“My friends have been raving about the food here, I just haven’t had the chance to come around since Jade is attached to my hip the moment she wakes up.” You confess.

“Why not bring her along? She’s well-behaved from what I’ve heard.” He asks, making you burst into laughter. It’s as if he’s told some sort of joke. To you it is. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no. Jade is well behaved, you heard right, but bringing her here?” You begin, another laugh leaving your lips. “She’s not an angel even though she might seem like one.”

“She wasn’t picky when I came over for dinner.” He points out, making you frown.

“Are we talking about my two-year-old? The one that left all the carrots and barely touched the asparagus?” You respond. “The only reason she ate more was because you asked her to, shockingly.”

“What do you mean by shockingly?”

“Jade does not like to be told what to do. I’m surprised she didn’t throw it on the floor out of spite.” You share, and he lets out a low laugh.

“Ah, she’s stubborn.” He bites his tongue, doing his best to not make a remark that Jade is just like her mother. “Being strong-willed is a good characteristic, as long as you teach her to admit defeat. Listening to others is not a weakness.”

“I will after I teach her not to run in the house.” You respond, and he hums in response before an awkward silence overtakes the table. You think about what to talk about, and then it dawns on you: the cause for your breakup. “How was your research? I never got around to ask how it went.”

“It was good.” He answers, not impulsed to give out more details.

“Tell me some details. You were gone for a long time.” You insist, and Zayne nods before he begins to speak about his research. None of the words make sense to you, but you nod and pretend like you’re understanding what he says. You watch his eyes light up as he explains everything to you. He forgets about how this was the essential cause of your breakup. He forgets that he’s talking to you of all people.

“That sounds interesting.” You comment when he finishes speaking. He nods in response as he debates on asking the question that bugs his mind. He decides against it. Dinner is going surprisingly well, and he won’t risk ruining it by asking a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to.

9:32 PM.

“It’s late.” You comment as you look at the time. Time went by, and you barely noticed. Things turned around and flowed smoothly, surprisingly enough.

“Did you really need my phone to check the time?” Zayne asks as you hand him back the phone. You hand him your own phone and tell him,

“Try to turn it on.”

He fails to turn it on, and when he notices it has no battery, he hands it back to you.

“I also have a watch. It won’t hurt to ask me what time it is.” He says, standing up from his seat. As much as he wishes that the night could be everlasting, it’s not.

“You handed your phone willingly, no questions asked. I think that’s easier.” You point out as he pulls out your chair. You can’t complain about dinner. You had appetizers, entrees and dessert, which were all exquisite. Zayne insisted on paying for everything, even when you argued about splitting the bill since he was doing you a favor.

“We should do this again.” You comment as you walk by his side. You have quite a walk to your car, there wasn’t any parking nearby– Not any parking that wasn’t parallel at least. It’s a good thing that the rain died down. Its only purpose was to get you wet.

“This was a one time thing.” He tells you as he guides you outside. He’ll walk you to your car, make sure you’re safe and then leave. He’s willing to pretend like this didn’t happen.

“Why?” You question as if it isn’t glaringly obvious.

“I feel like it’d make Greyson uncomfortable.” He gives you that subtle reminder that makes your heart drop. Of course, your husband. Zayne wouldn’t want to upset his long-time friend.

You clear your throat, smiling brightly at him before you claim, “He wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

“It’s still not a good idea considering we have a history.” He argues, and you furrow your brows.

“Why did you invite me to your table then?” You point out, a childish argument since you know he was doing it out of kindness. You’re biting the hand that feeds you.

“You’re right. Next time I’ll turn a blind eye and allow them to kick you out.” He says, and you purse your lips together. You continue to walk back to your car quietly.

“There’s no need to take me back to my car, it’s quite a walk.” You end up saying, finding yourself annoyed. You know he’s right, you absolutely do, but you still find yourself upset. Zayne doesn’t listen.

“When’s Jade’s birthday by the way? She’s very advanced for her age.” Zayne comments, and you smile at the compliment. Yes, your baby is very advanced. She’s your pride and joy.

“Her birthday is Febru–” You catch yourself before you actually say it. “You don’t have to worry about a birthday gift, if that’s why you ask.”

“February?” He asks, and you point to your car, ignoring him.

“There’s my car. I have to go.” You ignore his question, sheepishly smiling at him. “Thank you for dinner, Zayne. It was lovely.”

You begin to walk to your car, leaving him behind. There’s that guilty feeling creeping over you that you try so hard to ignore, but you can’t. He’s going to see her birthday eventually, he’s her doctor… You might as well tell a little white lie and cover yourself.

“Her birthday is February 27. She came a little early.” You say, as if Jade wasn’t nearly 10 pounds when she was born. She technically was a couple of days early, she was supposed to be born in March.

The answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth, ending his night on a sour note. Something isn’t right, but he doesn’t have the guts to ask about your loyalty. He wants to keep and cherish the memories of your relationship, and he knows that your answer will upset him.

#[Heavy]#zayne lads #lads zayne x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace zayne #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #dad zayne #zayne x reader #zayne fic #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #zayne l&ds

224 notes · View notes

vampire-scripture · 22 days ago

Text

Lestat, Louis and Armand complaining about each other's books

This is not an exhaustive list, if you find any others and are willing to share, I'd be eternally grateful ^^.

I read [Interview with the Vampire] over and over. And then in a moment of contemptible anger, I shredded it to bits. - Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

As for the lies [Louis] told, the mistakes he made, well, I forgive him his excess of imagination, his bitterness, and his vanity, which was, after all, never very great - Lestat, The Vampire Lestat

"That's Louis's language," Armand said patiently. "Please don't quote that book to me" - Queen of the Damned

Interview with the Vampire, of all preposterous titles! – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

"Weep. I'd like to see you weep. I've read a great deal about your weeping in the pages of your books but I've never seen you weep with my own eyes." "Ah, that makes you out to be a perfect liar," [Lestat] said furiously. "You described my weeping in your miserable memoir in a scene which we both know did not take place!" - Lestat and Louis, The Tale of the Body Thief

That's why [Louis] described me so vividly yet poorly in his book over and over again – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

I insulted [Louis's] writing all the time. That was a joke. Well, sort of a joke – Lestat, The Tale of the Body Thief

Louis had poured out his story, published under the absurd title Interview with the Vampire – Armand, The Vampire Armand

But it's the way [Lestat] describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe - Armand, The Vampire Armand

And it was Louis’s outrageous lies about me, intentional and unintentional (some people should not be granted a poetic license) - Lestat, Blood Communion

Bonus:

Louis's testament: "Behold, the void." And Lestat's history: "And this and this and this, and it means nothing." - Khayman, Queen of the Damned

She'd tried to read the Vampire Lestat's book - the whole history of Dead guys back to ancient times and all but there were just too many big words and konk, she was asleep. (...) and the first one, the one with the title she could never get straight, something like "conversations with the vampire," or "talking with the vampire," or "getting to meet the vampire," or something like that. Davis would read out loud from that one sometimes, but Baby Jenks couldn't take it in, snore! (...) the book was full of stuff about banana leaves and iron railings and Spanish moss. - Baby Jenks, Queen of the Damned

#lestat de lioncourt #armand #louis de pointe du lac #the vampire chronicles #anne rice #the vampire armand #the vampire lestat #tale of the body thief #queen of the damned #blood communion #vampire scripture #quotes #I love it when Anne gets meta #Also “getting to meet the vampire” xD #vampirescripture #ancientvampirescripture

241 notes · View notes

readychilledwine · 5 months ago

Text

Free Will

Eris Arranged Marriage – Drabble

Summary - Eris knew his father would purchase him a bride sooner rather than later.

Warnings - Arranged Marriage, alcohol use.

A/N - From one Vandaddy to the next.. May do more with this. May let it die. Too early to tell.

🔥Eris Masterlist🔥Master Masterlist🔥

You were beautiful, Eris would give his father that. Glowing skin enhanced from the moonlight kissing you. He had found you sitting in a window, looking outside like a bird now trapped in a glorified cage. You had disappeared from the festivities taking place, and he was tasked with finding you.

“How miserable,” he walked closer, noticing the half empty bottle of wine beside you. “Drinking alone in the dark, wife? You should have invited me. Mother knows I hate a boring celebration."

Your eyes met his, your cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glassy, “Did not realize my oh so powerful new husband would take pleasure in dark corners and," you paused to lift the bottle, squinting to read it. “Pomegranate wine.”

Eris only chuckled and took the bottle, drinking straight from it. “My favorite, actually.” He leaned against the window ypu sat in. He followed your eyes, noticing you were looking over the garden. “They say pomegranate is the origin of sin and the seasons.”

“The tales of the Dark Mother and Forest God. I know it well,” you held your hand out. Your new husband took another drink before handing it back to you, bottle now passing between you. “Legend says the Dark Mother had found him so beautiful she lured him to her with a snake of many colored scales. Once she had him in his poison garden, she gave him a choice.”

“Eat the pomegranate and stay with her,” Eris finished. “Or watch as she slowly killed the lands he loved. But by eating the seeds..” He smirked for you to finish.

“He upset the Mother. So she cursed the lands of the North with the seasons and turned his home into a barren land of ice and snow, his sister's into one haunted by rot and neverending harvest, his brothers into one trapped in the beginning of the rebirthing cycle and storms, and his parents in dead heat and drought.”

Eris looked you up and down. "They say the female of the species is always more deadly than the male." Eris sighed, “But his choice also unleashed freewill among the fae.”

"But it cost us the ability to connect with our true forms and shift. That power is now heavily reserved," Your voice seemed empty. As if the thought of that piece of you that was missing was more than just an animal but a symbol of freedom.

He studied you again, you leaned in to look into his eyes, “I do wonder what kind of animal would have been behind your skin, my wife. Are you a snake leading me to a trap? Are you a bird with clipped wings, desperate to fly away? Or are you a lioness, stalking and waiting for her chance to kill?”

Your lips twitched up. “You'll find I associate heavily with the symbol of our court, husband,” you looked him up and down, the tension between you two growing within every second. He could see it. He would see something cunning and intelligent hiding behind those drunk eyes.

A fox fits you well, and now, you were invading an enemy den.

Eris gave a smile that made chills run down your spine, “I think we will get along, y/n.” He took another swig of the wine finishing the bottle before picking you up and forcing you to hold his hand. “Our party awaits, my little wife. And more pomegranate wine.”He lead to you the ballroom, loud music and dancing in full swing as the fae celebrated the marriage of their heir apparent.

Eris poured two glasses, handing one to you, “To free will, my fox.”

The words were an offering, an understanding.

Your glass touched his, arms linking to drink as ceremony required. “To free will, husband.”

#elizabeths.updates #send asks #send anons #acotar #acotar x reader #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra x y/n #eris x you #eris x reader #eris x y/n #acotar drabbles

396 notes · View notes

kitkatscabinet · 1 month ago

Text

HURT AND GRIEVE BUT DON'T SUFFER ALONE

requested by: @redr0sewrites

pairing: tim drake x gn! reader

prompt: "i'm not going anywhere until you sleep"

a/n: takes place when Bruce is stuck in time.

You're not sure what wakes you, whether it's the low thrum of the heater or the ambient sounds of early morning Gotham, regardless, you wake to an empty bed.

Tim's side of the mattress is cold, the sheets untouched, indicating he'd never come to bed. With bleary eyes, you reach for your phone, swearing and scrambling to turn the brightness down when you're blinded. Blinking the spots out of your vision, you stare down at the white numbers, 4:39.

Frowning, you swing your legs over the side of the mattress, wiggling your freezing toes against the carpet to stimulate the blood flow. You stumble groggily out into the living space, pausing at the sight of a dishevelled Tim surrounded by papers, illuminated only by the light of his laptop and the street lights pouring through the windows.

Even in the dim lighting, you can see the deep bags beneath his bloodshot eye,s and your heart aches at the visual reminder of how hard he's pushing himself, running himself ragged in his quest to find Bruce.

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice your presence until you sink down on the couch next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, which makes him jolt. "Tim."

His brow furrows as he takes in your presence in confusion, "What are you? Why are you up? You should be asleep, you've got work in a few hours."

You should be used to this kind of behaviour from him by now, but you'll doubt you'll ever be able to stop worrying about his health, "I could say the same for you." Your hand slides down his arm to entwine your fingers with his, forcing him to turn away from the open laptop.

"Please come to bed?" You aren't above begging, especially when it comes to Tim's health.

He winces, attempting to turn away from your pleading eyes, knowing he's likely to cave under your gaze, but you refuse to let him. "Tim —"

"I can't!" He exclaimed, ripping his hands from yours as he stood, turning his back to you and starting to pace. "I... How can you ask me to sleep when Bruce is... When he's stuck! I need to... I need to find him!"

"Tim, Tim, calm down." You attempt to cajole, grabbing his arms and spinning him around to face you to prevent his agitated movements.

"Calm down — how can you expect me to calm down? Everyone thinks he's dead, I'm the only one looking for him! He needs me!"

"I believe you, I believe you, baby, but please," your voice cracks traitorously as the tears you’d been so desperately attempting to hold back leak down your cheeks. "Please, Tim, you need to rest. I can’t keep watching you like this."

He breathes heavily for a few seconds before he practically crumples into your outstretched arms, deep sobs wracking his exhausted frame as you smooth a hand over his hair.

"Just... just go back to bed, I'll be there soon." He croaks, though you both know it's a lie as he tries to pull away from your hold.

"I'm not going anywhere until you sleep." You denied, refusing to back down this time. You'd given in so many times before, but enough was enough.

