#Floor Anchor Bolts

[fasteners-bolts]

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[heckaroniandcheese]

i was mudding recently and realised my sheet of drywall wasn't secure so i scraped up the mud and peeled the tape to put in another screw

What's your DIY cardinal sin mine is that I never countersink screws

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

What to do if the floor slab is cracked or broken?

Do you know how to solve?

Don't panic! One wedge anchor bolt  one nut can solve it!

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[animamii]

"Fushiguro, that's your girl?" One of Toji's block mates asks, eyeing one of the many pictures Toji had of you taped to the slate gray brick wall. It was a simple picture, your hair was wavy in this one, a cute dimply smile, lashes curled as you looked all natural. But god, were you still stunning. Toji looks up from the thing he was doing, sitting in the steel chair that was bolted down to the floor.

"Yup, that's my ol' lady," looking up at the picture he can't help but proudly smile. Toji's wall is covered in pictures. Of you, of Megumi. The whole family. Cute pictures you took with each other before he got locked up. It was his motivation to stay straight while being inside. To remind him of what's waiting for him when he gets out.

The block mate lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as he leans back against the cold wall. “Damn. She bad.” His celly's eyes roam over the pictures. Ones where you're dressed up all pretty, makeup done perfectly. Ones where you're wrapped around one of Toji's arms, looking up at him with all the adoration in the world. Even the ones that show just a little too much, which Toji keeps right next to where he lays his head.

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. “Watch it.” There’s no real threat in his voice, but there’s an edge of warning that makes the other guy hold his hands up in surrender.

“Ain’t mean no disrespect, Fushiguro,” he says, still looking at the pictures. “Just sayin’. You lucky.”

Toji doesn’t need to be told that. He already knows. It’s what gets him through the long nights, the endless hum of fluorescent lights, the hostility of the barbed wire that separates him from the outside. Knowing you're out there, waiting, is the only thing that keeps him from losing his damn mind.

He leans back against the desk he sits in front of, arms folding across his broad chest, eyes fixed on the pictures. His ol’ lady. His girl. His anchor in a life that never gave him much stability.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. He can still hear your voice, that soft, teasing lilt whenever you’d call him by his full name just to mess with him. “Toji Fushiguro,” you’d say, dragging it out, pretending to scold him, even though your eyes always gave you away. He lived for those moments.

“Bet she writin’ you, huh?” the block mate asks. “You get letters?”

Toji nods. “Every week.” And he does. Neatly folded pages that smell like you, inked with words that remind him that he’s still human. That he’s still yours. That he still has something waiting for him beyond these walls. But god, does he miss you.

“Damn,” the block mate mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Every week? That’s real love right there.”

Toji just smirks again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, edges worn from being opened and closed too many times. He doesn’t even need to read it again—he’s already memorized every damn word—but still, he unfolds it, running a calloused thumb over the handwriting. Your handwriting.

Hey, baby. I know you hate when I get all mushy, but I don’t care. I miss you. I miss you so much it drives me crazy sometimes. But I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait. You better be eating, staying out of trouble, and keeping that smart-ass mouth in check. (Okay, maybe not too much. You know I love that about you.)

Toji chuckles to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, you knew him too damn well.

Megumi misses you too, even if he acts all tough about it. You should’ve seen his face when I told him your letter came. He’s just like you, y’know? Won’t say how he really feels, but it’s all there in his eyes.

Toji swallows hard, jaw clenching. Megumi. His kid. Another reason for pushing through this hellhole. He pictures him—too serious for his own good, but with those same sharp blue eyes. His boy.

“Yo, Fushiguro,” another voice calls out, snapping him from his thoughts. One of the guards. “Mail just came in.”

Toji is already up before the guy even finishes his sentence, heart pounding just a little faster. The guard hands the baby pink envelope with a lazy flick of the wrist, and Toji snatches it up quick, already recognizing the familiar scrawl of his name across the front.

His block mate lets out a laugh. “Man, look at you. Actin’ like a kid on Christmas.” Toji was always stoic, kept to himself and never showed much emotion. But hey, you always brought it out of him and he wasn't gonna front or hold a facade when it came to how he felt about you.

Toji doesn’t respond. He just sits back down, thumbs sliding under the flap of the envelope, tearing it open like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing in this godforsaken place. The first thing that falls out is a polaroid. His breath catches. It’s you.

You're sitting by a window, sunlight spilling over your skin, that soft, gentle smile on your lips. His girl. His sweetheart. Looking at him like she sees something in him that even he has trouble believing in sometimes. And just like that, the walls of the prison don’t feel so damn suffocating. He’s got something to hold onto.

Toji runs a thumb over the polaroid, like he could somehow feel you through it. The picture is warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold steel and concrete around him. He exhales through his nose, staring at it for a long moment before finally unfolding the letter.

Your words hit him like they always do—gentle, teasing, but full of something deeper. Something that reminds him why he’s still holding on.

Hey, baby. I hope you’re not making the guards’ lives too hard. (Who am I kidding? I know you are.) It’s been getting colder here. I keep stealing your hoodie, the one you always say is yours but smells like me now. Tough luck, Fushiguro, it’s mine until you come back and take it from me.

Toji smirks, shaking his head. She’s gonna pay for that one.

Megumi’s been doing good in school, but I had to threaten to ground him just to get him to eat something other than instant ramen. He’s stubborn, just like his old man.

His smirk fades a little. He can picture it—Megumi sitting at the dinner table, arms crossed, trying to act like he doesn’t care. Just like Toji used to. The guilt settles in his chest, heavy and unshakable. He just wishes he could be there. For the both of you.

We miss you. I miss you.

He stops, lingering on that line. Simple, but enough to send a slow ache through his ribs.

I don’t care how long it takes. You come back to me, Toji. We’re waiting.

Toji exhales sharply, pressing the paper between his fingers, his grip a little too tight.

“Damn,” his block mate mutters, watching him. “She really ridin’ for you, huh?”

Toji just nods. He doesn’t need to say anything. He folds the letter carefully, tucking it away with the others. Getting up, he sticks some tape of the back of the polaroid, putting it up next to the rest of the pictures. Then he leans back in his chair, looking up at the mosaic of pictures you send him.

Yeah. She’s waiting. And he sure as hell isn’t gonna let her down.

[soluversworld]

BACKSTAGE SECRET ! - KIER X G.N READER

This game is called backstage Infatuation! This game is so underrated. So, I will doing some one-shots, because I love the characters!!

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — Backstage, you lost your bracelet, Kethan gifted you! Don't worry, There's someone to help you!

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Yandere themes

Did not proof read/Rushed.

You were there.

Wrapped in a too-thin coat, media pass clutched between chilled fingers, lens cap off and camera ready. The cold bit at your ankles, but you barely noticed. Not when tonight mattered so much. Not when it was LUXE’s comeback debut—and Kier’s first solo single release.

The press line was chaos: journalists elbowing for position, flashes flaring like lightning, muttered complaints fogging in the air. Everyone wanted to be the first to capture them all.

You weren’t supposed to be in this area. Technically, your badge said “general coverage.” But you’d arrived before sunrise, staked out the best possible angle, and refused to budge. If anyone asked, you were supposed to be here. This was going to be one of the biggest shows of the year… right?

You flipped through the concert pamphlet for the hundredth time, fingertips numb but careful not to crease the page.

Oriel: dignified, dazzling. Min: cool, collected. Kier…

Your eyes paused on him. His picture was radiant. Almost too perfect. Hair falling in sleek strands over sharp cheekbones. A slight smirk—arrogant, maybe—but only if you didn’t know better.

You did know better. You’d seen him before that—offstage. With no stylists, no cameras. Just Kier, buying two caramel lattes and an absurdly bitter iced americano like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You hadn’t forgotten. Actually, you'd brought a caramel latte today, too. Warm, still tucked in your coat pocket, for yourself!

Were you friends?

He did tell you to think like that.

But could a fan and an idol really be… anything real? Like friends?

He’s up there. Ethereal. Shining. Beautiful. You’re… you.

You smiled to yourself anyway, lips chapped from the wind. Sam was going to freak when you told her about this. Minji had been kind enough to let you off early from work—a miracle.

"I wonder what his single will be like?" you murmured, heart fluttering. "I can’t wait."

And just as the excitement bubbled in your chest, your stomach made a dramatic protest.

You groaned softly. “Seriously? Now?” You doubled slightly. “God… I knew I shouldn’t have let Kethan talk me into that second round of dumplings…”

You bolted for the restroom the second you found an opening—half-jogging past camera rigs and stacks of cables, muttering half-apologies to the tech crew and other reporters. Your stomach churned like a traitor. Of all the times…

You got your business done in record time, hands barely dry as you burst back into the hallway, still holding onto your press pass like it might anchor you to this timeline.

But as you rounded the corner—slam.

You collided with someone. Full force. Something clattered. You went down like a folding chair.

"Aiiyo—!" the woman beneath you yelped. A mop bucket sloshed, something wet hit your shoe, and you realized with dawning horror you had flattened the poor cleaning lady.

"Oh my god—I’m so sorry—!"

You scrambled up, brushing off your pants with shaky hands, cheeks burning.

She blinked at you from the floor, visibly unharmed, just startled. “You okay?”

“I—uh—yeah. Yeah. Totally fine,” you managed, voice tight with embarrassment.

She gave a breathy chuckle, waved you off, and walked away muttering something about “young people with ants in their pants.” You nodded dumbly, offered another apology to her retreating back, and turned to fix your jacket.

That’s when your stomach dropped again—but for a different reason this time.

Your wrist felt bare.

You looked down.

The bracelet. The bracelet.

“Shit.”

Your eyes widened. Not the bracelet you’d been wearing casually for months, not some accessory. No—the one Kethan gave you yesterday. The one he dramatically claime

You had laughed. It had fit weirdly well. You hadn’t taken it off since.

You scanned the floor in panic. Nothing.

You crouched low, heart hammering, crawling slightly as you peered beneath the mop cart, near the baseboards, under your own boots. Nothing. Not even a shimmer.

“No, no, no…” you whispered, biting your lip. You retraced your steps toward the hallway where you’d sprinted earlier, eyes darting to the corners, past spilled mop water and the distant sound of the opening act starting. No time. If you waited any longer, the concert would start and you’d lose your spot in the media pit.

But the bracelet—damn it,

"I got this for you. During I was-."

Fuck you! Y/n!

Luckily, the backstage area was quite small, and you found the janitor's closet in no time. Lost things had to be kept here, right? That was your best bet.

You reached for the doorknob. Locked.

You sighed, stepping back and scanning the hallway again. No janitor. No bracelet. You weren’t giving up just yet.

You started checking corners, crouching behind crates of lighting equipment, peeking under utility carts. You thought it would be a five-minute detour.

But half an hour passed, and you were still no closer.

Your anxiety was scraping at your throat, panic starting to edge in, when—

Knock knock.

A voice from outside. Male. Calm. Curious.

"Anyone in there?"

Your brain malfunctioned.

"Nope!"

You absolute idiot.

"I mean—WAIT—"

Too late.

The door burst open.

And someone stepped in.

"K-Kier?!"

Kier immediately held a finger to his lips. "Shush. Keep it down."

You blinked. Twice. "What are you doing here? Shouldn’t the concert be starting soon?"

He looked over his shoulder, then back at you, hair slightly mussed, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

"I’m just... hiding," he muttered. "My assistant won’t shut up. I know he’s doing his job, but the nagging is driving me insane."

You stared at him. This was weird. Kier—The Moon Prince—just slipped backstage to... hide?

Something was off. He was talking fast. Fidgeting.

"Kier, are you okay?"

He paused. Looked away. Then back again with a gentle smile.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Yes?"

He hummed a soft tune. Low, delicate, threading through the silence between you. You didn’t recognize it, but it made your shoulders relax a little.

"Is that part of your single album?" you asked. "It’s good. Really good."

He smiled, a little lopsided. "You think so? I feel a bit better, then. I just hoped you’d really like it."

You tilted your head. "By 'you', you mean your fans?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, you said you were a fan too."

Then he stuck his tongue out at you.

You blinked. Blushed. "Oh—shit. Sorry."

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The tension in your chest melted just a bit.

Kier glanced around the cramped closet space with a skeptical eye. “So... what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out there with the others, cheering like a proper fan?”

You laughed, a little too loud. Nervous. “I, uh... lost something. A bracelet. It was a gift.”

At that, the teasing edge in his voice dulled. “Important?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Kethan gave it to me yesterday. It’s dumb, but—”

“Not dumb,” Kier cut in, his gaze surprisingly sharp. “It matters to you. So it matters.”

Before you could even thank him, he clapped his hands once with mock drama. “Alright then. Operation Rescue Sparkly Thing is a go.”

You blinked. “That’s seriously the name we’re going with?”

He glanced at you sideways with a grin. “Don’t sass your rescuer.”

He crouched down and began scanning the dim floor under a metal shelf, muttering under his breath, “...if I were a bracelet, where would I hide? Maybe under some lost dignity…”

You crouched beside him. The space was cramped, filled with wires, old props, and dust, the air sharp with disinfectant.

“Thanks, Kier. You really don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was soft this time, no teasing. Just truth. It made something squeeze warm and tight in your chest.

You both kept searching in silence, eyes scanning every shadow. At one point, Kier pointed toward the tablet you’d dropped earlier.

“You checked under that?”

You waved it off. “I did. I swear, it’s not there—”

“Humor me.”

You sighed and moved to lift the tablet. You both leaned in at the same time, reaching—and didn’t notice how close you’d gotten until—

Thump.

Your shoulders bumped, then your hands, and then—Kier’s balance tilted forward. In the most embarrassing, slow-motion moment imaginable, he fell.

Right on top of you.

You landed flat on your back with a soft “oof,” the air rushing out of your lungs. Kier didn’t hit you hard, but his weight was unmistakable, his body flush against yours.

His face was hidden in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You froze.