"I —"

"Tim." Your voice is stern yet gentle, a little wet with the silent tears you were still shedding, "please."

You slowly pull away from the embrace, linking your fingers together once more as you lead him to your shared bedroom with little resistance.

You tuck him under the covers with ease, frown deepening as you notice how light he seems. When was the last time he ate? You'll have to make him breakfast in a few hours just to make sure he gets something in his stomach.

He's asleep nearly the second his head hits the pillow and you slide in behind him, holding him to your chest as you absentmindedly hum a soft tune.

You allow yourself a few moments to watch him. It's the most at peace you'd seen him for weeks, the nearly permanent crease in his brow finally smoothed out as he unconsciously relaxes in your grip.

Before long, your own exhaustion wins out, and you fall asleep to the rhythmic pounding of his heart beneath your palm.

#x reader #dc x reader #tim drake x reader #tim drake #gn! reader #gender neutral reader

212 notes · View notes

mydadleft471 · 1 year ago

Text

An Ailing Heart, A Shimmering Soul

Summary: Another Tarnished invades the Shadow Keep and Messmer takes care of them. But something seems off this time. You comfort him when he is most vulnerable.

Spoilers, per usual, for Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. Warnings for descriptions of violence and a slight amount of spice wink wonk ;D (I've never wrote anything spicy please go easy on my ass, I'm so down bad)

I had two requests, one from the lovely @asianbutnotjapanese and the other from anonymous, and I thought they'd go so well together! I'll link the posts here and here! Thank you both for the requests! I love writing comfort for this lanky man.

As always, thank you for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting! It makes my day every single time!

Another Tarnished had invaded the Shadow Keep today. This one made it to Messmer himself. Many others found themselves terribly outmatched by his many knights and guards.

You waited patiently in Messmer’s chamber for him to return victorious, just as he had done a multitude of times before. Fiddling with your hands, you tried to drown out the screams and thudding from the room adjacent to Messmer’s, but your thoughts did little to distract you. Your mind wandered, as it always did in these moments: would he come back from this fight?

You shook your head. Of course he would. He was a mighty demigod with more than his mother’s wishes to fight for now. He had you. It was something he whispered into your hair when you lay huddled against his massive form in his bed. You were drifting on the very edge of sleep when his voice, silky and smooth, cut through the silence.

“I will return to thee, beloved consort. This I shall promise.”

Your heart had flipped in your chest. You knew he meant it and he never went back on his word.

The large door creaking open interrupted the sweet memory. Pushing yourself off the bed, you stepped timidly until Messmer came into view.

Blood adorned his chest like rubies and his eye was glued to the floor. He had left his spear in the previous room.

You hurry towards him. “Are you hurt?” You grab his hands and clutch them tightly.

“Merely scratched and covered in blood that is not my own.” He sounds tired.

Carefully, you lead him over to his ornate washroom. He doesn’t say anything as you pull him behind you like dead weight. Even his serpents stay still as they’re perched on his shoulders. Dropping his hands, you hurry to grab some bath salts he likes and a fluffy towel. You turn the faucet and the tub begins to fill with warm water. Pouring some of the salts in and swirling them around, the room begins to smell sweetly of jasmine and vanilla.

Looking back at your lover, you notice that he watches you tiredly. His eye droops and he doesn’t stand as tall as usual.

“Do you need help taking your armor off?” He merely nods in response, so you get to work.

You stretch your arms up to take off his helmet and he bows his head. You set it on the table behind you and comb your fingers through some of the rebellious strands of red. Carefully raising the cloak he wears, you allow the serpents to wiggle out of it before undoing the clasp and letting it fall to the floor behind him. Moving around him, you work on the various buckles on his armor and before long, it joins his cloak in a bloody, crumpled heap.

“Come, my love,” you call out to him and his eye shimmers in response. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You take his hand and gently guide him into the bath, letting him go as slowly as he needs to. Once he settles into the warm water, he lets out a sigh of relief. You tilt his head back and pour water over his hair, just as you have done many times before. It’s become a daily thing to wash his hair and body. He loves the tenderness in every touch you lay upon him.

You begin to massage some of his favorite shampoo into his fiery locks. You take your time ensuring his scalp has been thoroughly washed and thread your fingers through the tips of his hair. He shudders and shivers in pleasure.

You want to ask what’s wrong. He’s come back from fights exhausted and worried, but he’s never looked so dejected. Perhaps the fight was too close for his liking? When you took off his armor minutes earlier, you hadn’t seen any new bruises or wounds on his body, so that couldn’t be it. The Tarnished that came to his Keep enraged him, sure, especially if they had hurt any of his men, but they had never made him like this.

“Messmer?” His eye opens slightly. “What’s bothering you?”

“Whatever dost thou mean?” His voice is dejected and quiet.

“Did something happen during your fight?” You tilt his head back and wash the shampoo from his hair.

“‘Tis nothing. Thou needn’t worry.”

You sigh. “I thought we talked about this, about being open with each other. If something is bothering you, I want to help.”

He reaches for your hand and you gladly give it to him. He turns it over in his hand, seemingly marveling at how small yours is compared to his. He kisses your knuckles and moves your hand so you cup his cheek.

“That Tarnished held the belief that I was keeping thee prisoner here.”

Your mouth hangs open. “Prisoner? My love, no! I’m happy here.”

“They did not thinkest so. Perhaps they imagined themself a protector, like I.”

“Messmer,” you make him look at you. “I stay here because I want to. I stay here because I love you. Okay?”

“I had never felt rage such as that. I lost myself.” He admits.

“I’d be angry too. It’s okay.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and a golden tear streaks its way down his pale cheek. You reach out to brush it away.

“I do not deserve thee, beloved. I am naught but a cursed monster.”

“You are so much more than that. I don’t care if you’re cursed.” You pull away from him and pour a generous amount of conditioner into your hands. You gently apply it to his hair.

“You make me truly happy. I hope you know that.” You whisper those words into his ear.

“I shall try to remember that.”

You wash away the conditioner and wrap your arms around his shoulders, not caring about how the water soaks through your clothes. He grabs one of your hands and holds it. You lay a light kiss on his neck and he shudders again.

“Do you want me to wash your body, my love?” You ask into his hair.

“Please.”

“Okay.” You smile and unwind yourself from him.

You gather some soap and begin to lather it on his shoulders. You take your time and even knead out some of the knots in his back as you go. He lets out small gasps and you can see that his ears are a bright red almost rivaling his hair. You raise his arms from the water and squeeze his arms, feeling his muscles. He shoots you a look and you quickly look away, continuing to wash him as he requested. You tilt his head back, sweetly sweeping your hands across his neck and travel down to his collarbones, giving them the same treatment as the rest of his body.

“I ask thee stop this teasing.” His eye is screwed shut.

“Oh shush. You like this.”

“Perhaps.” You smirk.

Continuing down his body, you lather his chest in soap and delicately make your way to his stomach. He visibly tenses at this and you shoot him a puzzled look.

“Thou’rt cruel indeed. Continuing may force my hand.” He warns you, his eye shimmering a bright gold.

Oh. Oh.

As much as you would love to indulge in him, right now he needs comfort. You nod, face blushing as red as his, and you begin to wash away any remaining bubbles kissing his skin. Grabbing a fluffy towel, you wordlessly hand it to him and he stands. You tear your gaze away from him as he dries off and try to keep your thoughts decent. You go fetch his favorite robe from his chambers and grab his brush from where it sits on his bedside table.

When you return, he’s sitting on the plush chair in front of the large vanity he had made for you. You offer him his robe and turn around, waiting for him to dress himself. He clears his throat and you turn around.

“Would you let me do your hair tonight?”

“If it would make thee happy.”

“Always. I love taking care of you.” That earns you a loving smile.

You begin to brush away any tangles he has, but since you’ve been giving his hair regular maintenance, it’s become easier to manage. The bristles gently scratch against his scalp and he lets out a pleased hum. You have such a lovable demigod.

Once you’ve ensured his hair is soft and smooth, you part his hair down the middle. You can see him watching you in the mirror.

“I think you would look stunning in braids.”

He shakes his head. “Braids are intended for nobility and those with honor.”

“You’re a demigod, my love.”

He opens his mouth to say something but he stops when he sees you standing behind him with your hands on your hips, daring him to refuse you. “There is no sense in arguing with thee, it seems.”

“You are correct.” He rolls his eye. You were so stubborn.

Staring on the left side, you take three small strands and delicately weave them together. His hair is easy to work with and within a few minutes, you have a tiny braid.

You hold out your finished work. “Hold this, please.” He does as you ask, and you almost chuckle at the sight of him concentrating on keeping it pinched between his fingers.

Moving to the right side, you do the exact same thing. Strands of red dance in and out and soon, you have another braid. You admire your work.

You take the first braid from him with a small thank you and carefully lay them down on his head, making them join at the ends. It creates an oval-like shape and emits an air of importance. You grab a small hand-held mirror from the table in front of him and give it to him. He stands and faces away from the vanity, repositioning the tiny mirror so he could see the beautiful, yet simple, job you did. He eye crinkles and he seems to like it.

“Thou hast done a wonderful job. I thank thee, beloved.”

You take the small mirror from him and return it to the vanity table. You gesture for him to sit, which he does without protest.

“Your serpents deserve braids too.” He chuckles and his companions look at you with wide eyes.

You open the drawer of the vanity and pull out two tiny braids made from some fabric. You had been practicing with these so your braids would look perfect.

The serpents come closer and you gently lay the strand of fabric on them. They shake a little at first, then flick their tongues excitedly.

“I think they look handsome, don’t you think, Messmer?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “They look quite ridiculous.” The serpents hiss.

You gently pat them both and they nuzzle into your touch. “Don’t listen to him. You both look wonderful.”

In truth, they did look a little silly, but they seemed proud to wear braids like their master.

“Thou always tends to my ailing soul, beloved.” He kisses the top of your head.

“Proud to serve, my Lord.” He rolls his eye at the use of his title.

He scoops your hands up in his and gazes into your eyes tenderly. “I shall say it now for fear that thou dost not realize: thou art free. Wherever thy soul wishes to roam, thou mayest go. I only request that thou returnest to me safe.”

You shake your head. This man. You lean up on your tiptoes and he bridges the gap, placing a loving kiss on your lips. There is no rush, no fight for dominance, just the both of you existing in the same space. Your hearts swell in admiration for one another.

There is nowhere else you’d rather be.

#messmer the impaler #messmer x reader #messmer x tarnished #messmer the impaler x reader #elden ring x reader #some spice this time oooo #i love this guy #and his snakes #this is peak male physique

442 notes · View notes

gnohomotho · 5 months ago

Text

May I play with you?「✦Pt.2✦」

Pairing: The Salesman // The Recruiter x fem!reader Summary: Oh man, you're screwed. Can you save your friend? Can you play the game right? Or are your cards all wrong, closed off with a deranged man who is enthralled with you? Simple truth or dare, or is it far worse for you? And is that large hand caressing your thigh more intricate than you thought? This one is roller-coaster, please strap in. Warnings: I think I may see what everyone saw in this hot lunatic NSFW language, obsession, kidnapping, bondage, gagging, guns, using said guns, abuse, fondling, drugging, no consent and dubious consent, mentions of death, threat of death, mentions of sexual themes and a very enamoured maniac. MDNI, 18+. Porn with a plot. Word count: 6k A/N: *chuckles* I'm in danger. ˙ᵕ˙ Seriously, this man is quite something, doing my best here but I do finally see why so many requests featured this handsome mother----. Link to previous Link to next Gorgeous gif by @lenoirexv! If you enjoy my works, I'm grateful for every like // reblog // follow // request // message! ♥

Mishko, Mishko, Mishko…

You ran.

The train would take too long.

You dodged dark streets and glittering puddles, streetlamps casting an orange glow that only helped fuel your desperation. Your eyes, momentarily dizzy from each scene leaving a burnt image of itself the faster you ran, darted to your phone screen, and you followed the little red square as if life depended on it. Masterfully dodging inhabitants, your own feet, reflecting puddles.

Every light was hope you clung to. The rhythmic move of your dark tights blurring against the reflective surfaces reminding you to hurry.

Surely he isn’t that unhinged, surely this is all a big stupid joke. Maybe Mishko put you up to this.

Maybe he’s in on it, yes, you huff as you turn another corner into a dark alley, coat flying behind you. You didn’t even notice it start to rain again. Droplets cling to your hair which clings to your face.

You stop before what looks like a motel. A tall building with a burnt-out sign, barely flickering a pink glow around letters that no longer work. It has begun to pour.

Your hair clings to your head and your shoulders, as if trying to shield you from the oncoming inevitable.

You walk up the soaked path, noting the dead flower garden. Though you detest roses, you’d give anything to see some kind of life reassure you that life indeed has a place in the decrepit building.

Doorbell? Knock? Tear down the door? No time for that, you look at your phone one last time to make sure you’re breaking into the right place and run against it shoulder first.

It was unlocked and you fall inside unceremoniously, catching yourself mid-stumble.

Your coat only just now catching up whooshes past your legs and swings back, the crinkling sound and your hurried breaths the only thing you can register. Everything is so eerily…silent.

Like a forest with no life, indicating a predator on the prowl.

“Mishko?!”

You yell into unlit hallways, the ominous reddish pink barely reflected from the outside the only means of light. This place won’t even let light in, let alone hope.

Nothing. Nobody answers.

Just the tapping and flow of rain on a tin roof, drips and water hitting the ground, the downpour covering all else.

You begin to check each empty room, each room with a door, anything. So hectic you don’t notice your breath and vision unable to keep up. You’ve wrapped your arms around you, and you don’t even notice. If anyone were to see you, they’d think someone stole Death’s cape and was trying to blend in with little success.

All you get in return is creaking floorboards, the stench of rotting wood, and a place that looks at best deserted. At worst like the cliché scene of a murder.

How did I manage to turn this into such a tragedy in a matter of minutes?

You drag the hair out of your face and stare ahead. The way up is blocked. One room left. One more shaky breath, as deep as you can muster in your burning shallow lungs. Your fists clench.

You dart to the door, but rest your hand on the doorknob, not moving. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You’re…so sure yet terrified.

It all feels so…gaudily maquette-like. Fake. Like you’re unknowingly on a theatre stage, not knowing the play for the amusement of an unseen audience.

Until you open the door, this is all just a bad dream and none of it counts. No real-world repercussions. Until you twist the knob on the door. You feel water on your cheeks and realise it is no longer rain. Almost angrily does your hand shoot up, pushing the moisture from your eyes – you need to see clearly, not cry, for goodness’ sake. Even though your lips are quivering and your breath running through a barely open throat, your resolve strengthens.

You kick the door open ready to jump at or be jumped, but you are ready.

Yet the sight that greeted you left you as unprepared as could be.

Your colleague, your friend, sits tied up, mouth gagged, eyes carved with terror and tension.

They meet yours with utter confusion and blind fear. The moment he sees you, he immediately stops blinking, pleading at you with no words, arms wrestling against the ropes. His head is shaking so vigorously you see droplets of sweat fly away, even in the pale-yellow light from the streetlamps outside. You’re almost paralysed but act on nothing but impulse and placid resolve to get him out.

“Mishko!” Your voice is barely a cracked tone, you’re chilled to the bone and shaking but cannot let your friend be hurt. Continue to be hurt.

“Hold on, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

You run to him, kneel to him, softly placing a hand on each cheek, his forehead, checking his body for harm. No blood. No bruises. Yet. You put his shaking face in your own shivering hands and cup his cheeks.

“Please, just nod or shake your head. Are you hurt?”

You gaze into his soft dark eyes darting back and forth chaotically, tears streaming down his face.

But he shakes his head, and you feel the vibrations going through him, his stifled breathing, his attempts to speak.

You pull his face to yours and lay your forehead on his, knowing that calms him down when he’s panicked. “Oh, thank god, Mishi, Mishi...” And you’re also providing a human shield should anyone wish to visit.

With a gentle whisper, you try to assess the situation and look like you’re not panicking out of your mind yourself.

He’s tied to a chair, there’s furniture in the room, a window. The dark red carpet doesn’t do anything to ease your mind, and the walls are ostentatiously empty. No potential weapons. One way out.

You look back at him, his eyes visibly wishing to convey something. With a slow gaze you follow his chaotic movements and whisper once more, slowly, barely above the rain outside.

“Are we alone?”

His eyes stop darting like tennis balls across the room and gaze into you with utter desperation. Very slowly his head moves to make an almost unnoticeable motion from left to right.

Your heart drops.

You guide your hands to his cheeks and try to hush both him and yourself again.

“Shh, Mishi, it’s ok. I’ll get you out of here.” Fuck fuck fuck… “It’s ok. It’s going to be ok.” Why are you lying to the both of you?

You fling the coat down for more range of motion and resolve to compartmentalise – the gag. Then ropes. Then window.

Although the light provided should be enough, and your fingers are usually long and nimble, the gag is well knotted, and you can’t seem to get rid of it yourself even though you’re doing your level best.

Fingers shaking, paralyzed, losing feeling. Rain pouring through your thoughts. You feel your own mind begin to try to leave the horrendous situation but you drag it back kicking and screaming.

With exasperation and a huffed curse you leave the back of his head unable to undo the gag, instead endeavouring to fish out your phone---but suddenly your friend starts frantically shaking his head, staring above you and behind you, looking to your phone and vigorously trying to convey disagreement.

“No…phone? Ok…don’t worry.” You go back to him, trying to undo the ropes instead, but you did dial out a small emergency number. Just didn’t press ‘call’.

“Got it. I’ll get you out.” You both inadvertently yet subconsciously hold him through the ropes as you lower to get rid of the restraints and search for a way to undo the knots. They’re good, but the ropes were too thick for any intricacies.

“Almost…almost…”

You’re breathing so fast that the sharp intakes of air are actively hurting your throat.

The sharp movements and concentration against your own cold shivers and the hush of rain outside completely envelop you, and you don’t notice something very important.

Your friend has stopped fidgeting under you.

Even though your arm is halfway around him fighting with the restraints, his heart beating into it is the only motion you feel now. His breathing is low, turned to muffled whimpers. His body language is pointed to a single source, no longer aiding your rescue attempts. A chill runs through you.

“Mishko?” You barely utter his name, fear gripping your shoulders.

Just as you were before the door, now you do not wish to continue the next few seconds lest you find out the source of his paralysis and breath turned to whimpers. Your eyes are caught in a wide look into nowhere, clutching your friend’s chest with your arm unmoving, and you do not wish to recognize what made his startled breath stop.

And the source was delighted to make itself known.

❥❥❥

The voice carves through the thick silence; through rain, through caught breaths, through your shivers turning the atmosphere blurry, like a hot knife through butter.

“What a pair of lovebirds.”

The familiar voice.

That self-satisfied smile.

That curve of inflection that could be making a sales pitch.

All have been burnt into your brain; you don’t even have to turn around to see. And you don’t. You cup your friend’s face once more and stare directly into his eyes, ignoring the visitor entirely for one last whisper.

“Look at me. Mishi. I’ll get you out. It’s ok. It’s all ok. I promise, I’ll get you out.”

A firm hand on your cold, soaked through shoulder reminded you of how futile your words felt. The shirt clung to your skin so closely that his fingers felt like they were directly on you with no layer between, exacerbated by the sensitivity of your tingling neck.

You shake out of the grip, pushing the hand away as you would a worrisome insect, and spin around. Now face to face with what you knew was waiting for you, but hoped against hope against it.

In dim light reflecting orange streetlamps and burnt out pink signs, half enveloped in shadows now in full height driving nails of frost through your spine…

Is that charming face, reptile-like smile, the smart suit, and the eyes…eyes far darker than you remember from the subway.

Looking down at you with such feigned pity your heart skips several beats, and your breath catches in your throat anew.

❥❥❥

“Clever girl…” he articulates to himself with feigned surprise, as he rests his hand back to his side, almost hurt that you deprived him of your touch so fast.

But he continues, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. His eyes are following your friend, reminding you of a predator satisfied with its ensnared prey and enjoying the seconds before its feast.

“The lady got here so fast I didn’t even get a say in the way the evening was going to go,” he sighs, leaning into the area behind you as if he’s reading the latest headline of Gardening Weekly.

Calm. Jovial. Nonchalant.

You cannot even gather a reply; you’re in a state of shock. Your friend’s muffled crying slaps you in the face and you shake through and through, mustering the words.

“What the hell, what in the god damn hell is wrong with you?! He didn’t do anything---”

The salesman’s hand lifts to his face with a single finger resting against his smiling lips.

“Hush, miss Y/N. Nobody’s harmed…just yet.” He smiles his cheshire grin and steps closer. You don’t step back, firmly planted between the man and your friend.

Amusement flickers in his eyes. Almost a hint of affection curled in something depraved and waiting, yearning to leap out.

“Brave little lady, aren’t you…” his hand lifts to your cheek and you still.

Refuse.

To move.

His eyebrows lift, and he makes a small, cut off movement to your skin. Teasing. Closing the distance.

Then another.

Those lips slightly open, the plastic smile, those dark eyes piercing you…was that an “ah?” sound as he moved to you?

You still don’t flinch.

“And. One. More.” He smiles as he brushes your skin.

Eyes so sickeningly soft and hands so falsely gentle you feel nauseous.

Suddenly, the salesman grabs your cheeks into his hand, his large palm and long fingers easily able to hold your jaw and dig into your skin with no effort at all.

“Very brave little lady…” his words curl into a slow purr in exaggerated amusement. He pulls his hand away, leaving you with red indentations on each cheek and an aching shivering jaw.

“Perhaps…a very naïve little lady. With such adorable new dimples.” His head cranes to one side, studying you. As he straightens slowly, brushing down his suit, he simply asks as if nothing were terribly wrong:

“Now that we’re all here, how about a game?”

❥❥❥

Truth or dare?!

Did you hear that right?

“Truth or dare…?” You utter, the salesman nodding with a polite, closed-lip smile. Somehow, the man is closer to you than he seemed before. You can once again smell his cologne, the spicy mix of his contemptuous persona and effort he must be putting into this play.

“Quite self-explanatory. Dare – one of you must do as they are told, or there will be consequences.”

You don’t even manage to muster a flinch as he pulls out a gun in place of a spinner.

You know you’d flinch back into him, slowly realising how far ahead he thinks in the game behind the game.

As he lays his briefcase down beside the table, he leans into you, brushing the tip of your ear as if whispering a secret.

His hand strokes your hair as he does so, periodically, ever so lightly.

You feel his hot breath on each millimetre of your earlobe and neck, driving ice through your back anew. He remains there before speaking, as if knowing exactly what he’s doing to you and relishing it.

“And truth, as in, ‘truth be told, I would far prefer my little lady in place of her boring paramour as we speak, tied and pleading with those big doll eyes of hers that leave me no rest, begging for me’ but rules should be respected.” His smile never fades as he pulls away and sees you visibly shiver from your toes to your ears.

❥❥❥

All three of you sit at the dingy table, the gun lying in the middle.

The salesman kindly did undo your friend’s gag but left him tied up. You can see Mishko's mind racing and his mouth uttering unsaid words, eyes darting from you to the salesman and back to the gun on the table repetitively. His soft brown hair clings to his forehead as yours does to your skin, though it’s through sweat and tears – and you want nothing more than to reassure him.

Yet you’re very aware that every word can and will be used against you.

You don’t want to tempt the volatile substance of a man now uncomfortably close to your side – you feel like you’re swimming in a room full of ether trying not to light a match with each breath.

The salesman remains ever jovial.

“I think the lady should go first.” He coos, cocking his head to you, sinking those eyes into yours. How is his hair still perfectly in place, how does he still look charming while I feel like I’m the one to blame and doing everything wrong?!

You touch the gun and make sure to not even brush the trigger, motioning it to spin. The barrel points to the salesman.

“Oh my…” he turns to you, self-satisfied eyes closed into coin slots and a smile playing with each corner of his mouth. He leans into you, so close your noses threaten to touch and whispers:

“Dare.”

“I dare you to let him go.” You reply, in monotone, not pulling away. Not playing his game.

He pulls away in feigned disappointment, mouth curling into a frown.

“How disappointing…but no, I can’t do that, we wouldn’t have enough players. The game wouldn’t work. Try again, little lady, and…try to play fair.” He nudges the gun with a single finger never letting his gaze off you. “I don’t like to be bored.”

“Take away any weapons you still have on you, your phone, any recording devices – all electronics, anything – take it out and place it far away from reach.” Your mind was racing, you tried to think of something better – like daring him to take out every single bullet from the gun’s chamber, but you were sure the rules wouldn’t let you sabotage the game.

Wordlessly, he shifts through his pockets, still gazing at you. Nothing.

Breast pocket, nothing. A pat in a playful manner to indicate emptiness, you hate him so much in this moment your eyes will set fire to the table.

With a single circular elegant leg motion, he slides his briefcase away from the ground below the table, circling his leg back and laying a hand on your thigh as he straightens back into the chair.

“Such a clever girl.”

He spins the gun, still resting his other hand on your thigh. The place where he caresses seems to burn straight through into the chair. You daren’t move and feel the outline of his watch digging into your skin as he ever so teasingly moves his hand up.

The gun lands on your friend, whose eyes dart from the barrel to your face, wordlessly pleading for help. Your lips curl into a voiceless whisper of his name, trying to say “don’t worry, it’s ok” but he doesn’t look like he’s even remotely there.

His eyes dart to your legs to see the contrast of a large hand covering your upper thigh, almost digging into your tender flesh as you sit, paralysed, and it seems the gears in his head are spinning for dear life.

Once more you understand that you’re behind on the game behind the game; he’s not the only piece of collateral in this room. He’s playing you against each other while the both of you are each other’s bargaining chips.

“T…truth…” his shaky voice stumbles out, and you realise it’s the first time this cursed evening you’ve heard him speak. It hits you like a brick of reality – it’s not a game, the gun is loaded, and you’re fucked.

“Mishi…” you whisper, unable to contain the fear and sorrow and in your voice, unable to stop the worry lining your face from spilling out. Don’t try anything. Please let me take care of it.

The salesman smiles and rubs your thigh, momentarily letting you go as he gathers his hands under his chin, gazing from you straight into your friend. He leans into his words and the table creaks in utter indifference.

“Do you love her?”

❥❥❥

That self-satisfied cheshire grin, as if he laid down a royal flush. Your heart stopped in your throat. The man before you, frozen in place. Everything could have stopped breathing and held its breath, and you wouldn’t notice.

You’re growing dizzy, this must be a bad dream. Just a bad dream. This is so stupid, so fucked up, so stupid!

Your friend looks like he’s going to be sick.

“As…as…a…friend…friend…y--yes…”

Perhaps it was your hypervigilance, your head-counting proclivities, but you could sense the atmosphere stiffen around you, air growing hard to breathe. Did you imagine it, or did the man beside you somehow darken without moving a brow? You say nothing, but your eyes growing wide and inability to speak say enough. You don’t take another breath.