“I—I’m so sorry!” you blurted, trying to sit up, but his hand pressed gently against your side.

“Wait.”

That was all he said. Just wait.

So... you did.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, maybe more, he stayed there. His breath slow. His voice low, nearly a whisper.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, the words barely making sense. “Like... caramel.”

You didn’t catch the flicker in his eyes as he slowly pushed himself up. You didn’t see the sudden heat, the way his pupils had dilated, that half-mad glint he tried to blink away too late...

You only saw the soft smile he wore when he looked down at you.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Peachy.” He stood and held out a hand. You took it.

Still no sign of the bracelet.

You both went back to searching.

Kier crouched beside you, trailing his fingers lazily over the floor, but you were the one truly focused—moving crates, lifting wires, mumbling to yourself. “Ugh, it must’ve fallen when I tripped on that mop. God, I’m such a klutz…”

He hummed. Low. Noncommittal.

“...It’s just—Kethan gave it to me, you know? My best friend since forever... He came back a few weeks ago, He gave it to me...." You laughed.

Kier froze.

You didn’t notice. Still talking. Still smiling.

“We used to build little cardboard forts after school, pretend we were superheroes.. Said he’d be ‘Magma Boy’ and melt anyone who messed with me.”

You didn’t see it—how Kier’s shoulders tensed. How his gaze dropped, no longer scanning the floor,with such intensity it might’ve burned a hole clean through.

Kethan.

He hadn’t said a word yet, and that wasn’t like him.

“Kier?” you asked, still grinning. “You okay?”

“Mm.” His voice came tight, but practiced. Still smooth. Still sweet. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He stood. A slow, precise movement.

You blinked up at him. “You sure?”

He smiled down at you. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That bracelet,” he said softly. “It really means that much to you?”

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “It’s from Kethan.”

Kier tilted his head, like a curious cat. His hands were in his coat pockets now. One foot slightly forward. Blocking your exit.

You didn’t notice.

Not yet.

"That nickname," he echoed, voice low. Too low. “Magma Boy.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Dumb, right?”

“Hilarious.” The smile widened. “So… are you close?”

You blinked. “What, with Kethan? Yeah, of course. He’s my—” You were still searching..

Kier took a slow, deliberate step forward.

“He’s your what?”

“...My friend,” you said, laughing nervously. “My best friend.”

Kier nodded. Just once.

“Right.”

His voice was smooth now. Velvet over a blade. Carefully controlled. He didn’t want to scare you.

Not yet.

But inside, the thoughts spiraled.

HE tries to take you.

From him.

Even before he had you.

And still—still—you kept smiling about someone else.

He could melt people, huh?

How cute.

Kier leaned down, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve with gentle fingers. His eyes met yours—warm, blue beautiful.

And yet—

"Don’t worry," he murmured. "I’ll help you find it. I’m very good at finding things…”

His fingers lingered.

His voice dropped an octave.

“…and keeping them.”

You dusted off your knees, still crouching as you scanned the floor, and glanced through the cracked door toward the faint thrum of the crowd outside.

“Sheesh,” you muttered. “The fans are really out there in full force tonight.”

Kier shifted beside you, standing straighter as he peeked through the door too. “I’m honestly surprised this many showed up,” he murmured. “It’s windy as hell out there. Felt like my ears were gonna freeze off earlier.”

You smiled. “Well, that’s fans for you. fans especially. Rain, snow, war—they’ll still show up.”

He chuckled, soft. “I guess that’s what 'fan' means, huh? Fanatic.”

“Yeah,” you said, pulling your coat tighter. “But it doesn’t always have to mean crazy. Just… passionate.”

Kier’s expression shifted—just slightly. “I’m happy to be on stage again,” he said, voice lower now, slower.

You nodded, but caught the flicker in his eyes.

“…But?” you prompted.

“…But I hate those."

You blinked.

He didn’t elaborate immediately, so you tilted your head. “Did something happen?”

Kier’s gaze drifted toward the far wall, as if he were looking into a memory instead of the dim backstage space.

“During our first interview as LUXE,” he said slowly, “we were in this tiny studio. Three chairs. One little lamp above us. We were just rookies. I looked up, and something felt off.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“The bulb in the lamp was tinted weird. When I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t just a bulb. There was a lens in it. A camera. Hidden. Filming us.”

You straightened a little. “I heard about that—”

“My members were answering questions, laughing, totally unaware. So I pretended to take selfies. Tilted my phone just right. Took a few shots of the lamp.”

Kier’s jaw tightened.

“That’s when Aurora Rising Records stepped in. Replaced the entire staff team. Turned out one of the production staff was actually a fan. In disguise. Pretending to work there, just to spy on us.”

You stared at him.

“That’s… awful.”

He looked back at you then.

And smiled.

But there was something quieter about it. Not fake. Just… weathered.

“I hate crazy fans,” he repeated. “But it’s not just that. The way they want to own you. Break pieces off of you. Call it love.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Until he looked at you again—and that smile shifted. Softened.

“…But you,” he said.

Your stomach fluttered. “Me?”

“You never screamed at me,” he said plainly. “Never shoved a phone in my face. Never begged me for anything.”

You flushed, mouth opening—closing.

“Every time I saw you,” he continued, “you were just… quiet. Present. Kind.”

He reached out, brushing a loose thread off your sleeve. His fingers were gentle.

“You treated me like a person,” he said. “Even though you’re a fan… you’re a real one. A gen one. The kind people forget exist.”

You blinked. “Kier, I…”

Your voice caught.

He smiled again—this time, soft and warm. Like moonlight instead of stage lights.

“Thank you,” he said. “For that.”

You looked down at the dusty floor, eyes beginning to sting.

You didn’t get it.

Why did things like this always happen?

It was just a bracelet—but it wasn’t just a bracelet. Kethan gave it to you.Who always remembered things when no one else did. He’d given it to you yesterday-

Now it was gone. Your chest hurt just thinking about it.

“…Hey.”

You looked up.

Kier was watching you, the playfulness gone now—replaced with something quieter. Something… concerned.

“I’ll let my staff know,” he said gently. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

You stared at him. The stage was probably about to start any minute. He shouldn’t even be back here.

“But the show—”

“There’s still a few minutes.” He tilted his head. “Let me help, alright? I’ll get them on it.”

Your throat closed up a little. You hated being seen like this. Teary-eyed. Small.

You didn’t know what else to do—so you reached into your coat and pulled out the warm paper cup you'd forgotten you were even holding.

The caramel latte. The one you'd bought for yourself. The one you almost wanted to give him… just in case you saw him.

You shoved it toward him with both hands.

He blinked, surprised. “...What’s this?”

You kept your face straight. “You helped me. I wanted to thank you.”

He just stared at the cup.

“There’s nothing mixed in it,” you added flatly. “Just.."

He burst out laughing—eyes crinkling, face flushing a soft pink. He took it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“...It’s my favorite drink,” he said quietly, smiling like you’d handed him something sacred.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You remembered that?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’ll remember it now.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—and then took a long sip from the latte.

When he lowered the cup, something about him seemed looser. Warmer.

“Thanks,” he said, voice smooth. “I feel a lot better now.”

Seeing him smile, made you smile too..

Kier stared at you for a moment, then without warning, pulled you into a hug.

It wasn’t brief, either.

His arms circled around your shoulders with warmth and a kind of desperate gentleness, like you were something he was afraid to let go of. You stiffened for a second—caught off guard—but quickly melted into it.

“I feel better too,” you whispered into his chest.

You felt him exhale against the crown of your head, a little softer this time.

When you finally pulled away, you smiled, still a little dazed. “Thank you, Kier. Seriously.”

He only nodded, eyes unreadable. That soft smile back on his lips.

You stepped away, turning to leave before you could overthink it. The hallway echoed with your retreating steps.

Idols are human too, you thought. Not just distant, glowing stars on stage. They get tired. They get frustrated. They hide in janitor closets and complain about assistants. They drink lattes and help search for lost bracelets and… they hug.

From now on, you promised yourself, you'd treat idols better.

Not like gods. Not like dolls.

Like people.

Like him.

You disappeared around the corner.

Meanwhile, back in the cramped space of the janitor’s closet, Kier exhaled slowly.

His shoulders dropped.

Then his fingers reached into the pocket of his oversized jacket.

There it was. The bracelet.

That thing.

His expression warped—dark, twisted, flat with disdain. That cursed trinket—tacky, mismatched, with a fraying cord and an ugly little bead in the shape of a cartoon skull.

He gave you this?

His jaw clenched. His lips curled into something cruel.

He remembered how you looked while talking about Kethan—laughing softly, eyes gleaming with memory. It burned. It burned.

You were his muse. His light. His obsession. Not Kethan’s. Not anyone’s. You had no idea what you did to him—how deep you'd sunk into him. Into his skin, his veins, his voice.

Ugly. Cheap. It doesn’t suit you.

It burned him just to imagine it on your wrist. Something from him. Some other boy. Some fool who thought he could mark you with a trinket.

He could get something way more expensive or pretty....

Still staring at the bracelet, Kier crouched. Placed it on the floor like a delicate relic.

Then stood.

And drove his boot down hard.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

He hated it.

The crunch of cheap beads and snapped cord echoed like tiny bones.

He smiled, expression pitch-black and wild under the soft closet light.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice venom-laced silk.

You’re my muse. My only one. You have no choice.

I will claim you.

The broken shards glittered at his feet.

And Kier—Kier smiled again. Beautiful. Chilling.

The stage lights began to rise.

Time to put on a show. For the fans. For the world. But mostly… For you.

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆.

You bolt upright in bed, the plush bedding no longer as comforting as it was just moments ago. The late spring air carries a gentle warmth, and you'd opened the windows earlier to let it in. Now, some mix of the night breeze whispering through the curtains and the nervous energy coiled in your belly sends a shiver skimming down your spine as you pad across the floor.

Your heart beats faster with every step down the hallway.

You find Simon in the dining room, sitting in a chair, facing away from you. The house is mostly dark, lit only by the milky wash of moonlight spilling in through the windows. Still, you can make out his form elbows on his knees, head bowed, shoulders pulled so tight you can practically taste the storm simmering inside him.

He straightens slightly when he senses you behind him.

The moment his dark eyes meet yours, they soften. Relief crashes through you so fast it feels like you’re breathing for the first time in days. His gaze follows you with such quiet intensity, with so much longing, that your hands tremble a bit as you step between his legs. You cup his face in both hands, your heart pounding hard against your ribs as his calloused palms settle gently on your hips.

"Hello," he murmurs.

The deep rasp of his voice vibrates through your chest and it's almost more than you can bear.

Your throat tightens; you feel tears sting behind your eyes.

How many nights had you woken up crying from dreams that felt too real?

How many times had you turned around, swearing you’d heard his voice only to find empty air?

For a moment, all you can do is look at him. Then, you throw your arms around his neck and press your lips to his. One of his hands slides up your back, anchoring you to him, pulling you into his warmth.

God, he tastes like safety. Like home. Like him.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, trailing soft kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, his brow. His eyes flutter shut.

“I miss you too,” he breathes, and pulls you onto his lap, guiding your legs around him so you straddle his hips. His arms wrap around your waist, locking you in place like he’s afraid to let go.

“Missed that too,” he says with a rare smile, eyes half-lidded as you run your nails through his hair.

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hey! so this is my first post/fic/attempt at writing in general lol so if it's bad I'm sorry! 😭🩷

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[moongirlrhea]

who we are (so much of our life is just carving through the dark)

azriel x archeron!reader one shot

my masterlist

summary: in the night when nightmares of a frightful night in hybern, and a cauldron wreck her mind, y/n archeron finds comfort within the arms of her mate

warnings: mentions of drowning, throwing up

word count: 2k

a/n: whenever i say that something is a one shot, just know that i'm a big fat liar i already have this whole thing planned out. maybeeee i will write it at some point in the next decade! anyway im posting this first as you guys have chosen so i hope you enjoy :) please remember to let me know what you think im always open to feedback! thank you for all of your replies and for reading < 3

to join my taglist let me know here

Y/n Archeron’s skin was frozen to the bone.

The next second it was scorching hot, melting, burning-

The inside of the cauldron was endless, constantly expanding in its darkness and bearing no border. It didn’t answer her cries as she was pushed in by rough hands, and it certainly wasn’t soft on her all the same, only sucked her in. Greedily. Feeding of on her terror, on her-

Humanity.

She saw nothing, and in those eternal minutes she spent there, she was nothing. Not human anymore, and nothing else yet. She felt the last of the oxygen leave her lungs as she trashed in the pitch-black abyss. Terror had its cold, slimy hands coiled tight around her heart.

Panicking, she tried to find some sort of anchor in the void. It was all futile; There was no floor for her to push up from- and no ceiling to seek. There was nothing, only the murky water that crashed against her.

The unforgiving, deadly feeling hit her gut suddenly amidst the panic and the terror that this would all soon end. She would soon end-

She opened her mouth, feeling the water pour in, and trashed one last time, desperately trying to find some reprieve. But mercy in the form of death never came - as it never does for her, when she comes back here - and it was minutes, hours, weeks, months, years she spent clawing at nonexistent borders of the cauldron.

It liked to haunt her; toy with her. Predator and prey, in its true form. The youngest Archeron sister had the misfortune to be fed to the cauldron the last, right as it gave all it had to give to the future Lady Death, and as it gathered enough rage for its stolen power to start to seek revenge. And she was all too easy to feast on in her horror.

Begging was futile when she faced off against the entity that was the cauldron. All that existed was the water- and her.

The salt streaming down her face was lost to the abyss and so were her screams. She heard the cauldron’s distant mocking as she shrieked for help but no sound came. For no one to hear, for no one to come.

Had she let out any sounds at all, then?

Before she could finally close her eyes as the cauldron melted the skin off her bones and then froze it in place again, she heard-

She heard her name being called.

-

Y/n Archeron shot up and out of bed, throwing the covers off her legs in haste as she ended up on the floor, chest heaving. She looked around frantically, some distant part of her realizing the danger wasn’t eminent anymore. Before she could make sense of anything, she was already up and bolting to the bathroom.

Her knees hit the stone tile as she retched. A grimace pulled at her wet face as she let it all go, all of it making tears start streaming down her face all over again. Somewhere through the haze of her remaining fear, a familiar, scarred hand gathered her hair and kept it out of her face. The terror was starting to fall away, piece after piece, making place for her to finally take a full breath.

The night-chilled air flowing in from the open window cooled her hot skin down as she panted and sat back on her heels. That, and the tendrils of shadows that twined themselves around her, cold against her neck and cheeks.

“Another nightmare?” her mate asked her from behind, noticeably not letting go of her hair, aware that the sensation of it against her neck would do nothing but overwhelm her right now.

“Mhm” she nodded softly, eyes already closed as she leaned against him, feeling Azriel put his arms around her and plant a kiss to the back of her head.

The shadowsinger held his mate on their bathroom tiles as if that alone would send away the shudders of fear still going through her body. Her entire body weight rested against him and even though all he wished for his entire life was someone to hold, he regretted that these were the circumstances. It’s been years since that terrible night in Hybern, and yet the memories still returned like a plague. And he was helpless against them.

He wouldn’t ever complain about waking up to screams every once in a while, but his heart broke all over again every time he heard her broken pleas for help. Every time he remembered that he was there, and he hadn’t helped. But Azriel had learnt along the way somewhere that blaming himself in moments when she was vulnerable, the Mother knew how hard it was for her, wouldn't help anyone. And so he hummed a well-known tune as he rocked her, whispering words of comfort in the quiet of the night. And when she turned in his arms, cold fingers clutching his thigh as she finally looked into his eyes, he stood up.

Soon she was sitting on their bed, a bit rigidly, maybe because of the distance he momentarily had to put between them.

“I’ll get you a new nightgown, love” he had said softly against her hair just a few seconds earlier, before crossing the room. His shadows stayed at her side, twining themselves around strands of her hair, but she paid them no mind as her eyes tracked her mate’s every movement. Her skin was still damp from how she had sweated over her previous shirt during the nightmare, and shivers wrecked her spine. Still, her eyes stayed glued to Azriel.

She was still a bit out of it, that uneasy feeling as if someone was standing at her back, waiting to snatch her, consumed her as she gripped the edges of the mattress in a shaky grip. The-

The corners of the room were moving, there was someone- something there. Splashing of water reverberated against the walls of her mind, somewhere in the distance, but closing in on her. Her breathing shallowed as she looked frantically around the room. It was back for her, it wasn’t over as it never would-

A wide eyed Azriel was crouched at her side the moment she let out a whimper. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, seeking an anchor, something to hold onto-

“What is it, baby?” he asked softly, concern shingin among the golden hues in his eyes “What happened?”

“I- I don’t know,” She sucked in a breath, water clouding her vision “There was- It’s still-” the words were getting tangled together, too hard to get out as sobs started to replace them.

“It’s over, alright? I’m right here” Azriel tried to placate, worry pulling at his brow as he tried to coax her to put her arms up so he could swap her nightgown. She was putty in his arms. “I know, I know” there were few well practiced words Azriel used to try to calm his mate down. “You’re in Velaris, and you’re safe. Y/n- nothing can hurt you now, love”

When nothing worked, he coaxed her under the covers and into his arms. He made sure to leave the lights on - always lights on on nights like these.

His form enveloped hers among the blankets, as if that alone could shield her from the nightmares coming her way. “I’m right here with you. You’re not alone, not for a moment, do you understand, Y/n?” he held her red, tear streaked face in his palms. She nodded, eyes still clenched shut. “Deep breaths, love, that’s it. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Slowly, after a few moments his mate was looking for him, eyes open, albeit streaked with remnants of fear, and now a new thing - exhaustion. He smoothed a hand down her forehead, brushing her hair away from her face. “There you are”

A small, wobbly smile graced her face at that, and something inside Azriel eased. “Can you follow after me, baby?” he asked gently, taking over exaggerated breaths. After a few attempts, her breathing evened out and she deflated against him.

“Thank you” she whispered “and I’m sorry-”

“Stop it. None of that”

“Azriel-”

“No. This is what we’re here for. There’s no shame in being taken care of” he raised a brow at her, as if daring her to defy that. Gods knew that they’ve been through this countless times. “You’re the bravest and strongest person I know, Y/n. I wish you didn’t have to be sometimes, but that doesn’t change anything. You take care of me, and I take care of you. That’s the deal”

“I know,” she sighed and rested her head against his chest “Thank you”

He only pressed another kiss against her shoulder.

“What if it never goes away?”

“Then we will stand against it together” she shuddered a breath at his response

“I’m scared of that, I think. They- they always feel so long. As if- as if I was trapped there for ages” she got out wetly, avoiding eye contact with him again. Y/n knew this pained him, too. Felt it through the bond and it the way his arms tightened around her.

There were no more words left to say though, as he kissed her lips softly, still wet from the slowly drying tears, and shielded his wings around her.

After a moment, she took his hand into her smaller one, and kissed his knuckles, one by one. The gentleness of the act, the tender feeling of her lips against the rough scar tissue blurred his eyes. But no tears fell from his eyes as she, in pair with the kisses she gave him, sent him wave after wave of love down the bond, warming up both their chests.

And there, in a Velaris household in the quiet of a familiar night, another step at healing was taken. Possibly a clumsy one, streaked with tears, fear and shame, but a step nonetheless. The pain shared between two souls, alleviated, even if only until next nightfall, when they would hold each other all over again.

And there, as the pair settled against one another amidst shadows and streaks of moonlight, a long lost string twining two hearts together was restored.

taglist: @greenmandm @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @dark-night-sky-99 @ly--canthrope @azrielssgirl @topaz125 @azrielsmate @i-am-infinite @stressed-reader @blonde-bansheee @k-homosapien @azysmate @brekkershadowsinger @st4rctic

[sanguineousreverie]

severance.

ghost. part iii ┃ sevika x reader WC: 3.2K

ⓘ: its me again....international bestselling author QUAN MILLZ. can you tell i got progressively drunker while attempting to write this monstrosity of a final part? ⚠︎: kissing, alcohol consumption, blood, psychological horror elements, body horror if you squint, SMUT, softdom!sevika, top!sevika, fingering (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), orgasm denial, mild angst, no happy ending

A sharp, painful grunt escapes your cracked lips as your eyes bolt open, bloodshot and glassy. The piercing shriek of your alarm does little to soothe the migraine booming behind your eyes. You sniffle as anguish sprouts through your body, and the scorning scent of vermilion infiltrates your senses.

You whimper in pain, reaching over to shut off the clock. As you rub your temple, the memories of the night prior rush to your mind, eliciting an audible gasp from your parched throat.

Your head snaps in the direction of the mirror, eyes widening at the horrific sight staring back at you. Purple, yellow, and black bruises splotched the sensitive skin of your neck. Serrated marks indented on the nape, agonising to the touch. The sensation of macerated flesh induces nothing but disgust and guilt.

Tears welled in your eyes—blurring your vision—as you attempted to digest the situation, reflecting on Sevikas bite as well as her abrupt departure. She had lost control, pinned you, gazed down at your trembling form like you were a target…a victim. The tinge of savagery that lingered behind her grey orbs was now harrowing to picture.

Your chest rises and falls as you take deep breaths, body shuddering at the customary action. Almost as if you were operating mechanically. You feel panic begin to arise, the thought of what this could mean—what this could've done—terrorizes your mind. 

After a few moments of deep breaths—allowing your fluttering pulse to slow down—you climb out of bed, shuffling to the living room. You pick up the phone attached to the wall, dialing the number for the main office.

The receiver buzzes in your ear before someone picks up, It's Matt. “What?” His voice is gruff, and you can almost smell the fetor of tobacco filtering through the speaker. Hollers clamour in the background, indicating the budding commotion of the trade floor. 

“Hey Matt, Uhm…can you let the boss know I won't be in today..? I have a cold…” You mutter, gaze darting around like his unseen scrutiny is dissecting every syllable, exposing the truth behind your facade.

He merely scoffs, though you can sense the frustration. “Yeah sure..want me t’send ya a fuckin’ postcard too, little miss?” His rhetoric comes out as a vexed jeer, almost exasperated by the request.

Before you can pipe up to defend yourself, the line goes dead. However, not before Sevika's authoritative voice echoes hollow in the background, her tone bordering on incensed. This sparks your heart rate once again, thundering against your ribs as anxiety coils tight in your chest.

You clench the soft fleece of your shirt, each breath a conscious effort—heavy, uneven—as you fight to wrestle your nerves back under control. Lamentably, such efforts are proven futile as your mind flashes back to Sevika’s stony gaze…Or perhaps picturing the falter in her expression when she realizes you're not gonna show up to work. 

Your legs buckle as you sink to the floor, like an anchor stopping it's ship…something, anything to ground you to the present moment. Tears flow freely; soft sobs racking your body, uncontrollable and degrading.

Hours seem to pass, time shifting into a foggy blur as your mind runs rampant. Then, the front door swings open, handle thumping against the wall, almost hard enough to leave an indent.

It’s none other than Sevika, chest rising and falling with strained breaths.

Her eyes widened at the sight of you so distraught, tears streaming down your rosy cheeks. “Oh, doll..” She murmurs, swiftly approaching your sitting form. “I—fuck…” She curses softly, tilting your chin up with her hand. 

The sounds of your sniffles fill the room, and Sevikas' expression falls. “Im so sorry doll, I—fuck—I shouldnt have left ya here alone…” She purses her lips, thumb caressing the blooming purple.

Your eyes are vitreous, bottom lip trembling as her thumb gently tugs on it. “...s’alright..” Is all you're able to muster, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyebrows furrow and she immediately shakes her head, almost appalled that you would be so quick to dismiss. “No, doll, It's not alright…” She tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, her eyes meeting yours for the first time since she burst through your door. The brief contact sending a jolt up your spine.

“I—” You attempt to argue back, though your efforts at forming any coherent sentence are futile when the glossy tears begin to blur your vision once more. 

Her expression falls, gently cupping both sides of your jaw in her large palms, handling you as if you were made of glass. “...I'm gonna make this right, dolly…I swear…gonna take care of you…” She nods, though you're unsure if the action is an attempt to console you or herself.

You nod slowly, catching yourself leaning into her touch absentmindedly. The physical contact serves as an anchor against your whirring mind.

She reaches down to gently lift you, ensuring extra care. Her large palm splayed across your hip as she supported your body weight. Wordlessly leading you down the hall and into the open door of the restroom.

She helped you into a seating position on the edge of the bathtub, eyes meeting yours once more before she broke the contact. As she rummaged through the cabinet, your mind grew inattentive to the present moment, vision fogging up, senses dulling.

Though you're brought back to earth by the cool sensation of Sevikas thumb caressing your jaw, her muscles taut as she kneels in front of you. “...Did you wanna talk about it?” Her voice pierces through the tense silence, the simple words carrying a weight you'd rather shove down.

“I don't know…what to say.” You admit, head still spinning from the loss of blood. Your skin prickles at the feeling of her hand on your face, unsure if you want to lean into or shrink away from her touch.

Her lips downturn into a frown at your hesitancy, eyes flicking across your expression in an attempt to gauge your emotions.

You swallow thickly, mind racing at the plethora of negative outcomes your brain was throwing at you. "…Am I gonna die?" You ask, eyes clouded with mist, bottom lip trembling.

Her expression fell immediately, lips pursing like she was holding back a sea of emotions. "N-no, doll…you're not gonna die, I swear to ya, I swear." She assures, palm engulfing your cheek, wiping away stray tears that escaped your eyes.

"T-then…what…" You swallow thickly, your throat feeling constricted, as if you were swallowing pins and needles. Unable to finish your sentence, you look away, spacing out.

"Hey, hey…Look at me, baby." Her voice came out as a soft plea, unlike anything you'd ever heard fall from her lips before. The unfamiliar nickname felt…comforting, the simple word causing you to lean into her touch absentmindedly as you met her gaze once again.

She looked like the epitome of worry, eyes glazed over. Her lips parted slightly as her other hand, scrupulously, reached down to rub small circles into your shoulder.

"Nothin' bad s'gonna happen 'cause of last night, absolutely nothin', I promise…" She maundered, maintaining a level of reticence that seemed impossible to break through.

"Feels different, Sev…" You mumble, thoughts overlapping and forming clusters, causing your head to spin.

She hung onto every word, nodding even when her face contorted in confusion. "Different how?" She questioned, shifting a bit closer to your seated form.

"…Feels more personal, being around you…I-I don't know how to explain it, not really." Is all you're able to muster, cheeks heating at the lack of articulation in your words.

She nods once more, a flicker of emotion dancing across her expression, though it seemed almost impossible to decipher what she was thinking.

"…Please say something.." You exasperate, hand reaching out to grasp the fabric of her shirt, desperate for something to hold on to.

But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything. She simply leans back, her varnished eyes evoking incoherence. Your expression falls at her detachment, clutching the material tighter in your palm.

"Sev…" You mumble, leaning forward in an attempt to meet her gaze. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, so fast you swear you could hear it through the heavy stillness of the moment.

After a short while, a sigh falls from her lips, and she meets your gaze once more. Her eyes continued to glint with a sentiment you weren't sure you wanted to decipher. She gently caressed your cheek, the cool sensation prickling at your skin.

Then, her hand trailed down, the callouses marginally abrasive against the column of your throat. Your body shuddered instinctively, wincing slightly as her fingers circled the bite marks.

She shook her head, sighing yet again as her shoulders slumped. She pursed her lips, hand leaving your skin and reaching down to unzip the first aid kit she had dug out of the cabinet.