Both your hand and the hand of the salesman darted for the gun at the same time, only yours failed to grab it first and landed straight on the salesman’s wrist.

With undue resolve you do not let go, trying to keep his pinned arm locked and unable to raise from the table.

From the corner of your eye which is darting from your friend to the gun, you see a head lift in amusement and slowly lean down to one side, mouth growing from an open expression of entertained indulgence into a closed mouth grin, watching you from your periphery.

“Amusing, little lady. As much as I enjoy your tender fingers grabbing me, do let go. Or I will be forced to end the game prematurely for lack of viable players.”

With heavy reluctance, you let go of his wrist, pulling your arm away.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t break the rules. Please.”

It’s barely a whisper and he doesn’t react. Merely takes the gun and places a finger on the trigger.

“I truly dislike people who do not listen. People who speak so much and say so little. I detest people who are impolite, people who break the rules so carefully put in place to protect them, people who think they can just skirt by and cheat and…” he stands up, gun pointed straight at your friend, “…waste my time and my breath. Say it once, why say it again? Let’s see…” he lets the gun grow limp in his hand, checking the chamber.

“Mhhm.” The gun is pointing at your friend again. The salesman’s stance is straight, arm outstretched, a perfect line with the gun’s barrel.

“First time player’s privilege,” he says, the joy leaving his voice entirely. “Answer truthfully, one last chance.”

“Y…yes, I do, I …I…love her, please…please…don’t shoot----I----”

The gunshot rings through your ears leaving your head a ringing, blurry mess and your voice sounding screams without your influence into a slow-motion void.

For a moment you cannot see, won’t look, growing sick from the sudden chaos and noise and a heart stopped with the unforgiving shot.

Forcing yourself to open your eyes into the smoke and horror, you see the salesman still holding the gun. He is unmoving, dominant arm cocked slightly to the side of your friend’s shivering form. A bullet hole gapes in the wall behind him, narrowly missing his head.

“Was it that hard?” He purrs, sitting back down, straightening his suit as he does so. Treating the gun as a mere extension of his arm, nothing more.

He lays it back on the table and spins it. Through the fog and frozen shock, you register something about your friend being in no position to spin, favours, you don’t know anymore, you want to drop dead or faint or just wake up…

“Be glad there is a lady present, young man – I could have just as easily asked you how often you’ve touched yourself to thoughts of those ethereal legs alone.”

His tone darkens, and a very short glance in his direction shows something…ominous in his penetrating, dead eyes. His movements have grown slow, underlined in their oddness, as if he were moving in honey. The way he cocked his head with that smile frozen in place as he spoke could chill a corpse.

“Or…how often you’ve offered her tea with a little bit of that pesky white powder still undissolved…hm? Poor little thing doesn’t even know why she missed our dates – she’d never stand me up like that! I thought it so odd. When I found out. I was a tad. Angry. Hm…My little lady. Helpless in the crude intentions of another. Tell me. Will she or I ask you first, just what exactly did you have planned? The two of us know your sick answer to that...”

The salesman lifts his eyebrows, his hand teasingly back to caressing your thigh – this time, with added fervour. His unblinking eyes, his speeded breaths, his focused demeanour – he’s grown excited. And the fingers of his large hand echo it directly in the way he grabs at the inner side of your thigh, almost prying your legs apart the more you push them together.

“…Does she know about the photographs? Does she know about where your dirty, undeserving, pitiful little hands have been? I bet she’d be very eager to find out…where the audacity you had when she was conscious ends and the depravity of the trash you are once she is not begins.”

As if on cue, the hand stops and merely rests in your lap. You realise that a large part of his words was reverberating through the walls and the rain, loud and sharp with something resembling cold venom, cold anger, cold…abhorrence. You look down at the hand in your lap.

Resting there. Perfectly cut nails. Strong fingers. Still.

You think you’d very much like to hold it, but don’t move.

❥❥❥

All of a sudden, you shiver straight through.

You've grown so cold.

The tension in your thighs gives way to weakness.

The words turn poisonous in your ears and against your wishes, you feel violated.

Less by the hand on your thigh stroking its fingers upwards, now having stopped, satisfied with your surrender.

As silly as it seems, even to you in your current state. Violated.

More so by his words, because...you know. You know it's true and feel disgusting. Your brain somehow compartmentalised too hard and the scene in front of you fades away leaving only your thoughts and fears; circling a maelstrom to drag you down with no sound.

His clingy love, his unwanted touches, his abuse of your kindness – your gestures of care swallowed by shallow need and hormonal outbursts.

On those late evenings.

Wherever you were, he was.

Wherever you tried to make a place for you with boundaries.

There he was.

Playfully violating them.

Ignoring your tenth 'no thank you'.

Stealing touches and hugs and even playing on your compassionate strings, asking for cuddles and head pats and telling you to softly caress his hair as he leaned into your chest and dragged his head down to your breasts pretending to search for a tense heartbeat.

All because he was stressed. He needed it. He needed you and pretended that what he gave back was adequate. Though all you wanted was safety, peace, and to be left alone. That never featured in the equation.

You remember how it was always suddenly four, five in the morning. The bitter taste in your mouth. The way the tea tasted funny. How clouded your head was.

Suddenly, the soaked shirt clinging to every inch of your skin feels so very exposing. The mess of a friend in front of you blurs as you try not cry.

So fucking stupid, Y/N. So fucking stupid.

Naked, violated, stupid.

You register the lower, slow voice, almost mocking in its sympathy and disdain.

"Oh, now, look at what you've done. And I was being so very reserved, ignoring a chance to ask for a truth I thought better of asking sooner. Anyhow. No matter. Tell me, young man…"

The salesman lifts a hand, leaving it to hover over the gun but only caressing the air above it.

"Tell us what you told your colleagues, when discussing that interesting study you grew so invested in. I hear it was quite the riot among men of your position. Tell me what got you so mesmerised, so...worked up as miss Y/N worked hard only a few rooms away. Careful, don't let your trousers grow too tight when you do..."

His hand lightly brushed the gun's trigger.

"...my fingers are itchy."

"That's…that's against the rules," you half-whisper, half-rasp into air that barely carries your words.

The hand on your thigh begins to slide up and down, as if reassuring you. The whole dynamic is so fucked up you feel your limbs losing sense of touch, growing colder. So cold they might as well be stone.

"So is making my little lady so disconcerted. Pardon the rudeness, miss Y/N, if you may. But I am so very interested and want you to hear it with me. Let the trash talk."

You know he's making that puppy-eyed expression in your direction, toying with you. You don't even have to look.

"Making my dear so very…" his hand finds yours and holds your dead fingers between his warmth, rubbing them in what has to be faux, manipulative, performative care. This is all pretend. He's lying. You know he's lying. One worse than the other. Your sister was more correct than she knew.

Funny. It would remind you of a play you liked, a fun performance where a bloke goes by each member of the audience with a list, yelling as he scratches out lines - "Twit, dumbass, twit, dumbass..." he stops mid-performance and gazes with hope to the back of the audience and announces: "Ah! But back there! There's a change! Two dumbasses right next to each other!" You don't laugh, but feel that is very much your situation.

"…cold." He frowns and rests his hand in your lap with yours still inside.

Now you look. His face isn't smiling. His voice isn't warm. His lips aren't cheeky, his eyes are zoned in and glassy. Aimed at the man ahead like a bayonet right under the chin.

What's happening to you? Is it the transfer of affect? Your emotions both high and subdued? The tension, shock, adrenalin find each nook in your body and mind, forcing you to cling desperately to the safest thing around?

Or spewing over everything like a sickening cloud of mustard gas and clouding rational thought? Which is it?!

Your breath had grown slow, shallow, and the walls of the dingy room were fading together in nondescript floating blurs. You heard him. You heard someone you trusted, cared for, when all was said and done, speak of what you were aware of but didn't know the details of.

A study concerning human behaviour and what some men would do, should they face no consequences.

The salesman nudged the gun if the words were growing slow.

You learned that the friend you trusted would endeavour to do things to you that you hoped were only categories in bad adult content. You learned he thought of you that way and dreamed of it, even if he hated himself for it afterwards. He did try it, over and over. He lied to you. Over and over.

Couldn’t help himself.

Limp, lifeless, dead eyed – no consequences.

Fair game.

You felt like being sick and setting the whole building on fire, the two of them included.

❥❥❥

So, you did what any rational person in your situation would do.

You stood up.

“I need some fresh air,” you hear your lips mumble and don’t even register that the hand doesn’t try to stop you. Mechanically you turn around and walk slowly towards the exit. Two voices follow you out:

“Of course, miss Y/N. The game is paused. Do come back as soon as you can. We’re having such fun, aren’t we?”

And:

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way…I thought you felt…I thought you would…”

You don’t even turn around as you hear the blunt sound of something slapping against something else hard. No more voices follow.

You only walk to the very first door and when you are nearly sure you’re at least partly alone, you sink to your knees in sobbing shivers that make no sound, only force your face to grimace and your hands to hold you around your body in nothing short of desperation and being done.

Why don’t I just play a truth and lie? He’ll shoot me. Everything works out. Boom. Peace. Maybe a dare, so I can ask to shoot the gun into the wall. And shoot myself. Fuck. Such a dumb bitch you are, Y/N. All your fault.

You’re leaning against the doorframe, half outside, and the rain is helping wash your thoughts away. How you wish it would go straight through and dissolve you with it.

“Tender flower, tender flower…” a voice humms behind you as if caught in a fond memory. You don’t look up or behind you. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re beginning to feel like you have nothing much to lose, over something so...silly.

“You know, you remind me of my favourite flower, little lady.” The voice stops beside you and you still don’t lift your head. You just stare into the pavement, far away from yourself.

The salesman bends down to be level with you, hands behind his back. Head cocking to the side in his usual manner, almost in a play of affection. Your heart sublimates from frost straight to anger and then…nothing. You grow numb again. But do look into his eyes as he speaks, noting the small smirk.

“Beautiful white blossoms, sharp, geometrical. Elegant. Everything in place, everything in order. Even closed, the flowers seem to sleep in a manner that exudes quiet beauty. Leaving one waiting for them to open, just to see them in bloom.”

Is he truly that mental?

“But what I appreciate most about this flower is the fact…that its leaves have nothing but sharp prickles around every edge. They themselves carry a smooth surface with unnoticeable little hooks should anyone try to touch their flowers. The stems are thorny, even in their dark, mesmerising stature and grace. And the parts hidden below ground…where the life of the plant resides…are safely covered by a shell enclosed in sharp thorns.”

He is truly that mental.

“And…” he leans closer, making sure to not touch you, but you can see that small smile and those piercing dark eyes almost caressing you through the rain, “the whole plant is deathly poisonous. Not only does it help you die, but you will desire death every second that your hallucinating brain cannot see its own lungs unable to lift…as you suffocate on dry land, slowly, slowly…so very slowly.”

He smiles as if remembering a fond memory.

“The blossoms carry the poison. The leaves carry the poison. The stem carries the poison. The seedpods and their precious seeds are the most poisonous parts of the whole plant. Imagine that. The grace of the plant, the beautiful life-giving hidden piece, the essence itself…so very lethal.”

You look up at him. You know the plant he’s describing. You know it because it happens to be one of your favourites too. Your lips open just a tiny bit and you see something else in those eyes for only a little fleeting while. Something you’re surely placing there yourself. You really must be damaged, out of it, desperate.

But you speak nonetheless:

“…Funny…the whole flower, in its beauty…with each sharp edge and prickle…simply says…don’t touch me. It won’t hurt you until you transgress and grab at what doesn’t belong to you…But the being wordlessly says…Don’t touch my flowers. Don’t touch my leaves. Don’t touch my stem. And don’t fucking touch me.”

You see his smile grow in a small act of genuine amusement. The salesman’s eyes are looking at you, through you, but you sense no lies in that look now.

He genuinely looks…affectionately satisfied. Am I high? He looks…sweet.

“What if I were to be very cautious with each blossom, and ask the plant for permission when she’s feeling shy? Would she bloom in my presence? I know her well, I know where I may and may not lay my fingers – I have studied her quite closely. I know when to let her grow in peace and gather strength in solitude. Tell me, miss Y/N. Would she bloom for me if I tended to her?”

“Depends. What if the plant asks you to throw her into a wall?”

A very surprised chuckle escapes his lips and wanders into the night rain.

“Then I’ll take her upstairs and arrange for that to be possible. Anything for her little lethal, tender heart.”

258 notes · View notes

nthspecialll · 7 months ago

Text

Funny stories from set

Here are some funny stories from the making of red dead that I have heard in interviews, with links to the videos if I have been able to find them again, just click the text with the line under.

(25.40) Between the takes of Red Dead Redemption 2, Rob (John) worked construction and one day they were using a Skidloader and he got driven over. He had to reach up and bang on the side of the thing to alert the driver. He ended up with a broken foot and couldn't work for eight months. One of the scenes that someone else ended up doing for him was Rip Van Winkle.

(31.22) The interaction where Charles throws Micah was orignally Charles throwing Bill and was the first thing that Noshir (Charles) filmed on set. With a mo-cap suit follows this big thing in front of the face that helps capture facial expressions (I think), and Noshir was like "I am going to wreck some shit" after being told that he wasn't allowed to turn his head to avoid his and Steve's (Bill) equipment crashing together and after being told over and over, they did it and the equipment indeed broke. So while standing in a T-pose after the set was done, he was just like "... I am so fired."

(6.45) Mick (Sean) and Roger (Arthur) actually knew one another before working on red dead together. Roger worked at a pub not far from the resturant that Mick worked at where they put plays on on the second floor and Roger would come and do readings. Roger auditioned for a part in a play around the beginning of rdr2, and he got the part however he had to cancel due to another bigger job he had gotten. And then Mick got the role of Sean and he figured it all out.

(36.40) Gabriel (Javier) started a rumor that the director was his dad, his stepdad. A lot of the new people on set would come up and be like "I feel like he doesn't like me" and Gabriel would be like "Oh don't worry that is just my dad, he likes you don't worry."

(41.30) Steve (Bill) and Ben (Dutch) would often stay in the same hotel when they were filming and they had this ritual called "Whiskey Hottop" where they would get in a hottop, pour themselves some whiskey and sit together. Sometimes Rob and Noshir would join as well.

(5.17) Rob and Ben knew one another as well from before the first red dead, as they both worked security at a bar called sky bar in Hollywood.

269 notes · View notes

logansargeantsbabymom · 4 months ago

Text

Limits Are For The Living

Kraven x Fem!Reader

Summary: Kraven has limits, Y/N has none

The first time I killed, I didn’t flinch. I remember the way his body crumpled—soundless, graceless. I remember the blood, thick and sweet on my tongue. But I don’t remember his name.

Names are irrelevant. Names imply humanity. I’ve long since stopped pretending I have any of that left.

Kraven still pretends. Not out loud, never with words—but in the pauses. In the hesitation before a throat is slit. In the second of eye contact he gives a man before ending him. He lets them die knowing they’re seen. I don’t. I kill like they’re already dead.

It’s what sets us apart.

We were tracking a man through the Lower East Side, and I could smell his fear four alleys away. Desperate sweat. Accelerated heartbeat. Piss-soaked jeans.

Kraven moved beside me with practiced precision. Always quiet. Always coiled. He thrives in the hunt, I’ll give him that. But when it’s over—when the screaming starts—he waits. Watches. Weighs the cost.

I do not.

We turned a corner. The target—a dealer, runner, thief, liar, pick one—bolted through a torn chain-link gate. I didn’t bother drawing my blade. I ran.

He didn’t make it past the third step of the fire escape before I was on him.

I dragged him down by the collar, metal screeching as his spine met the rusted stairs. His leg bent wrong on impact. He screamed.

“Shut up,” I said flatly.

“I didn’t mean to—!” he coughed, spitting blood. “I was just paid to deliver the crate— I didn’t know it was yours—!”

I pressed my boot to his throat. Not enough to kill. Not yet.

Kraven appeared behind me. Silent. His silhouette framed by a dying streetlamp.

“Y/N,” he said lowly, “he’s unarmed.”

“And?”

“He didn’t pull the trigger. He was a pawn.”

“So was I,” I said, tightening the pressure with my heel. “Look how I turned out.”

Kraven’s jaw flexed. I knew that look. The one where he wants to say don’t. The one where he wants to believe I can be reined in.

But I can’t. I wasn’t made with a leash.

“I don’t need a speech,” I told him. “I need a moment.”

Kraven stepped back. Not far, just enough to make it clear: This one’s mine.

The man beneath me was sobbing now. He clawed weakly at my ankle, lips quivering, voice cracking with useless pleas. “Please, I swear, I didn’t know who you were—!”

“That’s the point,” I said, crouching beside him. My voice never rose. It never had to. “You moved in our city. You touched what we claimed. You didn’t know who I was?”

I leaned closer, and he went still. “You will.”

And then I opened his throat.

No hesitation. No rage. No passion. Just precision.

It painted the bricks beside us. Warm. Viscous. Brief.

Kraven stood in the dark and didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I would’ve let him go,” he muttered eventually.

I wiped my blade clean on the man’s hoodie and rose.

“I know.”

He turned, jaw set hard. “You don’t think that matters?”

I tilted my head. “To you? Maybe.”

He walked. I followed.

Later, we stood in the warehouse. Cold. Abandoned. Ours.

Kraven poured two fingers of blood-whiskey into a glass and pushed it toward me.

“Drink,” he said.

I didn’t move.

“You think I need it?”

“I think you should remember how to feel something.”

I let the silence sit. Heavy. Quiet.

“I remember,” I said finally, taking the glass. “I just don’t care.”

Kraven studied me like he always did. Like he was trying to find the crack. He never will. There isn’t one.

“You scare the people who aren’t afraid of me,” he said. There was something between awe and warning in his voice.

“Good.”

He paced to the window. City lights flickered beyond broken panes. “I kill because it’s necessary. You kill because you like it.”

“No,” I corrected him calmly. “I kill because it’s what I am. There’s a difference.”

“You weren’t always this way.”

“You don’t know what I was.”

“I married you.”

“That doesn’t mean you knew me.”

His fist hit the windowsill hard. Wood splintered. “You think this is strength? You think being numb makes you untouchable?”

I stood. Walked toward him. Every movement smooth. Deliberate.

“No,” I said. “I think it makes me honest.”

He looked at me then—really looked. Like maybe he finally understood. I don’t hunt because I want revenge. I don’t kill because I’m angry. I do it because it’s clean. Because in those moments, I am more than alive. I’m real.

Kraven hunts to control the beast inside him. I hunt because I am the beast. There is no war inside me. No duality. No guilt. Only clarity.

And if that scares him, good. It should.

Because the only reason he’s still breathing… is that I let him.

#kraven the hunter x reader #kraven x you #kraven x reader #kraven movie #kraven the hunter #sergei kravinoff #aaron taylor johnson x fem reader #aaron taylor johnson #tangerine bullet train #atj #dave lizewski #kraven #marvel imagine #marvel #marvel masterlist #marvel masterpieces

116 notes · View notes

revasserium · 11 months ago

Note

Why does this scream second chance romance?

reqs are open!

at first sight

hayato suo; 6,284 words; fluff, slight angst, fem!reader, no "y/n", passing mentions of divorce, childhood friends to lovers, hurt/comfort (a little), the slowest of burns, suo is a simp, introspection, more plot than not

summary: and isn’t it strange, that a person doesn’t have to be dead to serve a haunting, how there only need be absence and sorrow and the utterly world-ending ache of what used to be?

a/n: this was not supposed to be this long or this self-indulgent but welp.

He sees you sometimes in his dreams, in the spaces right before he falls asleep — that sweet, weightless, liminal space where anything and everything is possible, even probable. He sees the shape of your laughter, feels the weight of your breath, can almost taste the sugarplum sweetness of your smile. He’d lose himself, then, in the firefly lights of your eyes.

On those nights, he wakes up with a scream curdling up the back of his throat like soured milk.

Because no matter how hard he tries to hold onto the good memories, the ones bathed in the precious, pale gold of summer sun, truth always slips through like a sharp, silver knife. Cold. Ruthless. Unrelenting.

“— so, I know we don’t know each other very well but… you’ve done so much for our shop and my grandma is so grateful and… it always makes me so happy to see you come by —”

The girl in front of him is pretty, in the delicate, unassuming way that all young girls might be called pretty. She is dark, pin-straight hair and thin-rimmed glasses. Suo can tell that she’s put on a sparkly sheen of lip-gloss just for this occasion. Her cheeks are tinted sunset pink; there’s a letter in her hands.

“Thank you,” he says, dipping his head, his hand linked behind his back, his expression schooled into one of polite affectation, the most gentle rejection. He listens to her run herself out, babbling on about visits and admiration and the shape of him outside the shop window, how her heart would skip a beat. He finds himself, wistfully, thinking about the shape of you — when you were small enough to wiggle under the fence in his backyard, dirt caked under your nails, your hair always chopped short, one of your front teeth missing as you tossed pebbles at his windows.

“I’m… sorry,” he says, finally, when the girl presses the letter into the center of his chest, bowing low enough for her long silky hair to cover her face. He slowly folds his fingers over the letter, giving her hand a squeeze as he presses it back towards her.

“B-but…” she looks up; there are tears in her eyes, “why…?”

“I suppose,” he says, voice light and conversational, almost as if he were remarking on the weather, “I’m just not the dating type.”

The girl mumbles something before sniffling and wiping at her eyes. She is, Suo admits, not a very pretty crier. But then again, he thinks, most people aren’t. She nods again, as if to herself, clutching her unopened letter to her chest before dropping into another deep bow and dashing off. Suo can hear the clipped echoes of her sobs as she races down the near empty streets, and he sighs.

He turns on his heels and makes his slow way back to his own house, the place small and empty, but clean. The single wooden shelf is lined with books, alphabetized. His futon is folded neatly in his closet. He goes through the motions of making tea, pouring the boiling water over the dried leaves, watching them unfurl. He breathes in deep and thinks of you —

You were the one who first taught him how to brew tea, your small hands not yet big enough to hold a teapot proper, but whatever you’d lacked in skill, you made up for in determination. He’d always admired that about you, the sheer recklessness of your nature that bled, somehow, into courage in his young mind.

“Careful! It’s hot…” he’d warned, reaching out to catch your wrist, but too late, the water had already spilled a little and you wince, but you don’t let go, your arms quaking as you set the scalding teapot down, biting down on your lips to keep from crying out.

“I know it’s hot! But you gotta use hot water if you wanna make good tea!”

And there, through the misty haze of steam rising from the pair of cups, sitting across the table from you, Suo thinks you’re the most beautiful creature in the entire world.

He loses you, he reflects, the same way he loses most things in his life — accidentally and to the well-tempered beat of fate from which no one can escape. One minute you were right there in front of him and the next, well…

“Moving…?” he says the word as if he’d never heard it before. You sigh, nodding, staring listlessly into empty space, your knees curled up and pressed into your chest, your chin propped on your crossed arms.

Suo blinks, “But… where are you moving to?”

You shrug, “Tokyo, I think,” you say the word with a soft resignation only found in those who have seen and lost, seen and lost again. Suo thinks he understands; looking back, he’s not sure he did just then.

“Because of… your dad’s work?”

“Yeah. He says that if his company does well there, we’d be ‘set for life’ — whatever that means,” you say, picking at a bit of invisible lint on your sleeves.

“But… what about your mom? And the teashop?”

You purse your lips, mulling over your words as if you’ve got a sour cherry pit caught beneath your tongue.

“She says… she can’t leave it. So… she’s staying here.”

“Oh,” Suo says, sitting back against his bedroom wall. Even back then, he was smart enough to understand the implications.

You nod.

Judging by the look on your face, so are you.

“So… when…” he can’t really make out the words; there’s something stuck in his throat that feels oddly like an entire handful of sand.

“End of the month,” you say, finally looking up at him to catch his eyes. And there, he sees the insurmountable sadness, the longing he’d sometimes catch a glimpse of in the slanted summer light. As if you’re waiting for him to do something, to say something. He could never figure out what exactly it was you’d wanted him to do. To say.

Stay.

He’d later realize.

Please.

He’d repeat the words to himself in the encroaching dark, lying on his futon, watching the light cast on his walls go from white to gray to gold, and slowly, sinking into cool, hollow blackness.

Don’t go.

He mouths the words until he can almost taste the shape of them on his tongue. He swallows around them like a fistful of sand, flips onto his side, and tries to go to sleep.

You appear before him like a daydream, a near mirage in the summer heat. One second, he’s laughing with Nirei at something Sakura’s said, and the next, he’s standing stock still, staring at the end of the street where he’s sure he’d just seen you —

You look older now, but then so does he, and your hair is longer, but the shape of your laughter, the light of your eyes — he wouldn’t miss those anywhere. Not then, not now, not ever. Even after all these years.

“Suo-san…?” Nirei peers up into his face, tugging on his sleeve.

“Hm? Oh sorry — I just thought —” he glances back at the end of the street. Just a large van and a few young workers, hauling things out from the back.

“Oh, there’s a new teahouse opening in town! That must be them, moving in!” Nirei says, cheerful and oblivious as always.

“What’s a teahouse do, anyway?” Sakura asks, picking at his ear and flicking something off the end of his pinky.

“Uhm… make tea?” Nirei offers.

“Yeah, but don’t we all know how to make — where the hell’s he goin’?”

Suo takes off down the street, whipping passed their usual haunts, the taiyaki shop, the okonomiyaki stand, Pothos cafe, to the corner of the street, just where the sidewalk threatens to curve into some more residential place —

“Oi!” Sakura calls after him but he doesn’t listen.

There — that sound. Sugarplum and silver bells.

The space is undone, the door propped open with a wooden crate, the young men with the moving company tutting as they grunt and step around Suo to carry more boxes into the space, setting them down along the walls.

“— there’s good, oh no — not that one — that one goes… oh here’s good! Thanks!”

You.

He sees you like something from his wildest daydreams, the shape of you in smoke and stardust — the light twisting and twining around you as if it knows, treating you differently than it might all the other people and objects in the room, focusing around you to paint you in richer tones, in brighter lights and deeper shadows. The air seems to gather around you like a held breath.

And for a moment, Suo himself forgets quite completely that he himself might need to breathe as well.

You turn your eyes on him and the world seems to shift focus like a camera lens shifting zoom. Everything blurs, sound slows, drags, distorts. The room around you fades until it’s nothing more than a suggestion of shapes and space.

Suo sucks in a breath.

“Sorry — we’re not quite open y…”

Your voice trails off, and vaguely, Suo thinks that you sound different than you did before. But there’s still the same lovely cadence to your words, the rounded edges, the crispness of your diction, the sheer weight of your conviction in the things you say and how you might will them into truth.