As she tended to your wounds, the silence grew oppressive. Each brush of her skin against yours sends a jolt up your spine. The tension between you two simmered, and you were unsure when it would boil over. If she would even allow it to.

The fibrous cotton of the gauze grazed your raw flesh, causing your body to lurch forward instinctively. Sevika's eyes lingered on the harm that she's caused, a glint of pusillanimity coursing beneath her skin.

She's withdrawing, and you know it. The way she recedes into an invisible shell, her arm dropping to her side. You panic.

Mindlessly, your hand reaches out. Fingers wrapping around the back of her neck, pulling her closer as you crash your lips onto hers. The despondency of your rashness radiating in waves, fingers digging into her skin, leaving behind crescent shapes.

Your lips sloppily envelop hers, only halting your actions when your brain catches up to your body; a mortifying realization that she isn't kissing back. You pull away, opening your mouth to speak up, but nothing comes out.

Sevika’s lips parted, her eyes wide with astonishment. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

Heat flushed through your body, tears pricking at your eyes as you silently berated yourself. Your lips moved on autopilot, voice trembling as you stammered out an apology.

“I-I’m so sor—” Before you could finish, she silenced you, her lips brushing softly against yours. Her hands slid to your hips, grounding you.

She pulled you onto her lap, deepening the kiss with a practiced confidence that made your previous attempts feel clumsy and uncertain.

A low hum vibrated in her chest as her hands traveled lower, gripping your ass and pulling you flush against her.

You responded instinctively, deepening the kiss, your tongue tracing the seam of her lips, hungry for more.

She chuckled, her tongue tangling with yours, playful and teasing. In one fluid motion, she stood, your legs wrapping around her waist as she carried you from the restroom.

Without breaking the kiss, she nudged open your bedroom door and laid you gently on the bed, positioning herself between your legs. Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin.

You looped your arms around her neck, pulling her impossibly closer. She broke the kiss, hesitating for a moment, gazing down at you with reverence.

You glanced up at her with half-lidded eyes, lips parted and cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. “Please, Sev…” the soft plea escaped your lips absentmindedly, a tinge of desperation lacing your tone.

With a hefty sigh, she leaned in, peppering kisses on your fluttering pulse point. “Use your words, baby…Tell me what you want.” She gruffed, her voice a gentle command.

“Want you to touch me,” You whisper, balling up the fabric of her blazer in your fist. She simply hummed in response, nipping at the skin right underneath your jawline before soothing the sting with her tongue.

“Ask me nicely.” She directed. Her voice was unwavering and controlled, despite the way her body shuddered while hovering above yours. 

“Please,” You swallowed thickly, adrenaline pumping through your blood. “Please touch me, Sevi…Need it so bad.” You entreated, reaching down to tug on the buckle of her belt.

A groan fled her throat at the desperation radiating off your actions. The way you felt under her was causing her head to spin. She slid a calloused palm up your shirt, the cool sensation provoking you to shiver.

Sevika pulled back momentarily to appraise the way the fabric rid up your stomach. She let out a satisfied grumble, tugging the article off before discarding it somewhere on her floor.

“Beautiful,” Her voice–a whisper–carried a hint of astonishment. Her eyes roaming the newly exposed skin in reverence before they met yours. Lust, adornment and…something deeper swam in her orbs.

Her fingers made quick work of removing your jeans and panties, the articles joining your shirt on the floor. The atmosphere grew charged as Sevika looked down. Eyes darkening at the sight of your slick dripping down onto the cotton sheets. 

Without another word, she leaned down, propping one of your legs on her shoulders as she placed open-mouthed kisses up your thigh. Her gaze remained unyielding as she did so, almost like she was daring you to break eye contact.

You let out a quiet sigh, melting against the pillows as you lost yourself in the moment. Then, a choked gasp rushes past your parted lips as she latches her mouth onto your clit, circling and suckling on the sensitive nub.

A string of mewls leaves your mouth, a hand reaching down to tangle in her hair. She hums against you, the vibrations eliciting louder noises from you.

Her tongue explores your folds, skillfully gliding across every spot that caused you to cry out in pleasure. She knew exactly how to make you feel good, like she had done this a million times before. Though you weren't sure if such a glaring observation was horrifying or enticing. 

However, your train of thought is effectively derailed as she curls her tongue in your pussy, the gummy walls contracting against the sudden intrusion.

“O-oh my god, i’m gonna cum…” You cry out, tugging on her dark locks as you feel yourself begin to tumble over the edge. Then, she stops.

Your eyes bolt open, confusion written across your face as she meets your gaze once more. “Not yet…” She mumbled before leaning in to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on the tip of her tongue.

With your protests dying out as she seemingly swallows you whole, you allow yourself to melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around her neck.

She chuckles at your eagerness, palming the swell of your breast before trailing her hand back down your abdomen. Your hand once again dashes back down to tug at her belt, the metal clicking softly against her zipper.

Her prosthetic comes up to gently remove your hand. “No touchin’, baby, let me take care of you.”

Before you can protest, her other hand sneaks down to gently thumb your clit, the newly familiar feeling regressing you further into the sensations coursing through your veins.

“That's right, sweet girl, just feel.” She coos gently, coaxing two fingers into your leaky hole. 

You bite down on your lip to muffle any loud noises, whimpering as your walls flutter around the digits. “S’full…” 

She nods against your neck, caressing your waist with her prosthetic as a means for comfort. “I know baby, I know…Just gotta stretch you out.” She exasperates, fingers scissoring inside of you.

Any pain that was provoked from her touch quickly faded away into pulsing pleasure as she curled her fingers upwards.

A moan escaped your lips and your eyes rolled to the back of your head, arching your body off the bed. “F-feels so good…” You whimper, hips grinding down against her knuckles. The pads of her fingertips brushing against your sweet spot like a soothing balm on the glaring arousal in your gut. 

“Takin’ m’fingers like such a good girl…” She grunted, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, her fingers working you with expert precision.

Your eyes rolled back as you felt yourself get close again. Lewd squelching sounds accompanied the creaking of the bed frame as she plunged her fingers into your leaky pussy.

“Close?” She asked, though it had to have been rhetorical. The high-pitched moans escaping your lips after every thrust had to have been an answer in itself.

“Y-yeah, i’m…” You cut yourself off with a rather loud whimper, seeing stars as she repeatedly hit your sweet spot.

“Yeah?” She drawled. Her voice came out lower…huskier than usual. Despite your fuzzy state, the change in her tone didnt go unnoticed

You nod wordlessly, clinging onto her rumpled blazer for dear life. She chuckles softly, fangs poking out to gently caress the pulse point.

You swallow thickly, heart hammering against your chest like a bird in a gilded cage. She tensed up as you did so, leaning down to shower your neck with affection as she worked you closer and closer.

The second your orgasm crashed down on you, Sevika buried her fangs into the side of your neck, feeding with a twisted sense of reverence.

Loud moans filled the room as her fingers continued to plow into you, prolonging the intensity of your orgasm. 

The sensations were nearly overwhelming, the impalation of her fangs, the curl of her fingers. Each second passing slipped you further into a catatonic state. 

She forced herself to pull away, feeling you grow limp under her steady grasp. She looked down, eyes still gleaming with hunger, but laced with concern.

“Oh, baby…” She muttered softly, retracting her fingers from your hole. She leaned down to take you in another kiss, this one almost cautious, like she was handling glass.

She adjusted to hover above you, her prosthetic propped on her elbow, the other hand gently caressing your cheek. As you come back to earth, your vision sharpens, the world settling into focus.

"There you are..." She cooed, brushing away a stray tear that had slid down your face. "My sweet girl...Y'alright?" She asked, a tinge of concern lacing her soft tone.

You nod slowly, taking deep breaths in order to anchor your thoughts. She hummed, her hand trailing down to gently rub your chest in gentle, relaxed circles.

The room was filled with the soft cadence of your breathing and the distant hum of late-night traffic drifting in from the city below. The calloused pads of her knuckles trace your skin, a touch that weaves unease and comfort together in your gut.

Your eyes dart up to meet hers. Manhattan’s city lights flicker across her face, illuminating a spark of affection in her gaze. But beneath it, you catch the shadow of reluctance—a tinge of lament that lingers, unspoken.

And in that moment, you are painfully aware that, despite the closeness of your bodies, you are still emotionally worlds apart. Yet as her skin brushes yours, you wonder if, someday, the distance might close…Or if this ache is all you’ll ever share.

Taglist: @half-of-a-gay @sapphiccup @iamaboringrattat @spinback-kiva @theoreticalfreak @moodient @diouna @helaenabugmom @womenlover360 @sumisamente @thatsmadiculous @madzorwhatever @vkumi @boom58 @h2pinky @glittzygorilla @koralinebox @kay-khronicals @belldonic @rosebg @thehoneybeestings @sunflowerwinds @dyketoast @dvrkhcld @blasphemous-riot @blacksiren777 @mommyissuesismypersonality @leeidk87 @furrytaesss @summerwriting @kissesfornat @holdmegentlylikehamburger @violetsforroses98

note: tysm for reading! i had a lot of fun experimenting with the horror genre :D any criticism/feedback appreciated!

[thepencilnerd]

Hi! No pressure at all, but I was wondering if I could make a highly self-indulgent Dr. Robby request in honor of Teacher Appreciation Week?

I’m a middle school special ed teacher and I would love to see Robby with a Teacher!Reader. I just know he would be so supportive and encouraging, especially on the really hard days 🍎

Thank you! 🫶🏻

first of all—THANK YOU FOR DOING WHAT YOU DO!!!! i cannot tell you what an impact my earliest academic mentors have had on me in my life inside and outside of the classroom, and my appreciation for educators knows no bounds. thank you for everything you do and the difference you make ❤️

—

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise of the world outside, and still—somehow—it felt too loud. Your bag slipped from your shoulder with a thud, your shoes kicked off in two graceless arcs as you stumbled forward and dropped to your knees. Then you let gravity take the rest, folding down until your cheek met the cool surface of the hardwood floor. You didn’t even make it to the couch.

It grounded you—just enough to stop shaking, not enough to hold back the sting behind your eyes. Your limbs ached, not from anything as simple as strain, but from the slow erosion of a day spent holding space for everyone but yourself. A hundred tiny heartbreaks you couldn’t fix, piling up behind your ribs.

From the kitchen came the soft clink of a mug, the rustle of fabric. Footsteps padded toward you, quiet but certain. You didn’t lift your head.

“Hey,” came Robby’s voice—low, rough-edged with tenderness. The kind of softness meant only for you. "I promise you the couch is exponentially much more comfortable." 

You barely had time to brace before you felt him kneel beside you, his fingers combing gently through your hair. That was all it took. Your throat closed, and tears welled up, slipping silently down your cheek, soaking into the floor.

“Bad one?” he asked, his hand settling at the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles.

Your voice came out raw, muffled. “I couldn’t reach her. Lila. She just… shut down. Wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t move, and I tried everything, Robby. Everything I know. But nothing got through. And then Jason melted down in the cafeteria, Liam bolted out the classroom door again, and—”

You hiccuped, voice breaking.

“I don’t know if I’m helping. I don’t know if I’m making any kind of difference at all. Why am I even trying?”

There was a pause—not hesitation, but soft and thoughtful. Then his arms slid beneath yours, lifting you up gently, carefully, until you collapsed against him. Your knees still anchored you to the floor, but your weight sank into his chest, your face pressed into his hoodie that smelled faintly of hospital soap and burnt coffee.

He kissed your temple, breath warm. “You do help. You do make a difference. You don’t have to do everything perfectly. You don’t have to be okay every day.”

“I just wanted to be the safe place,” you whispered. “I wanted to be what they needed.”

“You are,” he said. “Even when they can’t say it. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. You’re the one they come back to. The one who stays. That matters more than they’ll ever know how to say. They see it. And I see it. I see you.”

The words broke something loose. You cried harder then, but didn’t pull away. Because Robby held you like he never would. Because with him, falling apart didn’t feel like failure. It felt like trust.

Later, after he murmured a soft, "Come on, let's get you off the floor," and guided you gently to the couch, tucking a blanket around you with practiced care, he disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, it was with a plate in hand and a small, shy smile playing on his lips.

A grilled cheese sandwich—golden, crisp, and sliced diagonally, just how you liked it. And an apple, shiny red, with a tiny heart carefully cut out in the center.

“For my favorite teacher,” he said.

You laughed through your sniffles, voice thick. “You’re such a sap.”

He leaned in, brushing your nose with his. “Only for you.”

And when he settled in behind you, arms circling your waist as you curled into his warmth, the ache in your chest began to ease.

Because Robby never asked you to be perfect. Because he knew the weight you carried, and never once made you feel like it was too much.

Because he loved you—fully, gently, exactly as you were.

And that was more than enough.

[cheynovak]

Gravity Always Wins

Dean winchester x Y/N female friend

Summar: Y/N comforts Dean when he got aggressively emotional.

Warnings: None described, part from obvious trauma Dean went through

English isn't my first language

Please do not copy my work. Reblogs/comments and likes are appreciated

The atmosphere in the bunker was suffocating. Failure tasted bitter in everyone's mouths, and the weight of their repeated attempts to end God loomed over them like a storm cloud.

Dean’s frustration boiled over as he stood in the middle of the war room, his breathing ragged. The empty bottle of whiskey in front of him wasn't enough to dull the rage coursing through him. With a roar, he grabbed the table lamp and sent it crashing to the floor. Papers fluttered and scattered as his hand swept across the table, followed by the metallic clang of a chair crashing against the wall.

Sam and Cas stood frozen, their faces caught somewhere between concern and helplessness. They both exchanged a brief glance, neither sure how to proceed.

But Y/N had seen Dean in his dark places before.

She stepped forward, her boots clicking softly on the floor. Her instincts told her to tread carefully. He stood stiff and silent, his hands gripping the back of his head, shoving his fingers into his short, messy hair.