“It’s… been a while,” he says. His own voice is weak, wavering, dry and scratchy and sounding nothing like himself but he sees the moment you recognize him, wholly and completely.

“H-Hayato-kun!”

“Oi, Suo — who’re you —” Sakura rams a shoulder into him at this exact moment, Nirei pattering close behind, trying to hold him back. Sakura blinks at you, his head flicking between you and Suo as if watching an invisible tennis match. And then, some understand seeps into the depths of his eyes and his cheeks go a ruddy shade of pink.

“Uh — sorry, I didn’t — who —” he looks bewildered and awkward all at once.

“We’re Suo-san’s friends — from Boufuurin!” Nirei cuts in, finally succeeding in tugging Sakura to one side and peering around the rather narrow door frame. He bows slightly before jumping half a meter in the air as a mover clears his throat loudly behind the group of boys now clogging the door way.

You jerk out of your reverie and point the mover towards an empty corner before making your way over, your steps steady. It takes everything in Suo’s being not to move, to neither shift forward, to press into your personal space just to make sure you’re really real, or to turn tail and run till he doesn’t have the breath to keep running any more.

He can’t tell which he’d prefer more, but he knows that neither is the best option right now.

So, he forces himself to stand still, to wait for you to come to him.

And you do, drifting over in a cloud of light linen and a flower patterned apron.

“Hi! Long time no see!”

Suo registers faintly that though your hair is longer, but your bangs are still choppy, and the ends of your hair badly cut, as if you’d gotten annoyed one day and tried to do it with kitchen scissors. He bites back a smile at the image. But there are other subtle changes too — the round babyfat on your cheeks slimming out to a sweet, heart-shaped face, the hugeness of your eyes, almost alien-like in your child years, now balanced out by the depths of your features. Your lips are small and plush as an overripe plum — that, at least, hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Yeah… what… are you doing here?” he asks, still struck dumb by the sight of you here, in Makochi.

You raise an eyebrow and Suo almost feels the motion like a gut-punch, the familiarity of it overriding your older features until he can’t really tell if he’s living in the present or if he’s been suddenly and unwillingly shunted into the past.

You scoff, “Opening a teahouse, duh!”

Nirei laughs and Sakura lets out a snicker that kicks Suo out of his stupor. He clears his throat, having the decency to at least look abashed.

“Sorry, yes — that much is obvious. Is there… anything we can do to help?” he tries to ground himself in the established notions of aiding the citizens of Makochi. At least here, he knows what he has to do. His voice evens out, his smile returns.

You regard him with that same, questioning look before casting your eyes around the room.

“Sure! Plenty to do if you guys have the time —” and then you start pointing to the various tasks they might help with.

Nirei and Sakura jump to, already used to the pattern, with Suo trailing behind them, moving slower than usual, his limbs feeling heavy, as if they’re full of lead. It takes them the better part of the afternoon to help you set up most of the bigger pieces of furniture. And somehow, by the time they’re done, a good chunk of the freshman class is there, chattering and laughing, lounging at the newly built tables.

“Alright! Who wants some tea? Fresh and on the house — consider it payment for a job well-done!” you clap your hands, grinning as the boys all cheer.

Suo keeps quiet, sitting at a corner table with Sakura beside him, Nirei across. It isn’t until Sakura digs his elbow rather painfully into Suo’s ribs that he turns his face towards them, hitching a smile to his face.

“Hm?”

“What’s with you?” Sakura asks, never one to mince words. Across from them, Nirei nibbles on his lips as if debating on whether or not to add on to Sakura’s line of questioning

“What do you mean?” Suo asks, folding his hands carefully on the table. He’s not fooling anyone; he knows, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least try.

Finally, impulse wins out and Nirei blurts out —

“You’ve been staring at that girl all afternoon and — and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that before. And you’re the one that gets the most confessions out of anyone in our year, so it figures that if this girl c-can capture your attention like this, she must be someone really special.”

He finishes slightly out of breath, before ducking behind his little notebook, even though he’s holding it upside-down.

Suo lets out a helpless laugh.

“I didn’t know you were keeping track of how many confessions all of us got — that statistic seems irrelevant to our fighting abilities, no?”

“Quit tryna change the subject,” Sakura cuts in, loudly.

Suo sighs, nodding, “I was getting there. We —” he cuts off, clearing his throat as he feels his entire body catch on the edge of the confession.

He takes a deep breath and starts again, this time, pressing a slight smile between his lips, taking on a tone as if telling a story about someone else.

“We were neighbors growing up.”

Nirei blinks, “Is… that it?”

Suo’s smile goes a bit stiff and plastic, “More or less.”

“Liar,” Sakura folds his arms, frowning as he stares Suo down. His cheeks are still pink, but there’s a determined glint behind his eyes that never bodes well.

“Ah… well,” Suo weighs his options, but then lilts his head and shrugs, “you caught me — we were a bit more than just neighbors… more like childhood friends.”

Sakura narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. Suo looks down at his hands, laced carefully on the wooden table before he speaks again.

“We… spent a lot of time together and… her mother owned a teashop like this one.”

“Oh! A family business!” Nirei says.

Suo opens his mouth to correct him but your voice cuts him off.

“You still have them!”

A finger slips along the long tassels of his earring and Suo nearly jerks away, casting his eyes up to find you, a familiar teapot in your now steady hands, your eyes somehow bright and dark at the same time as you look down at him.

“Oh… yes, I —” again, he feels his throat catch, “of course I did. You were the one who made them for me.”

You let out a light laugh, setting a few teacups down at their table and prepping their tea.

“You didn’t have to — I’m surprised they held up after all these years. You know I bought the red beads at the craft store right?”

“Yeah, you… you used your New Years money. I remember…”

“And you helped me pick out the tassels from the lady who sells lucky knots at the market!” you say all this as if it weren’t one of his most precious memories, as if he hadn’t gone to great lengths to make sure the earrings you gave him (one of the only things you’d ever given them, other than perhaps a broken heart) never came to any harm.

Across from him, he can see Nirei putting the pieces together. Next to him, Sakura seems stunned still by the same revelation.

“If I’d know you’d like them so much, I would’ve made you a few more pairs. At least that way, you can try to match them with your clothes,” you grin, leaning down to seep their tea. Suo watches as the hot water washes over the dried leaves, rehydrating them till they each unfurl into their own shape. A deep, floral fragrance fills the air and he feels his stomach both twist and settle in the same motion.

“Jasmine green,” he says.

“Mhm. Your favorite. It’s a little basic but I love it too.” You shoot him a surreptitious wink. Then, you pause, “Ah — but it might not be your favorite anymore, I guess —”

“It still is,” Suo says before you can second guess yourself.

The smile that re-alights your face is nearly blinding in it’s brilliance.

“Anyway, I’ll leave the water here for you guys, yeah?” you set the teapot down next to Suo’s elbow, flash them all one more smile before twirling around and going to serve the next table.

It isn’t until much after dark that everyone leaves and Suo, having made up some vague excuse to linger, finally has you to himself. You hum as you flit from table to table, wiping them down and pushing in the chairs. Suo watches you for a solid minute before moving to help.

“Thanks,” you say, as he helps you push in the last chair and you wipe a forearm across your forehead with a long breath, “phew! Ma really made it look easy back in the day, but this is hard work! And we’re not even officially opened yet!”

“We’ll come by to help whenever we can,” Suo says, the response automatic.

You nod, folding the tablecloth neatly into a square and setting it on the counter.

The silence thickens around you, swirling and charged. Suo grasps for something to say, anything to say. He wishes you’d do something — turn on a light, hum another song, say something strange and outlandish, punch him, perhaps.

You do none of those things. Instead, you wipe your hands on your apron and turn to look at him, your eyes huge in the darkness.

“I’ve missed you.”

It nearly knocks him from his feet. The quiet force of your words, the raw-edged honesty behind them. The way your voice doesn’t waver. The way you say them not like an accusation but an admittance. He thinks he really would’ve preferred if you punched him instead.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling breathless, heat cresting up his chest, and suddenly, he’s thankful for the darkness within the not-yet-opened teashop.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He feels hollowed out by the confession, as if just speaking the words had carved him clean, so clean that the words echo through him, reverberating through his bones till he feels it down to his marrow. He hadn’t known that missing a person could feel like this, or that the word could mean so much until he’d said it out loud.

Missing. The lack thereof. A nothing where there used to be something.

It is a wrongness in the matrix, a hole, an abnormality.

It’s as if he’d been sleeping on the mattress from the Princess and the Pea ever since the day you’d left, a subtle incorrectness that permeated every single moment of every day, so obvious in it’s presence that it had folded back into itself and become something.

That the lack of you was a presence in and of itself, a living ghost that had loomed over him, slinked behind his shadow, hovered over his shoulder until —

He reaches out to touch you, fingers skimming against the skin of your cheek.

You lean into his touch, the motion slight but he catches it almost immediately, and the force of it is the catalyst that propels him forward. He tugs you into his chest and holds you there, burying his face in your hair.

“I — I’ve missed you…” he says again, and you nod, fingers crumpling in his school uniform as you press your forehead into his chest.

“Y-you’re so much taller than before — it’s not fair,” you say, your voice muffled by his shirt. He laughs, ruffling your hair for a second before his fingers so soft and he’s running them through from root to end.

“If I had a sister, I’d tell her to keep her hair long, so I could braid it,” he’d once told you when the two of you were barely in elementary school. You’d tugged at the ends of your chopped short hair and frowned.

“Ugh — I could never grow my hair out long. It’ll just get in the way!”

“It’s longer,” he says now, tugging at the ends even as he takes half a step away, releasing you from his embrace. You glance down at the uneven bits, crinkling your nose in distaste.

“I — I tried to grow it out but… I kept getting annoyed.”

“Yeah, I thought so but… I’ve always liked your hair short.”

“You have?”

“Yeah —”

I’ve always loved everything about you.

He swallows, “Short hair… just fits you.”

You stare up at him for a second longer before nodding, your eyes flickering away.

“Yeah. Guess it does, huh.”

Something clunks in Suo’s chest.

You turn away and he has to physically beat down the panic rising in his chest.

“W-where do you live now? I’ll walk you back. It’s not safe to walk around alone in the dark,” the words tumble from him like a bag of spilled marbles, scattering across the hardwood floors.

You turn back to regard him with a curious look.

“I — I live above the teahouse. So…” you shoot him a lopsided grin, a finger pointed up towards the ceiling of the teahouse.

“Oh. Right.” Suo blinks, watching you watching him before he notices the flight of stairs behind the open door in the back of the room.

“You wanna walk me to the stairs?” you ask, grin slanting sideways till its positively devilish and Suo feels a shiver kiss it’s way up his spine.

“I mean, it’s dangerous to walk alone in the dark, right?” you tease, before turning and slinking towards the back room door. Suo hesitates for a second before he sighs, shaking his head and following behind you.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs just as you pause on the step right above him. You twist around to face him, and the sudden closeness catches his breath in his lungs. Like this, he can feel the heat of your skin, can smell the shampoo in your hair — the same one you’d used when the pair of you were still kids, apple blossom and aloe.

You cock your head, your faces now on a level, your eyes searching his.

It’s so dark, but even in this lack of light, he can make out every single feature of your face.

“I think I can make it up the stairs by myself,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, conspiratorial and low.

Suo lets out a small laugh, nodding, “Good. It wouldn’t be right for a gentleman to leave a lady feeling unsafe at this time of night.”

Your head slowly cocks the other way; he’d almost forgotten that habit of yours, like a sparrow listening for the rustle of leaves or the first breath of autumn wind.

“Since when’ve you been a gentleman?” you ask, still in that soft, whisper-voice, the kind of voice that compels the listener to lean closer, to tip forward until they’re falling into something they don’t even have the name for —

“And… more importantly, since when have I ever been a lady?”

He kisses you then. Or perhaps, you kiss him first. It doesn’t matter — or perhaps it does, or it will. But not now, not in the soft, nebulous darkness that surrounds you, not when your fingers are curling into his hair and his palms are settling at your waist.

And there are no fireworks, but there is light — electricity coursing through his body and yours, neurons firing and firing and firing. A cataclysm of yes and more and finally.

The first time you break apart, Suo is breathless; the second time, he feels punch drunk; by the third, he’s determined that this must be what it’s like to be thoroughly inebriated. His head is spinning, his face is hot, he has to remind himself of where his hands might be — oh, there — one in your hair and the other pressing you to him so hard he’s certain it’ll leave a mark.

The thought pleases him more than it should. Or perhaps it pleases him just as much as it should and always will.

“H-Hayato…"

“Mm — stay — please…” his voice is nearly broken as he drops his had into your shoulder; he takes a shaky breath, “don’t go.”

You let yourself be held, the pair of you propped awkwardly on the first few steps of the stairs, your fingers threading through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere… this is my house now.”

Suo nods, vaguely aware that there are questions he wants to ask you — how’s your mother? Where’s your father? How are you here, alone, opening this teashop by yourself? Living here, by yourself?

But he will get to those later, tomorrow maybe. Right now, he forces his head up and regards you with hazy, blown-out eyes and kiss-slick lips.

“If I sleep on the floor, can I —”

You laugh, running a thumb along his cheek.

“We’ve shared a bed before and nothing’s happened. You don’t have to sleep on the floor — bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Suo presses his lips for a second before shaking his head.

“It’s not that. I just… don’t think I could trust myself.”

There’s a hoarse, ragged edge to his voice that has you chewing on the inside of your cheek. He glances up the stairs and offers you a weak smile. You consider him for a second more before nodding.

“Yeah, c’mon. I’ll show you where the futons are.”

Upstairs, your bedroom is silver and alien with moonlight. It seems too bright, too sharp. But you step into it and suddenly, everything is alright again. You both wash up in silence, and you dig up an ancient band t-shirt from somewhere in your closet. He wonders how long you’d been here already — how many days and night he’d spent mere minutes from you.

He lays down in the futon after you slip beneath your sheets. He watches the shape of you as you shift this way and that.

Finally, you say, “Night, Hayato.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says.

And he falls asleep counting the sound of your breaths against the rhythm of his own, thundering heartbeats.

“Y-you what?!”

Sakura’s face is tomato red and Nirei looks just about ready to go into anaphylactic shock. Across the classroom, Kiryuu, who’s obviously been listening in, catches Suo’s eye and gives him a cheeky thumbs up.

Suo smiles, cheery and unabashed.

“I slept over.”

“B-b-but — you — I — she just —” Nirei seems to be fighting against some invisible force inside himself even as Sakura continues to gape.

Suo chuckles, nodding.

“Yeah, she moved here last week — it’s a total coincidence that we met up again. She had no idea that I was even here.”

He thinks back to the quiet moments of the morning, of waking up to find you sitting up in bed, staring out the window, your hair mussed and a little frizzy. He remembers the way the morning light had dappled the soft of your skin, how you’d smiled and asked him how he slept.

“Well. Better than I’ve slept in…” he clears his throat, suddenly self conscious of the gravel there. And here, in the unforgiving light of day, the night before seems miraculous and distant. Had he really held you in the dark like that? Kissed you till you’d said his name like something of a prayer?

Had he really held your hand all the way up the stairs?

You catch his eyes and smile, and like this, looking up at you as the rising sun halos itself around your shape, Suo wonders if he still might be dreaming. Because surely, surely — heaven couldn’t have been so close as this.

“So, what do you want for breakfast?” you ask, swinging your legs out of bed, your pale feet pattering against the fresh tatami floors. Suo is momentarily stunned by the sight of your bare legs, the large shirt you wore to bed now somehow terribly short and insufficient as it brushes by the middle of your thighs.

He swallows and forces himself to look away, to shake his head and focus on the words you’d said.

“Whatever you want to make,” he says, by way of an answer.

You hum as you cook, putting a bowl of rice in the microwave and putting on a pot of water to boil. The kitchen here is smaller than the one up front, in the main body of the teahouse, but it feels more homely, every surface effused with a sort of lived-in quality — clean, but rounded at the edges as if worn down by the love of days and weeks and months.

“How long…” he tries his voice again, only to find it wanting. He lets his words trail off and hopes that you understand.

“Hm? How long have I been here? Just a week. It was weird — my mom had bought this place a while back, and started the renovations, but I’d never had time to visit.”

“And where…” again, his voice trails off, his palms pressing flat to the thin counter, his eyes tracking the shape of you as you flitter through the small kitchen like a bird or maybe just a trick of the light.

“She’s not here,” you say, your movements slowing as you take the boiling water from the stovetop and pour it over some rough tealeaves, letting them seep for a few minutes before straining them out and tossing them into the trash.

“She’s… in Tokyo, finalizing the divorce with Pa.”

“Oh.”

His mind makes several inferences at once, even as he watches you soak the rice in the steaming hot tea and split the ochazuke into two bowls.

“I thought they’d… already done that,” he admit, nodding his thanks as you hand him a bowl and offer him a container of store-bought furikake. He takes it and shakes some over his bowl before handing it back.

“Yeah. Most people did.” You don’t offer up anything more and the both of you eat in silence. He polishes off the entire bowl and feels the heat settle in his stomach like a gap being filled.

“So… will she come after… everything is settled?” he choses his words carefully, peering up at you over the empty dishes. You slurp noisily at your own breakfast before licking your lips.

“Yeah, but who knows how long that’ll take? Might be weeks, might be — years, or something…” you drag the back of a hand across your lips and reaches over to pluck the empty bowl from his hands, dropping everything into the sink to soak.

“C’mon, don’t you have school or something to get ready for?”

“So… she’s here to stay?” Nirei asks, his eyes a bit overbright as Suo relays a version of the story, skirting tactfully around the more tender parts.

“Yeah, as far as I know. I promised we’d come by after school today to help her set up some more — you don’t mind, do you?”

“Nope! Not at all!” Nirei beams, but Sakura’s eyes are narrowed. Suo turns his gaze on Sakura and tilts his head with a questioning smile.

Sakura’s cheeks redden, “It’s just — ah, whatever — never mind!”

And no amount of prodding or teasing could tantalize him into saying more.

Time passes by strangely after that — at times slugging by slow as molasses, at others jumping forward in great leaps and bounds. Suo spends nearly every waking moment when he’s not at school or on patrols with you, sometimes simply sitting in the corner of the teahouse, flipping through a book, watching as you served your growing roster of regular customers, at times helping you catalogue new shipments of tea and organizing them by type, brew time, and temperature.

Sometimes, when the light catches you in just the right way, Suo finds himself arrested by the sight, and it’s times like these when he’d tug you forward, a finger under your chin, his lips gentle on yours till he can taste the tang of your smile.

“I heard you’re quite the lady’s man,” you say, casually one day, brewing a test batch of a new varietal of white tea.

“Oh? And where might you have heard such a thing?” Suo grins, pillowing his chin on the heel of his hand, watching you as he always does.

“Just the baker’s granddaughter — she goes the prep school I do, you know the one in the next neighborhood over?”

“Ah… that.”

Your grin goes lopsided as you carefully blow on the top of your teacup and take a dainty sip.

“You got your hair cut,” he says, smiling as he rakes his eye over the cut of your bob, tickling just beneath your earlobe. You go slightly cross-eyed as you tug a strand down over your forehead before blowing it away again.

“Yeah. Figured it was about time I got a proper haircut.”

“I liked it the way it was before.”

“You did?”

“Sure I did. I’ve always loved everything about you.”

Between you, a single column of steam rises in a slow, lazy spiral from the surface of your half-drunk cup. And like this, Suo thinks you’re still the most beautiful creature he’s ever, ever seen.

Your blush is quick and brilliant. Your eyes cut away; you push your hair behind your ears.

“Don’t changed the subject — so what’s this she said about you not really being one for dating, hm?”

Suo shrugs, “I’m not.”

You quirk an eyebrow.

“Then…” you blink at him, cheeks flushing darker and darker, “what do you call this?”

Suo fixes you with a steady look, and now, his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks to you, because he knows that he’d never let the certainty of you slip away from him again. This time, he knows the words to say — knows without the shadow of a doubt his truth, and yours, too.

“I don’t know what I’d call it but… I know that I’ve never really believed in dating.”

You lick your lips, setting the cup down with a soft clack.

“Then what do you believe in?”

Suo doesn’t miss a beat.

“I suppose… I’ve always just believed in soulmates.”

Your mouth falls open ever so slightly. Suo smiles as he reaches forward to tug the strand of hair free from behind your ear just to run his thumb over the smooth, silken ends.

“And, I’ve always, always believed in love at first sight.”

313 notes · View notes

lqveharrington · 1 year ago

Text

Behind the Scenes | V.

summary: Being Vox’s girlfriend requires some patience after twelve hour work days.

pairing: Vox x fem!reader

includes: Vox and Velvette bullying one another, VALENTINO BEING A MENACE, mentions of Angel’s job, drinking, fluff, yelling, Vox being a baby, cursing, implications of being a prostitute, suggestiveness, both of them being teases (that’s it, let me know if i missed any!)

a/n: i think writing hazbin fics is my stress outlet 😭

You were Vox’s. And Vox was yours. Every demon and sinner in Pride Ring knew due to Vox taking time out of his busy work day to shower you with compliments in every press interview or host show when you were brought up. Especially when Vox would be the first one to find you after you finished modeling for Velvette’s show, making sure the paparazzi had photos of him praising you with kisses and soft touches.

Of course, you reciprocated every moment… In the public eye. Behind the cameras and screens, Vox was very much loving. But he did work for almost twelve hours each day, which required patience from you whenever he came home to you in a sour mood.

“Do you need me for anything else, Vel?” You glance back at your phone as you pour red wine into your glass.

“No,” She scribbled down measurement adjustments for another model’s design, looking back up at her screen after hearing an electrical shock from your side of the phone. “But do tell your boy toy that you have a dress rehearsal early tomorrow morning, and that you have to be there on time.”

Vox wrapped his arm around your waist, glaring at the young overlord through your phone. “Fuck off, Velvette.”

You feel him resting his head against your shoulder as he presses soft kisses on your neck, your dead heart fluttering. “I’ll be there on time.”

“Good.” She rolled her eyes at your boyfriend’s actions before ending the call.

“What’s your damage today, handsome?” You ask before sipping on your drink, red lipstick staining the clear glass. You watch as he mutters something incoherent, static emitting from his hat. “Vox, talk to me.”

“That bitch Carmilla won’t meet up, and it’s been several days since our last update on Vox technology.” He sighs as he moves around you, his voice crackling with electricity. “Shareholders have been up my fucking ass all morning about it— Valentino keeps trying to get me to watch his stupid porn feels featuring Angel.”

He removes his suit jacket as he complains, walking toward the large living space including a minibar. Vox pulls at his tie and reaches for the whiskey underneath, “Now Velvette wants to be an ass and complain about me wanting to spend time with you—“

“My love,” You hand him a glass from the cabinets, letting your hand linger on his for a bit. “Vel’s my boss, and I’m her best model. She needs me for these rehearsals.”

“You’re really taking her side?” He tilts back his head and downs the drink in one go, pouring another.

You roll your eyes at his childish behavior, “I’m not taking sides, I’m pointing out a fact.” You sit on the stool by the bar, letting him slot himself between your legs. “If anything, I’m listening to you describing your day.”

“Mm.” He let one hand come down and rest on your hip, rubbing soft circles. “Tell me about your day.”

“Boring, tiring. Pretty much the same every day.” You grab his wrist to ensure he doesn’t go any lower or any higher. “According to your assistant, I do have a lot of things planned tomorrow. So that should be exhausting.”

Vox linked your hands together, “Sounds stressful.”

“Not as bad as yours every day.” You press a kiss on his palm. “I was gonna watch a movie while waiting for you, but now that you’re here—“ You shift your wine glass in your hand as he puts his own glass down, letting him trail his hands to your waist. “Want to join me?”

“Of course.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips before trailing after you. “What movie are we watching?”

“Whatever the first thing I find.” You let Vox sit on the couch before doing the same, swinging your legs over his lap. “You need a new rotation on Voxflix, I’ve watched almost everything.”

“I’ll get on that.” He mumbled as he ran his hand up and down your leg, occasionally squeezing.

You hum and shift your gaze to the television, scrolling through the different movies. “How do we feel about—“

A ringtone filled the air, both of you freezing at the noise.

“Vox—“

“Give me a second.” He let you pull your legs away and pulled the ringing from his screen to his phone, camera-ready voice leaving his mouth.

You sigh but find a movie worth watching, pulling your knees up. Around halfway through, you decided that the movie was meretricious, heavily judging the poorly made movie more than the other ones you’ve watched. You typed your review on your phone, giving the movie two stars before—

“—THEN GET SOME LOW LIFE SINNER TO DO YOUR FUCKING JOB FOR YOU!” You heard Vox scream from the kitchen, making you wince for the poor soul on the other end. “AND IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE SHIT I GIVE YOU, JUST KNOW I HAVE YOUR FUCKING SOUL IN CONTRACT!”

You pause the movie and get up, taking slow steps to your hotheaded boyfriend. He shuffled across the kitchen, walking back and forth as his fans kicked on. His white shirt was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up like he was going to commit a crime.

“YOU LITTLE PIECE OF—“

“Vox,” You come up from behind and wrap your arms around his chest, resting your head on his shoulder. “It’s outside of your work hours.”

“Fucking—“ He rubbed his temple as he heard the sinner go silent on the other line. Vox took one hand and laced it with yours, “You’re lucky my wife is generous you ungrateful fuck.” He ended the call before muttering more curses, turning you in his arms so you were facing his front.

You let your hands move up to his shoulders, massaging the heavy tension in them. “Am I your wife now? Is that what you’ve been telling those sinners?”

“Maybe.” He let out a loud groan from the sensation, fans still running. “The fucking bitch in accounting is—“

“You’re not working right now, stop.” You give him a pointed look. “I need you to relax.”

Vox wrapped his arms around your waist, walking you backward toward the living area once more. “God, I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too.” You chuckle as he peppers kisses on your face. You let out a noise of surprise when he pulls you into his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for support. “Vox!”

“Yes?” He pressed kisses to your exposed collarbone.

You sigh in content but grab the corners of his screen, giving him a cheeky grin. “Tomorrow, my love. Velvette will murder the both of us if I show up late with bruises.”

“I’ll pay her to let you have a day off tomorrow.” He slipped his hand up your shirt, sharp claws bringing chills to your skin.

“So now you’re paying to be with me?” You raise a brow, stifling a laugh when he stops all movements. “Am I some kind of—“

“Of course not! Do not finish that sentence.” He pushed you down on the couch, covering your mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You laugh at how protective he is over you from himself. “I know you didn’t mean it like that, I was kidding.”

Vox dropped his head down to your shoulder, “You’re such a tease.”

“I’m the best.” You squeeze his bicep. “But seriously, Vel will have our heads strung outside the tower.”