"Dean," Y/N started softly, her voice gentle but steady. There was no response. His whole body seemed locked in an invisible cage, wound too tight to move.

She stopped a step behind him, her hand hovering above his shoulder. She needed permission—some kind of sign it was okay to touch him. When it didn’t come, she rested her fingers softly on his shoulder anyway. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shake her off, didn’t even breathe differently.

Taking a breath, Y/N moved, her hand trailing lightly over his shoulder as she circled to face him. His eyes were screwed shut, and his chest heaved with uneven breaths. His hands were still locked high above his head, fingers tangled in frustration.

She placed her hand gently on his chest, then slid it around to his back, pulling him closer. Her other hand wrapped around his waist in a full embrace, anchoring him even though he didn’t lean in. Her grip tightened. She whispered words she hoped would break through his self-imposed prison.

"It's okay. I got you. It's okay."

The words hung in the air. For a moment, she thought he might bolt—tense as a drawn bowstring, wound up as tight as she’d ever seen.

And then the tension broke.

Dean collapsed like a dam giving way, his knees buckling as he melted into her arms. His body shuddered against hers, and she followed him to the floor, holding onto him as they went. His head dropped to her shoulder, and the raw sound of his sobs filled the room.

She tightened her hold, one hand slowly rubbing his back, the other cradling his head. "It’s okay," she whispered over and over. "I’ve got you."

Dean clung to her like she was the only solid thing in his world. She could feel his anguish, feel his heartbreak as he let everything out in those desperate, heavy cries. Tears soaked through her shirt, but she didn’t care.

Sam and Cas stood frozen, unsure if they should interrupt the moment or leave quietly. Cas tilted his head, studying the scene as if committing it to memory, while Sam took a small step backward.

“Let’s give them a minute,” Sam murmured to Cas, tugging at the angel's sleeve. Reluctantly, Cas followed Sam into the hall, leaving the two friends alone in the war room.

Y/N continued holding Dean until the shaking stopped and his breathing slowed. He didn’t move from her embrace, but she felt the tension slowly leave his body.

When he finally pulled back, his face was red and puffy, but his eyes were softer now, less haunted. “Sorry,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t apologize,” Y/N said firmly, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “You don’t have to carry all this alone.”

Dean let out a shaky breath and gave a small, tired nod. She could still see the weight in his eyes, but for now, at least, he wasn’t carrying it all by himself.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Anytime,” she replied, offering a small, reassuring smile.

And in that moment, Dean Winchester wasn’t a soldier or a hunter or humanity’s savior. He was simply her best friend, leaning on her as she held him together, piece by piece.

--

Tags:

@jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl

@deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side

@kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303

@shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch

@deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal

@roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf

[theosang3ls]

Forbidden by Fate (pt. 2)

part one, next parts coming soon…

Pairing: Journalist!Reader x Death Eater!Theodore Nott

Summary: Theo saw you after two whole years and his world collapses. He’s determined to save you from the torture and possible death the rest of the Death Eaters want to give you.

Warnings: This is generally a dark fic! Please before reading its contents read carefully all the warnings listed below; hair pulling, extreme crying, mentions of dead parents (Theo’s mother), swearing, reader is tied up and blindfolded, use of yn (literally one time).

It’s finally posted! So excited to share this with all of you eheheh:) Hope you like it<3

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

For several excruciating moments, Theodore stood frozen, as though time itself had forgotten him. He was no longer a boy, no longer a Death Eater—just a hollow figure rooted to the cold, bloodstained floor, paralyzed by the sight of you. Your muffled sobs, your ragged breathing, your pleading cries sliced through the thick silence of the dungeon, but they all blurred into white noise against the storm building inside his chest. He couldn’t hear you. Not properly. Not through the roaring in his ears, not through the sound of his heart breaking.

His eyes locked on you—your battered, trembling body curled on the ground like a discarded secret—and it felt like the world tilted off its axis. This couldn’t be real. Not you.

Not you.

The person who had once been his light, his anchor, the rare softness in a life that had grown so unbearably sharp. He’d spent the last two years convincing himself you were safe, far from this madness. And now, here you were, right in front of him—unrecognizable only because of the blood and the violence that had been carved into your skin.

A thousand instincts warred inside him: run to you, kneel beside you, untie your bindings, hold you against him and whisper lies—that it would all be okay, that he’d get you out, that he’d fix this somehow. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. Because to do any of that would mean exposing you both. It would mean death. And in this place, mercy was a betrayal.

So he stood there, silently shattering, while you begged him not to hurt you—unaware that the man you were begging was the same one who used to hold your hand when nightmares came. But then your cries grew louder. More frantic. Each word choked on your sobs, punctuated by pain that made Theodore’s knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He couldn’t bear it anymore. With a sharp breath, he turned and fled.

He bolted through the corridor like a hunted man, each step echoing like a scream against the stone. His throat tightened with the pressure of unshed tears, his vision already clouded from the heat behind his eyes. And then, before he could make it to the stairs, his body revolted. His breath hitched violently—too fast, too shallow. The air in the corridor grew thick and metallic, like it had turned to smoke. He stumbled, slamming his back against the cold wall, both hands clutching his chest in a feeble attempt to keep himself from falling apart entirely. His heart was thundering so violently it felt like it might crack his ribs. He clawed at his shirt, his hair, anything that might ground him, might shock him out of this spiraling terror. But it didn’t stop. Nothing did.

He squeezed his eyes shut—and immediately regretted it.

Because all he could see was you: screaming, crying, bleeding, blindfolded and battered. Your voice—once soft and full of warmth—now raw with fear and despair, echoing through his mind like a curse. He pressed his fists to his temples, gritting his teeth, silently begging for it to stop. For the guilt. For the helplessness. For the crushing reality that he had let this happen—watched it happen.

He couldn’t stay. If he passed anyone in the manor, they would know. They’d see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. He couldn’t let them suspect. Couldn’t give them a reason to question him.

Without another thought, he pulled his wand from his coat and with a trembling hand, twisted into the familiar motion—Apparition.

The air ripped apart around him, then silence.

He landed with a small gasp at the edge of the graveyard, just outside the worn black gates that encircled the headstones like crooked teeth. The wind was sharp here, biting, pulling at his clothes like ghosts desperate to be remembered. But he welcomed the sting. At least it meant he could still feel something that wasn’t shame.

He hadn’t been here in over three years. Not since the mark was burned into his skin, sealing his fate. He couldn’t bear it then—the thought of facing his mother. Of standing over her grave and confessing that he had become the very shadow she warned him against.

But now, he needed her. He needed her more than he ever had.

He walked slowly, the weight of the gloomy morning dragging his limbs down like chains, until he reached her headstone. The sight of it nearly undid him. Her name carved into the stone, the soft inscription beneath it still legible despite the moss—“May her kindness outlive her memory.”

His knees gave out beneath him, crashing hard against the dirt, but he didn’t even flinch. Pain felt irrelevant now—numb beneath the flood of agony in his chest. His trembling fingers curled into the edges of the grave like they were his last tether to reality, like if he held tight enough, maybe he wouldn’t come undone.

His throat was raw when he finally spoke, barely louder than a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking like splintered glass. “I’m so—Merlin, I’m so fucking sorry, Mum.”

The words broke him open. The dam inside him—carefully built from denial, shame, numbness—shattered under the weight of those four syllables. Tears erupted from his eyes without mercy, hot and relentless, streaking down his face and hitting the cold stone below. His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he tried to breathe, tried to hold on, but it was impossible. The weight was too much now.

The air felt too sharp to inhale, slicing through his lungs as he choked on everything he had buried over the last two years: all the screaming, all the blood, all the faces—terrified, innocent faces—but none of them haunted him like yours did.

“I saw her,” he rasped, the words clawing their way out of his throat like they wanted to kill him. “She’s in the dungeon. She’s—” His voice gave out for a moment as he gagged on the bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it down, but it burned. “They—they hurt her, mum, they broke her.”

He sucked in a trembling breath and let it out in a sob so guttural it echoed off the gravestones.

“And I just… watched. I watched her cry. I heard her beg.” His voice cracked entirely then, his head bowing so low it almost touched the soil. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I just stood there like a fucking coward.”

The wind howled around him, cold and cruel, but he barely felt it. His heart was caving in, his soul fracturing. The image of you—bound, blindfolded, bruised, crying for mercy without even knowing he was there—had etched itself into his skull. It wouldn’t leave. It couldn’t.

“I was supposed to protect her,” he whispered, his fingers now digging into the dirt like he could bury himself there. “She was my home. She was—she is—everything good I ever knew. And now she thinks I’m just like them.”

His voice dropped into a broken whisper, almost inaudible, like he couldn’t even bear to hear himself say it. “Maybe I am.” Tears were falling faster now, and his chest heaved violently with each breath. It hurt. Everything hurt.

“I became what you begged me not to. I let the darkness in. I let it win.” And with that final, shattering confession, Theodore collapsed forward. His forehead pressed against the stone that marked his mother’s resting place—the last place he remembered being loved without condition. “I’m sorry” he whispered, his fingers trembled against the frozen earth, fists pounding weakly at the grave like a child desperate to wake a parent from sleep.

Sobs tore out of him, raw and involuntary, the kind that came from a soul that didn’t know how to survive itself anymore. It wasn’t just grief, or guilt. It was everything. The war. The screams. The helplessness. The unbearable truth that he had become the very thing he once feared.

And above all, it was the image of you that kept bleeding through his every thought like poison in his veins.

He was unraveling, piece by piece, until nothing was left but this—a boy on his knees at his mother’s grave, begging for forgiveness that would never come.

Because deep down, he knew: This wasn’t something he could come back from.

This was the moment Theodore Nott truly broke—not in battle, not under the Dark Mark—but here, in the silence, mourning the loss of the man he might have been, and the girl he never stopped loving.

By the time his sobs finally quieted, his body had gone numb. His knees throbbed from kneeling so long in the cold, and his hands trembled as he wiped the tears from his face, though they kept coming anyway. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, lashes damp and stuck together. His lips—once always curled in some cynical smirk—were split and bitten raw from the way he’d tried to keep quiet in front of the dead.

And even now, as he stood and flicked his wand, he felt no lighter. Just empty. With a soft crack, he apparated back to the last place he wanted to be— the Malfoy Manor. The very walls seemed to breathe with cruelty, every corridor soaked in a quiet, suffocating dread. He landed just outside his room and paused there, shoulders heavy, the ghost of that graveyard still clinging to his skin.

With a strained, almost broken sigh, he pushed the door open.

He hadn’t expected Mattheo to still be inside. He assumed he’d left—why wouldn’t he have? But there he was, lying across Theo’s bed, absently flicking his wand in the air as he stared up at the ceiling like he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think, couldn’t settle.

The second the door creaked open and Theo stepped in—disheveled, pale, soaked in sorrow—Mattheo shot up, all laziness evaporated.“Where in the bloody hell have you been?” he demanded, concern overriding his frustration. “It’s been three hours, mate.”

His voice trailed off as he got a better look. Theo’s hair was a tangled mess, like he’d been pulling at it for hours. His eyes were bloodshot, lids swollen from crying. There was a hollowness to him that hadn’t been there before, like someone had reached in and scraped out everything soft and human, leaving only a shell behind.

Mattheo’s expression hardened—not in anger, but fear. Something was wrong. More wrong than it had ever been.

Theo didn’t answer him. He just walked across the room like his body was on strings, limbs barely functioning, and dropped into a chair as if the weight pressing down on him had finally won. He collapsed into it, head bowed, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The silence that followed was suffocating. Mattheo felt it like a noose tightening with every second neither of them spoke.

Then—quietly, barely above a whisper—Theo broke. “The girl in the dungeon…” His voice cracked. His lips quivered as he forced the words out. “It’s Y/N.”

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His jaw clenched, and he bit down hard, trying to stop the wave of fresh tears that were already gathering in his eyes. Mattheo froze and stared at his best friend, heart twisting.

Theo had always carried the weight of the war like a second skin. He was good at hiding it—numbing it with sarcasm, drowning it in silence. But this? This had stripped him raw. He looked like a boy who had just watched his entire world burn and couldn’t lift a finger to stop it.

And Mattheo knew why.

He had seen how much Theo loved you back in Hogwarts. The way his eyes softened when you walked into a room. The way he lit up when you laughed, even on the darkest days. You were everything—the one person who gave him something to live for when the rest of the world was crumbling. And now, with you in that dungeon, broken and alone… It was killing him.

When you’d broken things off before, Theo had spiraled. Months of silence. Of half-eaten meals and hollow stares. He never truly recovered from that break up. But this? This was worse. This was devastation. This was the kind of grief people didn’t come back from.

He drew a breath, kept his voice low. Steady.

“At the meeting… during her questioning—we might be able to pull something off,” Mattheo said. It wasn’t a plan, not really, but it was something. Something to say. Something that might pull Theo back from whatever edge he was hanging off of.

He watched his best friend closely, hoping for a flicker of reaction. Anything. But Theo didn’t even flinch.

Mattheo swallowed hard and started pacing. Not because he needed to move—but because standing still felt unbearable when Theo was falling apart right in front of him. He felt helpless, completely and utterly helpless—and he hated it. But he knew the one thing he couldn’t do was fall apart with him. He had to hold the line. For both of them.

“I’ll talk to Berkshire and Zabini,” he said quickly. “Get them on our side. They owe me, and right now, we need every card we can play.” Still nothing from Theo. Just the slow, silent rhythm of his breathing—too shallow, too fast—and the way his fingers started to tremble against his knees.

Mattheo stepped in front of him, crouching down slightly to level his voice with Theo’s fogged-over stare. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, gently but firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking… don’t. You go after them now, you’ll end up in chains or worse—and that won’t help her. You know that.”

There was a flicker—just the tiniest twitch of his jaw, the barest flick of his eyes—but it passed as quickly as it came, swallowed up again by the weight pressing down on him. His grief was all-consuming. There was no rage in him, not anymore. Only despair.

Mattheo hesitated at the door, chest tight. He didn’t want to leave Theo like this. He shouldn’t leave him like this. But time was already slipping away, and if they were going to have any chance of saving you, he had to move now.

“I’ll be back,” he said, almost a whisper. “Please… don’t let your father see you like this.”Then he turned and left, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

And Theo stayed still, his eyes glued on the floor.

~

You had been alone for hours.

Not that time meant anything anymore—not down here.

The silence was unbearable. The only thing keeping you company was the sound of your own breathing—shaky, unsteady, breaking more often than not. The kind of breathing that came when crying stopped being loud and just turned into survival.

Your tears had dried hours ago, leaving behind stiff tracks on your cheeks, mixed with crusted blood and the grime of stone walls. Your face was still pressed against the cold dungeon floor, your skin numb from contact, but it didn’t matter anymore. The pain had settled into something constant—deep, familiar, inescapable.

You had stopped trying to scream. You had stopped trying to move.

Because every time you tried—even just to roll your aching body onto your side—you were met with white-hot agony. Your wrists were bound tightly behind your back, swollen, raw. Your limbs refused to obey. Your muscles trembled from exhaustion. Every part of you ached like it had been set on fire and left to burn slow.

You could only hope now. Fragile, flickering hope that someone—anyone—would notice your absence. Maybe an Auror. Maybe someone from Dumbledore’s Army. Maybe your coworkers. You didn’t know who, you just knew you couldn’t do this alone anymore.

But worst of all—you hoped no Death Eater knew your filthy secret.

No one had brought it up. Not the numerous articles, commenting on Voldemort’s brutalities. They didn’t question if you even knew “Wizards Anonymous”. And for that reason alone, you let yourself believe—maybe they didn’t know. Because if they had known, if any of them had discovered your secret, you doubted you’d still be breathing.

Your cheek stuck to the damp floor, every breath becoming a struggle. You tried to swallow, but your throat was too dry. You couldn’t cry anymore. There was nothing left to cry with. Your body had betrayed you, shut down, grown heavy and distant. Like it had decided it no longer wanted to be yours.

The iron door to the dungeon flew open with a sharp metallic screech. You flinched violently, your whole body locking up in fear. After hours of silence, the sound felt like it shattered your ribs from the inside.

Footsteps—Sharp. Heavy. Purposeful.

“Get up.” A voice—female, flat, cold and demanding. Her voice held no pity, no hesitation. It just an order.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You had nothing left to obey with. Last time someone had come down here, you’d begged—choked on your own pleas—but all it earned you was silence. They didn’t speak. They just stood there. Watched. And you had known then that they weren’t here to save you.

You didn’t make that mistake again. The woman didn’t wait long.

Without warning, a hand closed in your hair and yanked. Hard. So violently it tore a scream from your throat before you could stop it. Your head snapped back, pain exploding through your scalp, down your spine. Your entire body tensed. The scream burned your throat—dry, cracked, useless.

She began dragging you forward by the roots of your hair. You tried to lift your legs to keep up, but you couldn’t. Your knees scraped against the stone floor, already raw and bleeding, each step a new layer of pain. Everything was spinning. Your vision blurred. You couldn’t breathe properly—each inhale was shallow and sharp. You felt sick, dizzy, barely conscious.

Your hunger, thirst and pain crashed onto you all at once, and still she pulled—relentless, uncaring.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t form words. Your body was nothing more than a bruised, broken vessel, dragged up the stone staircase like an animal. You weren’t even sure you were fully awake anymore.

Then, suddenly—she stopped.

Without any warning, her hand released. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, the sudden absence of force leaving you disoriented and breathless. But she wasn’t done. A second later, she gripped your shoulders and shoved you forward onto your knees—your already battered legs crying out beneath the weight.

You bit down hard on your lip, hard enough that you felt fresh blood pool across your tongue. The pain was sharp, grounding. Silence fell again. It was thick, oppressive, dreadful.

You didn’t know where you were now. You couldn’t see. You could only feel—the tension in the air, the unmistakable presence of someone else in the room. Someone watching. Waiting.

The silence stretched too long.

And in that silence, something inside you cracked. Quietly. Deeply.

You bowed your head lower, chest heaving, shoulders shaking, the taste of blood still on your lips.

You weren’t alone anymore. But somehow, that made everything worse.

Theo’s knuckles were white.

His fists were clenched so tightly beneath the heavy oak table, he could feel the skin splitting across his palm. His eyes hadn’t moved from the marble floor in minutes—he couldn’t. Not when every fiber of him was already threatening to come undone.

But he could still hear you—every shaky, broken inhale, every choked sob you were clearly fighting to suppress.

Your breath sounded so faint, so fractured, like your lungs could barely hold air. Like your body was begging to give up, but you were forcing it to keep going.

You were trying to be brave.

And it was killing him.

You knelt in the center of the room—your head bowed, arms still tied, your clothes torn and bloodstained. The blindfold was cutting into the skin above your cheekbones, and your legs trembled beneath you, barely able to hold your own weight. You looked like a shattered thing. A shadow of who you used to be.

And yet you still hadn’t screamed. Not once.

Theo’s throat burned. He stared harder at the polished floor beneath him, as if by sheer force of will he could make it open and swallow him whole.

To his left, his father sat calm and composed—an image of proud obedience, his back straight, his hands folded. And beyond him an empty seat, awaiting Bellatrix Lestrange. She stood behind you now, fingers knotted tight in your hair, yanking your head upright just enough to make sure you couldn’t fully collapse. Her grin was painted across her face like something unholy, her eyes wide with manic delight as she watched you twitch beneath her grip.

Across the table, Mattheo sat rigid. His gaze wasn’t on you either—but on Theo. Constantly flicking over, making sure he hadn’t fallen off the edge. Theo felt it. That silent communication. Hold on. But he didn’t know if he could.

Because the truth was Theo had never felt so useless in his life.

He was sitting at the same table as the people who were hurting you and he was doing absolutely nothing. He couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. But every breath you took made his hands shake harder beneath the table.

Then the doors leading to the room flung opened and every head at the table rose immediately.

Theo rose too, slower than the others, and only because it would be suspicious if he didn’t. His body moved like stone—heavy, reluctant, frozen by the weight of who had just entered.

Lord Voldemort.

His footsteps echoed through the vast hall like the ticking of a final clock. Each step was measured, cruelly patient. Nagini slithered beside him, her body winding along the marble floor, the quiet hiss of scales scraping against stone slithering into the silence.

Theo could feel your panic across the room. The way your breathing hitched, the way your body tried to shrink in on itself, as if you could make yourself disappear just by holding still enough. You didn’t know who had entered—but you could feel the shift in the air. The dominance. The danger.

You knew. You felt it.

Theo swallowed hard, the taste of bile thick at the back of his throat.

“You may sit,” Voldemort said calmly, his voice as cold and final as death. The others obeyed. Theo sat slowly, heart hammering behind his ribs. He didn’t dare look up, but he knew—he knew—that Voldemort’s eyes were on you now.

“That’s the girl you told me about?” His voice was smooth, even amused. It slithered through the room like a spell.

“Yes, my Lord,” Theo’s father answered instantly, bowing his head low. “She denies any connection to the Army… but when’s the last time a mudblood didn’t lie? She’s hiding something. I’m sure of it. I just can’t tell what.”

Theo felt his nails dig into his palms.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he knew what was happening inside you. He saw the way your jaw trembled. The way your lip curled slightly inward, like you were biting it so hard just to keep silent, just to keep from defending yourself—because if you spoke, they’d kill you before you finished the first sentence.

And you knew that. Still, Theo saw the drop of blood roll slowly down your chin.

Voldemort was smiling now. He looked at you like a butcher studying meat. “I trust your judgment,” he said softly. “Let’s see what she’ll give me.” Then he turned to you again, head tilted slightly. “I’m feeling generous today,” he said, voice light, almost teasing. “So I’ll be kind. As long as she tells me the truth.”

You flinched.

Not dramatically. Just barely. A twitch of the shoulders. A shallow breath. But Theo noticed. And so did Bellatrix.

She yanked your hair again, twisting it cruelly in her fingers. Your body jolted with the force of it, a sound escaping your lips that wasn’t a scream but close—a strangled whimper, helpless and raw.

Theo’s heart cracked, while Voldemort was still smiling.

The room remained in absolute silence. No one dared speak. No one moved. Only your broken, ragged breathing filled the chamber—shaky, wet, desperate. Theo couldn’t take it anymore.

He looked up.

Just once.

And when he saw your face—barely conscious, your lips trembling, blood on your chin, your knees bruised and shaking under you—he almost stood. He almost gave it all away right there.

But Mattheo’s foot bumped his under the table. A silent command: stop. So Theo swallowed his scream. Swallowed his rage. Swallowed his grief. But in that moment, he swore—if you made it out of this alive, even barely, he would never forgive himself for not burning the world down first.

“So,” Voldemort’s voice cut through the room like ice sliding over glass, smooth and cold and terrifyingly patient. He turned his wand slowly in his fingers, eyes never leaving your trembling form. “Be truthful with me…” he drawled, his tone casual—too casual, as though this were all just a pleasant conversation over tea. Then, after a pause that dragged the breath out of your lungs, he added with a soft, poisonous smile, “and I might even let you live.”

The words hit you harder than any curse. Your chest heaved with a sharp inhale, your breath catching painfully in your throat. Every muscle in your body seized at once. The threat, veiled as mercy, landed like a slap across the face—and though you couldn’t see him, you could feel him watching the way it shattered you.

At the table, Theo felt like he might be sick. His grip on his wand tightened under the table, so tight his knuckles whitened. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His heart thundered in his chest, screaming at him to do something—anything. But he couldn’t. He had to sit there, paralyzed in the presence of monsters, pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his gaze still fixed on you. “Got it?” he asked, his voice dropping, coated in something darker now. Meaner. A tone you knew meant danger.

You nodded—fast, eager, desperate. “Y—yes,” you stammered through cracked lips, your voice barely audible over your trembling breath. You could feel your eyes stinging again, tears rising before you could stop them. You clenched your jaw, trying to force them back, but it was no use. They slid beneath the cloth wrapped tight around your eyes, soaking it slowly. Silent. Shameful.

Theo’s heart broke at the sound of your voice. Just that one word. You were trying so hard to stay strong, but you sounded… shattered. Like your soul was fraying with each syllable. Like you were apologizing for being alive.

And yet Voldemort smiled. The sight of your fragile, broken obedience entertained him. You, barely holding yourself up, bloodied and bruised and still bleeding from where Bellatrix’s hand remained fisted in your hair like a leash—he found that amusing.

His next question came quickly, without compassion. “Are you part of Dumbledore’s Army?”

“No!” you gasped, answering before the words even finished forming. “No, I’m not! Please—I’m telling the truth!” Your voice cracked into something that wasn’t even a voice anymore. A raw, pleading sob escaped you like a wound ripped open, and you couldn’t stop it, not even if you bit down until your teeth shattered. “Please…” the desperation in your tone was too much—too real.

Bellatrix yanked your hair again, hard enough to rip another scream from your lungs. You cried out, your body jerking backward violently, your knees sliding against the stone, skin tearing open over the sharp edge of the floor. The pain was everywhere—your scalp on fire, your limbs screaming—but you didn’t even know what hurt the most anymore. It all blended together into something you were drowning in.

“Enough,” Voldemort said mildly, lifting his hand with regal boredom.

Bellatrix let go instantly, her nails dragging through your hair as she did, leaving streaks of blood behind.

You slumped forward again, barely able to hold your balance. Your bound hands twitched behind you in a weak, useless attempt to catch yourself, but they were pinned too tight. You wavered, hunched and panting, sobbing quietly into the stale, bloodstained air.

Theo was silent. Still. His father didn’t even glance at him—but Mattheo did.

One quick look across the table. He saw the rage in Theo’s clenched jaw. The panic in his breathing. He knew Theo was seconds away from breaking.

“Are you associated with members of the Army?” Voldemort asked next. His voice was no longer curious—it was venomous. Like he’d already decided you were guilty. Now he just wanted to hear you say it so he could justify what came next.

“N—no,” you whimpered, barely above a whisper. You shifted where you knelt, wincing as your knees screamed in agony. You wanted to lie down. You wanted to disappear into the floor and never come back. But you stayed upright, somehow—fighting for your life with nothing but trembling bones and dying breath.

You had spoken to some of them. It was true. You’d small talk with them while you were at work, smiled like nothing in the world was wrong. But you never asked questions. You never knew anything important. And you never let yourself get close. Still, even that small truth felt like betrayal now.

Your tears soaked through the blindfold completely, saturating the rough fabric and making it cling to your skin, rubbing your eyes raw. You couldn’t see, but you could feel the room’s silence, heavy and waiting. Waiting for you to slip.

You wished someone would stop it.

Then came the silence.

The kind of silence that suffocates.

The kind that seeps into your bones, into your lungs, until even your breathing feels like it echoes too loud. Your body trembled, slumped in on itself, the only sounds filling the vast chamber were your choked, uneven gasps and the feeble hitch of air dragging through your throat. Each inhale rattled painfully through your chest, like your ribs themselves were too broken to carry breath anymore.

And then—you felt him.

That cold, sharp presence slithering into your mind, piercing past your thoughts like shards of glass. You let out a broken cry as Voldemort pushed deeper, tearing through your consciousness with brutal precision. It was like drowning with your eyes wide open—no air, no escape, just your secrets laid bare and the violent intrusion of something unholy inside your head.

Your body convulsed. Your back arched instinctively as your bound wrists twisted behind you. You tried to hold on—tried so hard to lock down the memories that would destroy you if he found them. The ones of Theo. Of the way he used to hold your face like you were something precious. The stolen kisses under candlelight. All those article entries. Your words. Your truth. Wizards Anonymous.