“Whatever.” He flipped you both over, letting you rest your head on his chest. “I’ll have you all to myself this weekend.”

You hum, pressing a kiss on the corner of his screen. “I’m sure you do, handsome.”

“My love, I will cancel all your plans this weekend if you tell me I can’t have you.” Vox traces his finger down your spine. “Don’t tell me you have any.”

“I don’t…” You turn your head as he runs his claws through your hair. You feel yourself warm as he wraps a blanket over the both of you, flicking the television to play with a snap of his fingers.

“What do we rate the movie today?” He played with the ends of your hair, face pulling a grimace at the movie’s corny script.

“Two stars.” You mumble as your gaze shifts to the television. As the television fades to black in an awkward transition, you see Vox staring at you rather than the screen. “What are you looking at, weirdo?”

“My beautiful girlfriend.” He squeezed your hip. “Who I love very much.”

You let a small laugh slip through your lips, grinning brightly at his words. “I love you very much too, weirdo.”

846 notes · View notes

insanity6666 · 3 months ago

Text

Molten Hearts 1.5

An interlude before we get to the Big Guy himself.

After reaching your quarters to hide and process, a friend comes to your unexpected aid in an unexpected way.

Part 1

(Pardon if the link to the first one doesn't work I am still new to editing posts and the like)

Warnings, if any: There is alcohol, but they only get mildly drunk/buzzed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, as you had for the past hour, clutching your pillow, as you lay sprawled haphazardly upon your bed. You had stopped crying thirty minutes ago, and had gotten over the manic giggle fit around ten minutes back as the ridiculousness of the situation finally hit you.

You were proposed to.

By accident.

By Vulkan.

“Salt and Stars.” You groaned, shoving the pillow in your face to muffle the sound as it devolved into either a sob or hiccup or laugh or… something. You’re not quite sure. But it was dramatic, which you think you’re allowed to be, considering the circumstances.

How did this even happen? How did you end up married, technically, to a Primarch?

‘Oh fuck,’ You sit up, launching your pillow halfway across the room as you did, as you realise, ‘There had been witnesses. His sons had been right there!’

“Oh for fucksakes…!” You whined, diving into overdramatic cries as you buried your face in your hands. This was a diplomatic incident waiting to happen! What the hell were you supposed to do? How were you to explain this? To anyone? Vulkan, the bastard, doesn’t even realise the situation he’s put you in. Perfectly oblivious to the incident that’s primed like a bomb ready to go off at the slightest disturbance, and it had rested right upon your head all the way back to your quarters.

Another realisation.

Shit. Shit!

You had walked all the way to your quarters. While wearing the circlet. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Ohdeargodhadanyoneseenyou-

A hiss cut through your thoughts as a figure strutted through the doorway. Mitzi, another remembrancer recruited from your home planet, waltzed in carrying a bag no doubt laden with dubiously-acquired spoils. The shorter woman stopped dead at the sight of you, mid-panic, and announced plainly-

“Glad I got the good stuff.”

-Before she unceremoniously dumped the contents on the bed, making a show of all she had managed to get. You also spied a bottle of something familiar, and almost cried at the sight. It was the good stuff, too.

“I’ll get the glasses.” You say, even though you’re tempted to just drink from the bottle. However you just made a new set of drinking glasses and you figured you might as well use them now.

“Why get glasses when its already in glass?” Mitzi teased as she settled on the bed, arranging the pillows and settling in as she began to sort the food and drinks she had brought in. You quickly joined her, jumping on the bed and ruining her work to sort the packages by size and colour.

“I could make an argument for civility, but really if I take that bottle, you aren’t getting it back.” You joke with a sly smile, handing over a glass that had sections tinted so it looked like a salamander beast was weaving around the glass from within. A little on the nose, but it was mostly for practice and they turned out better than you expected. So you kept it as a personal set.

Mitzi blew a raspberry as she took the offered glass, and immediately set about pouring herself an unhealthy amount of alcohol, and handed the bottle to you. You also poured an unseemly amount of alcohol into your cup, and you both tapped the glasses together with a happy ‘cheers!’ before downing half your cups and descending upon the hapless snacks piled between you two.

Thankfully, as you both wiled your time away with good food and drink, your friend didn’t ask about what had put you in such a state when she walked in. Curious, most certainly, by the looks she kept giving you. She would ask, eventually, if you didn’t speak up, but she was kind enough to keep her curiosity in check at least for a while yet.

Something you were thankful for. It allowed you to ignore, and even forget a few times, the box sitting quietly on your desk somehow impossible not to notice, even when turned away from it.

You giggled into your cup, refilled and emptied twice, and would need a third refill soon. Mitzi was cackling as she recounted her time confusing a young Salamander when she explained darkrooms and why they’re needed to process light sensitive photos and pictures. He had been confused on how she did that, as baselines don’t have night-vision, and trying to explain the special red lights and why she can’t use night vision goggles.

“I’ll be back.” Mitzi muttered between giggles as she slipped off the bed and stumbled to your bathroom, cursing as she tripped over her own feet. You weren’t sure if it was from the alcohol or it was just clumsiness… or her legs were asleep, from the weird way she had been sitting… or lying. She wasn’t sure what position Mitzi had been in, but it didn’t look comfortable.

You closed your eyes as you finished off your drink, pleasantly buzzed and beginning to lean towards being drunk, especially if you kept going. Which you would, most likely. Enjoy this levity before you donned your armour and gear and went out to the battlefield with Mitzi and the others, to record the events and witness the deeds of those who fought to protect humanity and the Imperium.

You dataslate dinged, somewhere beneath the pillows, and it took a while to dig it out but you did. You smiled when you saw it was from Vulkan, and cradled your cheek with your palm as you braced the dataslate against one of the pillows.

Opening the message, you read the ‘The preparations are taking longer than expected. Unfortunately we will have to reschedule our plans. I’m sorry to make you wait.’ he had sent, disappointed but not surprised. You expected this, really, and probably shouldn’t have offered in the first place, but you wanted to give him a moment of reprieve. He worked so hard, and always seemed to be doing something, never resting. Never making time for himself. Granted, you don’t know the truth of that, as you don’t spend all your time with him. But you would like to give him that, to carve out time to let him relax, to not be a Primarch or Warlord. Just Vulkan. A father. A friend.

You type a quick reply, assuring him that there was no need for apologies and that now you have something to look forward to after the battle. A reminder to rest, and to be safe, you added on impulse that was probably aided by the alcohol running through your veins.

As you send it before you can think better of it, you hear the door to your bathroom hiss open and close. You’re staring at the screen when you hear Mitzi’s curious coo, and the click of a latch being undone. You realise too late what is happening, and the warmth in your blood and haziness in your head turns to ice-cold clarity with the bolt of panic when you hear:

“What the fuck.”

Flinging yourself into a sitting position, you see Mitzi -the fucking sticky beak that she is- holding the box contraining the cause of your crisis. She is staring at it with a blank, if bewildered, expression. As though she cannot comprehend what she is looking at. You understand the feeling, but right now you just feel annoyed and panicked as you stand.

Walking over, you quickly snap the lid shut and lift the box from your friends hands, and place it back on the desk.

Back to reality, then.

Turning to face the music, you are instead faced with your friends scream of “What the fuck is that?” that was hopefully muffled by the walls of your quarters.

“A circlet.” You state, suddenly feeling petulant. Your irritation at your friend's inability to keep her hands to herself makes your tone more snappish than you meant.

“Yeah, no shit.” Mitzi snarled, more incredulous than anything. “Who proposed? When? Why didn’t you say anything?” Her tone turned more to hurt, no doubt thinking you had been keeping secrets about your relationship status.

“Nobody-” You try, stop, and try again, “It’s not- Salt and Stars! It’s not what it looks like.” You grab Mitzi’s hands with your own, squeezing them. “You know that if I was with anyone, you would be the first to know. If you don’t find out first because you’re a terrible snoop, I would tell you before anyone else.” You speak with all the conviction you can muster, which seems to be enough as Mitzi’s hackles lower as she listens.

“Honey, that is a marriage circlet. How is that not a proposal? Or…” she looks down at the box, eyes suddenly suspicious and slightly panicked, “It wasn’t a proposal? Are you married?”

“No.” You say immediately, but you pause as you remember the events. “Maybe…?” You sigh, closing your eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“How?” Mitzi tsk’s before shaking her head slightly, “More importantly. Who?” She presses, eyes focused on you with the same kind of intensity she gets with her craft.

“Vulkan.” You admit easily, knowing that Mitzi would rather face the cold void of space than share a secret between you two. You would do the same.

Mitzi blinked.

And blinked again.

“Vulkan.” Her question is more a statement, but you nod anyway. “Vulkan proposed to you.”

“No. He didn’t.” You say, already exhausted by this conversation.

“He gave you the circlet. You accepted. You’re married.”

“No, Mitzi.” You sigh, releasing her hands to cover your face with your own. “We’re not.”

“How come? Don’t tell me it’s some stupid ‘symbolic’ thing where he’s not committed to you, because if it is I’m going to have to go into hiding after I kill-”

“Mitzi! Don’t even joke about that!” “I’m not.”

Both warmed and concerned by Mitzi’s loyalty, and ease in admitting she would so readily try to kill a nigh-immortal giant, you try to steer the conversation away from treason.

“Regardless. That wasn’t his intent. Nor was marriage.”

“How could that be anything but intent for marriage?”

“He’s Nocturnean, Mitzi.” You try, gently, to lead your friend down the right trail of thought.

“Yes?”

“He’s not from our planet.” You push.

“And?” Mitzi snapped, crossing her arms. You raise your head enough to level her with a look.

“He’s not from our culture.” You try again. Shoving this time. Hoping she gets the point.

“Oh, by the Skies, you care about that?”

…

‘Mitzi you dumbass’, you think as you grab your friend by the shoulders. “Our ways are not his, Mitzi. He doesn’t know what it means.”

The silence that followed was empty and heavy as your friend processed.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I know.”

“You’re fucked.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell him?” She asked, which was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? You groan as you rub at your temples, eyes lingering on the box that held the exquisite circlet.

“I have to.” You say quietly. “He’s going to find out sooner or later. Better that it comes from me.”

“But…?” Mitzi presses gently, knowing there's more to it.

“I love him.” You admit. “I really, really do. I didn’t expect it, certainly not with a Primarch, and I was happy to just admire him from afar, to be his friend. Then he gives me this, oblivious as you please and he looked so sad when I froze, but then he looked so happy when I accepted and what else could I do? His sons were there and I know I should have spoken up but I panicked and then he put it on my head and I tried not to say the words but they kind of slipped out but they weren’t the exact words, and I know I have to tell him but we're about to enter a warzone and I can’t talk to him about this right now because it could distract him, but more than that what if he gets mad? What if he thinks I’m trying to trap him or that I lied to him? What if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? What-”

A hand covers your mouth, and you blink at your friend as she stares at you with wide eyes.

“Okay. I see why you were… in a state, before.” Mitzi starts slowly, because admittedly she’s not on this side of the equation. Normally, you are the one acting as the voice of reason in their duo. “From what I know of his character, Vulkan wouldn’t react like that. If anything, he’d probably feel bad for putting you in that situation. You’re assuming the worst possible outcomes, honey, and I feel like that’s unfair to both of you.” She says, lowering her hand and looking at you carefully. Her eyes tell you she’s weighing her next words.

“What if… he doesn’t mind? Sure, maybe embarrassed and apologetic, but not upset. What if, after you explain it, he’s fine with it? What if it’s the opposite of all your fears? You can just return the circlet” You both cringe at the words, uncomfortable, “and after an adjustment period you can go back to being friends like normal. Or… as normal as you two get.”

“As someone who is also my friend, I feel like that says something about you as well.”

“Oh, I know I’m weird. I also know you're deflecting.”

You grumble, annoyed that your friend knows you so well. However, she does have a point. All you have to do is get a moment alone with him, explain everything, and… give back the circlet.

It shouldn’t hurt that much just thinking about it. It was just a gift. Nothing more.

It can’t be anything more.

“Come on. Let’s get drunk and eat our way into a food coma. Then in the morning, we’ll help with the preparations. Then, war. And then, you find your moment with him.” The way Mitzi said ‘find your moment with him’, you can’t help but feel like she’s not just talking about explaining the situation.

However, the lure of soothing your pending heartbreak -and your nerves for the upcoming battle- was too strong for you to think more on it. Instead you went straight back to your spot, and decided to forgo your glass and just chug it straight from the bottle like an uncultured heathen.

The future is uncertain, and you will face this trial eventually, but you feel lighter now that you have spoken your troubles, and more prepared with Mitzi’s guidance. Tomorrow will come with duties and dangers, but tonight you enjoy the simple revelry of good food, good drink, and good company.

***

@incrediblethirst, @kit-williams, @beckyninja, @bleedingichorhearts, @jaghatai-khock, @pluvio-tea, @moodymisty, @thethronezone, @iluminatka16 Hope you enjoyed the Interlude! Hope you're ready because I'm not! Up next up is Vulkan's POV, so we'll see how well we do. I make no promises, beyond the fact it will be adorable (probably).

Until next time!

(Also if anyone does or does not want to be tagged pls let me know.)

#Vulkan #Vulkan x Reader #warhammer 40k #warhammer romance #OC #Mitzi was not planned she just kinda arrived #But she's here now #Reader is freaking out and Mitzi helps by freaking out #Having a friend willing to commit treason is a blessing and a curse #I have not edited or proofread this and I probably won't #Onwards unto sleep!#In the meantime #Enjoy. Ya nerds.

95 notes · View notes