You screamed in agony, your voice raw, ripped straight from your soul. “Stop!” you sobbed, the desperation cracking through every syllable. Your knees dug into the cold marble floor until you felt skin split. Tears soaked your blindfold and streaked freely down your cheeks now, salt stinging the already open wounds. Your neck could no longer hold your head up, and when he finally withdrew—just as suddenly as he had entered—you collapsed forward, your chin hitting your chest, your body slack and trembling like a broken puppet.

You cried—not just from pain, but from the sheer terror of not knowing what he’d seen. Had he gotten it? Had he seen Theo? Had he seen everything?

And then, his voice again—smooth, cruel, indifferent.

“She’s not part of the Army,” Voldemort said with clear disdain, almost disappointed, as if he’d been hoping for an excuse to tear you apart completely.

A sob broke free from your chest. You didn’t mean to make a sound, but relief flooded your system so violently it escaped you before you could stop it.

“Shut it, girl!” Bellatrix hissed, yanking your hair so hard your scalp burned, the movement stiffening your spine in a painful jolt. You bit down on your already shredded lip, tasting the familiar tang of blood as your body jolted with the effort of staying silent. Again.

Theo watched it all. Every agonising second he heard your cries, your desperate pleas, the pain in every shake breath, and every single one broke him even more.

His fists were still clenched beneath the table, nails digging into his palms so deep now they’d broken skin. He could feel blood pooling beneath his fingers, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. His heart felt like it was being slowly crushed, every beat echoing like thunder between his ears as he tried—tried—not to move. Not to scream. Not to run to you. Because he couldn’t.

He wasn’t Theodore here, he was Nott’s son—a Death Eater’s heir. And that mask, cold and emotionless, was the only thing keeping him alive.

He hadn’t looked at you—not fully. Not since they dragged you in. Because he couldn’t risk it. He knew if he did, if he saw your face—saw your pain—he’d break. And once he broke, they’d know. Everyone would know. And then they’d kill you.

So he stared straight ahead and clenched his jaw, swallowed his rage, buried it deep behind a face of indifference.

Then Voldemort spoke again. “How old are you?” His voice was deceptively soft now, like a twisted lullaby, and the question cut through the air like a knife.

You hesitated. Theo could hear the pause in your breathing—the panic building behind it. Not because of the question, but because he was speaking to you directly. A Mudblood. In front of a room full of people who would rather see you die than draw breath.

And still, with a voice no louder than a whisper, you answered. “T-Twenty.”

He laughed.

A sharp, amused sound that sent a shiver down Theo’s spine. He turned his gaze lazily to the young men seated at the table—Mattheo, Blaise, and then—finally—to Theo.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he sneered, the words soaked in mockery. He let his gaze fall back on you, surveying you like an object, a curiosity rather than a person. “Too bad you’re a Mudblood. You seem pretty.”

Theo’s stomach twisted violently. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. His fingernails drove deeper into his palms.

Voldemort chuckled, deep and cold.

And then—“Since I’m in such a generous mood today,” he drawled, spreading his hands with a smirk, “I’ll let you boys decide what we should do with this… filthy thing.”

The room was silent.

Theo didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

But his entire body was burning.

That thing was you.

The person who once held him when his nightmares came. The person who kissed the guilt from his scars. The person he still dreamed about. The person he still loved. That thing was his person.

He sat there, hands bleeding, lips pressed in a tight, white line—silent.

Because if he spoke now, if he let out even a single breath too loud, they would know.

But his silence was killing him more than any curse ever could.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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[aventurineswife]

hi!! i hope this request isn't too odd but could i request boothill with a reader who has sleep apnea and sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night really sick and shaky? basically shock-like symptoms in the middle of the night 😵‍💫 stuff like rapid heartbeat, intense shaking, nausea, clamminess, yknow. It usually goes away after like 20 minutes for me but it sucks 😭😭 i'd like to be comforted by boothill during one of these episodes...

“A Heart Wrapped in Steel”

Summary: After a rough night, you experience a sleep apnea episode, waking up in the middle of the night feeling sick and shaky. Boothill finds you struggling and steps in to comfort you. As he holds you through the episode, his unwavering presence and love become the anchor you need to survive the terrifying ordeal. In a rare, soft moment, Boothill proves that his protective nature goes beyond his quest for revenge—he’s there to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Apnea, Fluff, Comforting Boothill, Emotional Support, Protective Boothill, Mild Angst, Medical Episode, Healing.

Warnings: Sleep Apnea Episodes (described as rapid heartbeat, shaking, nausea, clamminess), Panic and Anxiety, Mild Emotional Distress, Physical Discomfort.

A/N: Not odd at all—I'm so sorry to hear that, I hope this fic can comfort you.

The cold of the stars barely touched you here—tucked inside the belly of Boothill’s rust-slicked ship, where the engine hummed like a tired lullaby. You’d fallen asleep to it, curled against warm blankets that smelled faintly of metal, desert wind, and him.

But tonight, the dark wasn’t quiet.

Your chest heaved with effort—lungs grabbing at air that didn’t feel real. You shot awake, gasping. Heart racing, skin clammy, vision swimming. A tremble ran through your arms, so violent you couldn’t hold your own weight. The nausea hit second. You squeezed your eyes shut and gripped the sheets, trying to ride it out.

You hated this. The middle-of-the-night hell where your body rebelled and your mind scrambled to make sense of the panic, the disorientation. You hated waking up like this—sick, shaky, scared.

And then you heard it: the low, steady clank of heavy boots against the floor.

“Darlin’?”

His voice was rough from disuse—deeper in the dark. Boothill, still half-dressed in his pants and jacket, stood in the doorway with one of his pistols holstered but the other hand empty. The red gleam of his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of you, slumped and shaking.

You didn’t even need to say anything.

Boothill crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside you. “Fudge. You’re havin’ another one.” His cybernetic hand came to the back of your neck, cool and steady, guiding you to lean forward against him. “Breathe, sugar. I gotcha.”

You let yourself fall into him—against the cold metal of his chest and the soft fray of that red scarf. Your fingers clutched his sleeve.

“I can’t—my heart’s goin’ nuts—feels like—feels like—” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.

“I know. I know.” Boothill’s voice was a low rumble, like a faraway thunderstorm. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm against your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ takin’ you from me tonight, y’hear? Not this. Not anything.”

Your legs jerked with tremors, but he didn’t flinch. Just adjusted his hold, arms tightening around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

“Sometimes happens when you ain’t sleepin’ right, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Knew I shoulda bolted that CPAP better. Hell, maybe I’ll build you a custom one. Make it prettier. With flames on the side.”

You laughed, a strangled little thing, but it helped. He always knew how to break the fear.

“I feel like I’m dying,” you whispered.

Boothill leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. His aim-marked pupils scanned every inch of your face like a targeting system on a warpath.

“You ain’t dyin’,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here. Ain’t nobody better at pullin’ folks outta the dirt than me.”

He wrapped the scarf around your shoulders, then dragged you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

You stayed there, shaking less with each passing second. He rocked you gently, a motion that felt oddly natural for a man built for vengeance. The weight of him—iron, rage, and relentless love—was your anchor in this storm.

The worst of it passed after a while. Your breaths evened out. The nausea ebbed like a tide retreating. He didn’t move until you relaxed fully against his chest.

“Thanks,” you said hoarsely.

Boothill leaned down and kissed your temple—just once, soft as a whisper. “You don’t ever gotta thank me for takin’ care of you,” he said. “You’re my heart, [Name]. If it means sittin’ up through every damn episode like this ‘til the end of time, I’ll do it.”

His voice cracked a little at the end. You didn’t think Boothill cried. But something deep in you knew—if this ever took you away from him, he’d burn stars for revenge.

You tucked yourself tighter into his arms and whispered, “I’m okay now. Just... stay with me ‘til I fall asleep?”

“You couldn’t chase me off with a plasma cannon, darlin’.”

And with that, Boothill held you—long into the night, iron arms wrapped around flesh and bone, guarding your dreams like a cowboy angel forged in fire and loss.

[fanaticsnail]

Halloween: Eustass Kid

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word count: 3,200+

Themes: Eustass Kid x m!reader, werewolf!kid x human!reader, NSFW, 18+, smut, mdni, breeding, bondage, sub Kid x dom reader (switch both), love, feelings, emotions, term 'mates' used for coupling, romance if you squint, monsterfucking, you top Kid, creampie, Kid's werewolf form can only speak in one to two word sentences.

Notes: Happy Halloween! I hope you enjoy this fic!

The stare born by two tangerine orbs glared at you through a bowed head. Messy locks of scarlett cascaded over his lengthy lashes as his perpetual growl reverberated in the chasms of his chest.

Upper body bound in heavy chains of silver, a single cuffed wrist anchoring him to the floor by a thick bolt set within stone, Eustass Kid continued to raise his hackles up at you. Revealing sharpened canines, pearly and pristine as his left side scar rose with his grimace, you simply rolled your eyes and continued to read your newspaper without paying him any mind.

Plush pillows, shredded clothes, both his and yours, littered the surrounds of the bolt, forming a perfect nest around the creature. He could sleep if he wanted to, but the man now replaced by his alternate monster had different plans.

When Kid experienced his change on the lunar cycle, you were subject to more of a beast than the man you loved. The man who held your heart was buried deep within the belly, sometimes a softness depicted in the cool of the beast’s eyes. For now, the beast was simply just that: a werewolf bolted to the ground and bound in thick rings of silver.

“Don’t get all huffy with me, pretty boy,” you warn him, fluttering the pages as you straighten the curved edge. “Boss said you can’t be trusted around me when you’re like this. I don’t make the rules, I obey them: as must you.”

That comment was met with a roar, his teeth parting and salivating through the muzzle clasped against his snout. You huffed, slamming down your newspaper on the table, and turning your head towards the red-furred werewolf version of your lover and gave him a disciplinary look. He snarled at you, his upper lip tucked up at the corner in reaction to your glare.

“Really?” you scolded him, tilting your head to seek out his eyes with your own. “And here I thought you'd appreciate my company below decks.” You rose to your feet, brushing off your thighs and readjusting your shirt. As you began walking across the wooden floor, you continued your soft reprimand over your shoulder.

“I can hear you crying out, you know,” you spoke in absolutes, honesty being the only source found in your voice, “Not just howling at the moon, but true mourning keens, screaming for attention. As mate to your human counterpart, in my self-absorbed delirium, I thought that meant you wanted me.”

As your hand reached for the door, a soft whimper whistled through the back of the beast’s throat in a desperate plea to halt your motions.

“What?” you snap at him, turning back to face him once more. “Now you want me here? Which is it, pretty boy: I stay,” you gesture to the ground, “Or I go?” you point to the door.

The red-headed beast darts his muzzle from you to the floor in a bid to relay his desires. With a rumble in his chest and a soft snuff from his nose, you let out a groan in response to his motions.

“Fine,” you roll your eyes and remove your hand from the doorknob, “But if I stay, I need three things from you. First, sit,” you gesture strictly to the ground. The beast toppled down, sitting with its hind legs curled either side of its form. You smirked, shaking your head and walking just out of reach, should he desire to test the shackles.

“Second, stop snarling at me,” you scold him. His immediate reaction was a stuttered quiver of his upper lip as he hung his large tail tucked beneath him. He bowed his head low, peeking up through the auburn eyes reflecting his obedience. You chuckle, clicking your tongue and shaking your head at him.

“Third,” you approach the monstrous version of your lover, standing just on the perimeter should this overgrown pup decide to turn on you. “I know you can speak when you’re like this, pretty boy. Try to use your words, okay? That’s all I ask.”

“Mate,” the werewolf rumbled in a deep growl, “Me.” You rolled your eyes, shaking your head and looking down at the seated werewolf maintaining an almost innocent air about him.

“Yes, I am your mate,” you nod towards the red-furred, overgrown puppy on the floor, “Good job using your words. Now that that’s settled, can I get back to reading the paper-?”

“-No.” The werewolf began to raise his teeth back, halting as he internally reminded himself that you ordered him not to snarl. “Mate, me.” You click your tongue, crossing over the perimeter line of safety towards the more feral, unhinged, and unpredictable version of your partner, Eustass Kid.

“We’ve established that, sweetheart,” you utter in empathy, tilting your head to the side and crossing your arms over your chest. “You and I are bound together as humans, and I love you in any form you take. You’re my mate, and I am yours.”

You knew it would be dangerous, you knew the consequences of stepping over that threshold. He could overpower you in a second, attempt to rattle and break out of his chains, and throw the muzzle off himself to bite, claw, and maim you. This is what you assumed your partner was attempting to protect you from.

What you weren’t expecting was Eustass Kid, sitting on the floor in his beastial form, looking up at you through pleading eyes while revealing his thick, hard, and weeping cock to you through his parted legs the closer you approached him.

Staggering a little in your step, your eyes immediately drew down to the angry, tapered tip drooling from the smaller slit at the top of his cock. Following along the bowed shaft, your gaze halted at the large bulb at the base of his cock above his fur-covered balls.

“Mate me.” The sound he let out was a soft whimper after such a request. “Breed.” His entire hulking form was submissive as he attempted to make himself lower to the ground, shielding his cock from your sight.

“Eustass,” you whispered, slowly reaching your hand forward as you drew ever closer towards the beast. “I can only just take your cock while you’re in your human form. It took us ages to even get to that point.” You gently pressed the flat of your palm on the top of his head, slowly carding your fingers through his coarse fur towards his pointed ears. “There’s not enough lubricant in the world for me to be able to take you within me like this.”

The beast whimpered, nudging his head into your palm while his huffed pants fell from his lips in rapid frequency. His cock twitched and pulsed the longer you made contact with his fur, his whines only growing in intensity as you began to scratch him behind his ears where the strap to the muzzle was located.

“Breed,” he desperately sobbed, his voice sounding like a mix of his humanity shining through alongside a beastial growl, “Me.”

“You…?” you pause, focussing on his eyes once more and darting your own between his. “You… Want me to breed you?”

The wolf emphatically bobbed his head up and down while whining, howling, panting, and heaving into your touch. Your lips parted and eyes rounded in shock as you peered down at the werewolf nudging your hand.

Immediately recalling the earlier conversations you’ve had with your partner in the past, you couldn't help but laugh to yourself about what words he used then, and what their intended meaning was now.

“When I’m him, all of my thoughts and feelings are heightened a hundred times over,” he spoke within your mind’s eye, “Everything is primal, all needs urgent, and I can’t control how my alter reacts. He’s still me, but my wants and desires will be without filter. Can't trust him.”

“What do you mean, Kid?” you asked him at the time, “You’ll want to kill, seek and destroy more than usual? Go berserk?”

“My inner monologue will be exposed, and I can’t trust how I’ll behave around you.”

What you thought he meant was his wolf would ascend to a more dominant and more authoritative stature: biting and gnashing his teeth at all - including you. As he shied away from your touch, immediately clunking down onto the floor with his ass raised and tail swishing, you knew that not to be the case.

Eustass Kid, your captain, partner, lover, and light of your life, was wanting you to mount him to claim him as yours.

When you first started this relationship as boyfriends, you thought to yourself that such a dominant man would never want to be topped by you. Most of your couplings involved him taking you from above, anchoring his metal hand above your heads while rutting into your body, his remaining right hand reaching between you and pumping your cock with every in-thrust.

He’d bite with his polished canines, mouthe at your neck leaving a trail of hickies in their wake, finish inside you while howling your name, before kissing your lips with professions of love. Kid was only ever dominant in his human form.

His werewolf alter was not.

“Breed me,” the werewolf said once more, his cockhead brushing against the ground and leaving a sticky trail of precum connecting between the floor and his quivering tip, “Mate me.” His cheek made contact with the floor as he turned his head to plead at you further.

His weighted chains rattled against the floorboards, causing you to empathetically wince at his display. You knew the silver was good for him, prohibiting him from getting too far away from the designated den he had made for himself. It didn't stop you from wanting so desperately to remove them and the muzzle from his features, but you know Kid placed them there for a reason. What reason, you were unsure of.

The way his puckered entrance pulsed alongside his bloated knot had your cock begin swelling within the waistline of your pants. You shook your head, taking into account that you had never topped him as a human, and you didn’t want to start something Kid didn’t consent to within the realms of his humanity.

“I can’t sweetheart,” you whisper with all the sympathy you could muster, “I can stroke your cock for you if you like? I could suck a little of it while massaging the rest to ease you through this.”

“Breed me-!” he whined into the floor, drool leaking from his lips and frothing within his heckles, “Want it-! Need it-! Trust you.” You felt your heart pound hard within your chest, truly desiring to heed your partner’s craving for you. It didn’t help that you were exceptionally hard and the constriction of your briefs was beginning to be uncomfortable.

“Eustass?” you asked your lover while cradled within his arms, head laid on his chest and fingers intertwined within his own over his stomach. “When you’re the wolf, do you still like me, or do you want me dead?”

“What kind of stupid-ass question even is that?” he scoffed, nudging your head up with his chin for you to turn towards him. “Of course I fuckin’ like ya. I’m still me, you’re still you, and we’re still mates. If anything, I think I like you just a little bit more. Can’t trust myself when I’m like that. Might gnaw your fuckin’ face off thinkin’ I’m kissin’ ya.”

“Okay, okay, sweetheart,” you coo lovingly down at the werewolf presenting his body to you, “I need to prep you-.”

“-NEED!” he howled needily, heavy tail swooshing to the sides as his cock continued to drip onto the floor beneath you. “FILL ME! BREED ME! LOVE ME!”

You growl in frustration at his lack of cooperation, thrusting your index and middle fingers in your mouth and dampening them with a thick engulfment of your saliva. You gripped his hip with one hand, immediately steadying yourself while pressing the pad of your index finger into his ass.

The werewolf didn’t flinch, instead arching his back lower, whining while backing up into your hand. Your eyes flew wide as his whimpers began sounding more human, breathy pants and heavy whispers of your name fleeing through his muzzle before he again began growling at the touch.

It didn’t take any longer for you to add a second finger to broaden the stretch, curling your fingers up to brush with his prostate the same way his cock did within you. His passage began clenching in a rhythmic thrum each time you thrust in and out of his ass, prompting your own need to began growing more apparent.

“Just hold on a minute, okay, love?” you cooed down at him, removing your hand from his hip to take your cock over your waistband, “I can't leave you in this state, I love you too much to see you suffer.”

You lined up your cockhead against his puckered hole, the pinch of the muscle broadening at the stretch causing your eyes to roll back in your skull. Nothing could’ve prepared you for how he felt like this around you: everything about him running more hot now shrouded in fur, with his monstrous body now attempting to back into you to suck your cock inside him all the way to your base.

“Mate-!” the beast’s voice split in perfect unison between beast and man as you bottomed out completely, complete euphoria being the only presence in his tone. You reached your hands around his fur-covered hips and held tight, rocking a few testing thrusts into his ass to ensure he was comfortable. The werewolf howled in delight with his tail swishing in front of you, behind him.

Hair from the swatting protrusion wagging at your face entered your mouth, causing you to spit out a few of the strays that landed on your tongue. You moved one hand from his hip to hold his tail in the middle of the muscle, using it as an anchor to tug you in in harder slaps of the front of your hips meeting the backs of his. Kid growled in delight, his muzzle leaking with saliva while his tapered cock drooled in unison.

Each thrust forward had his insides churning in ecstasy, finally feeling his mate claim him as he had been claiming you as a human. The wolf side of him felt accepted and loved, as you loved him while walking beside him in humanity. Feeling at one with you bottoming out repetitively had the twin souls within him thinking only three things.

My mate wants me.

My mate needs me.

My mate loves me.

Internally, Eustass Kid was taking the first-mate’s posting while his wolf captained and navigated his corporeal vessel. He felt everything the wolf did, and was moved to tears that you would ever do anything like this for his benefit. He was a hardened captain, bearing the weight of his whole world on his shoulders. While you were with him like this, he knew he would never have to bear that weight alone again.

“Doing so good, Eustass.” You took your other hand off his hip, reaching around to massage the bulb at the base of his cock, stroking it alongside your thrusting forward. Each pump hand him both rutting forward and arching backwards to aid you in fucking him the way his instincts needed him to.

Kid was feeling already so worked up, he could barely bark out a warning before painting the floor beneath his body in a large splash of milky ropes. His cum continued weeping out while he howled up at the ceiling, arching his back further while riding through his high.

He had never felt so full in his life, his entire twin-souls binding together by forging against your own. The love and acceptance he felt as the beast was overwhelming, causing him to whine and whimper against the chains of silver.

His puckered hole began to contract around you as you felt your abdomen tighten in a thick knot. The peak was right within your sight as he continued pulsing around your shaft and throbbing in your hand. Your thrusts grew manic as you felt your high begin to reach the pinnacle and bloom to a full release.

With one final tug on his tail to anchor your body fully into his, you cried out a groan of your own, filling the beast with your entire load as you thrust in and out of his body. His ass continued sucking you in as your abs tensed and heat overwhelmed your senses.

“K-Kid-! C-Cumming!” you called out for him, your thrusts growing languid before slowing to a complete stop. Fully still sheathed within him, you released his tail, which limply fell to the side, causing you to flop down onto his arched back and chuckle into his fluffy spine.

His fur felt comforting against your skin. From afar, each strand looked like a wired bristle-brush, but beneath your skin like this? It was plush and silky. You slowly removed your cock, prompting the werewolf to mourn the loss with a soft cry.

“Shh, it's okay,” you soothe him, sifting through his vibrant hair on his back with your fingers. “Everything is alright, pretty boy. I promise.” You replaced your waistband on your hips after tucking your cock within your briefs.

“Stay?” the beast called over his shoulder, “Den?” You sighed, glancing down dotingly at the monstrous form as he nestled down and invited you beside him. Considering how pliant he was being with you, presenting to you and claiming you completely as his mate, you saw no harm in indulging his request.

Slowly sinking to your knees, you were hastily stollen by two lengthy paws and ushered in like a giant plush being accepted claimed by a needy puppy. You relaxed in the embrace, feeling the beasts heartbeat bounding in a soothing rhythm.

“Goodnight, my mate,” you whisper up at him, feeling the cool if his metal muzzle resting on your head as he shook happily within your embrace. Sleep overcame you both, breaths and rumbled purrs morphing into more humanoid snores when the moon was eclipsed by the door.

When your human lover woke to find you cradled in their arms in the middle of their nest, Kid tensed immediately. His tangerine-colored orbs scoured you for marks and wounds as he replayed the events of the night before within the fog of his memory.

Feeling the crude squelch exit his asshole told him all he needed to know, his face immediately flooding with a deep blush as he stared down at you. He moved his human hand up, now easily slinking out of the cuff to cradle your cheek. Within your slumber, you unintentionally nuzzled against his palm.

Kid’s heart soared at the sight. His mate had claimed him in his wolf form, which means you truly accepted him for who and what he was. He could not have been prouder to find his home in you, your bond only growing ever stronger now he knew he could trust you to take care of his needs as the beast.

“I love you,” he whispered down at you, a confession more spoken for his own affirmation. “My mate.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me 🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[slxtarchive]

𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 ᥫ᭡ 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. chris finally came back from his trip with his brothers to a very needy girlfriend so he thought it was the perfect time to show you what he brought you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. SMUT ! fem reader x chris, use of sex toys, unprotected, sexual themes.

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.first fic in a while but i got my degree! now onto nursing … not proof read! inspired by @leisturni & her request for a writer to do this :) hope you like it

you heard a light creak downstairs while you were freshening up. your heart jumped. chris just got home.

you don’t hesitate one bit. your socks slide slightly against the floor as you bolt down the stairs, practically leaping over the last few steps. you see him just as he’s closing the door behind him, bags and suitcase still in hand, hair a little messy from the flight, eyes tired — but when they meet yours, everything softens. his whole face lights up.

he smiled lightly parting his lips. “baby—” he started to speak.

you don’t let him finish his sentence. you throw yourself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, arms tight around his shoulders. you’ve been holding in every ounce of this feeling for days — maybe longer. the feeling of longing. the feeling of missing him.

it was like you were finally able to breathe calmly when he catches you easily, strong arms locking around your back as if he never wants to let you go. his bag thuds to the floor, forgotten. you bury your face in his neck, inhaling his scent, grounding yourself in him.

“i missed you.” you whispered, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“i missed you more baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. his eyes search yours, and before either of you can think, your lips find each other — and this kiss isn’t just sweet or simple. It’s full of everything you didn’t say on the phone, every second you spent wishing he was home, every quiet night alone, every ache. it’s slow and deep, then quickly turns hungry. not just want — need. not just love — longing.

his hands slide up your back, fingers curling in your sweatshirt like he’s anchoring himself.

when you finally break the kiss, breathless and a little dazed, chris rests his forehead against yours. you can feel the smile on his lips before you see it.

“i brought something,” he says softly, a hint of shyness in his voice.

you blink, still catching your breath, and tilt your head. “hm?”

he smiled slightly, setting you down gently but keeping you close. he reaches into the side pocket of his duffel and pulls out a tiny velvet pouch. he presses it into your palm.

your fingers tug the drawstrings open, and a small black die rolls out into your hand.

you turn it over slowly. instead of numbers, each side has an illustration. as your brain realized what the implication of the dice was, your eyes lit up softly. you then looked inside the pouch again to find one other dice. it wrote places. counter, bathroom, couch, etc.

heat blooms in your chest — and lower.

you look up at him, lips parting slightly, the curve of a knowing smile forming. he grins back, a little shy but mostly proud of himself.

“i saw them and thought of you,” he says, voice low, “thought maybe it could… we could... y’know… make tonight feel like the kind of welcome home i’ve been dreaming about.” you giggled at him slightly.

your thumb grazes the die’s edge, heart thudding with anticipation.

you step closer, pressing your body against his again, fingers slipping into his belt loops as you look up at him.

“well, you didn’t need to bring me anything,” you whisper. “but now that you have…”

his face slowly leaned down and the moment his lips touched yours he pulled you up so that your legs wrapped around his waist and set you down on the couch.

he brought the dice to the coffee table and let them fall from his hands. your lips parted looking at them.

chris took a quick glance before picking you up quite easily and brings you in the counter. “gonna let me make you feel good, hmm?”

you gulped nodding as he nudged your knees apart. you were curious as to what the dice said but you weren’t questioning it any longer because chris was quick to pull down your sleep shorts along with your underwear. he then kneeled down eye level with your soaking pussy and dove into it.

he gave a quick lick to your entrance bringing your arousal up to your clit. he ate you out like a starved man. he brought your legs closer practically suffocating himself in your arousal. it made its way all over your face.

your jaw dropped, feeling the sensitivity of being untouched for days. “c-chris… oh my god.” your hand wrapped around his light brown hair.

he slurped and sucked you, loving the way you were dripping wet. he needed you like he needed oxygen. he pulled you impossible closer until your thighs were shaking around his head. “can feel you gettin’ close baby. we not done yet.”

you had tears in your eyes as you felt your orgasm reaching you. chris pulled away from you sucking your clit one last time. he took a few steps grabbing the dice and tossing them on the counter beside where you sat.

you looked down at the dice and saw the illustration. it was the two stick people standing up as one of their legs were wrapped around the other. then the other dice wrote ‘shower’. your eyes met with chris’s seeing a gleam in his eyes.

a smile played on both of your lips before the picked you up and scurried to the bathroom. he set you down and started stripping. he took his shirt off, along with his jeans and boxers before turning on the shower.

you followed his actions giggling as he jumped in the shower lending you a hand as you stepped into it beside him. you immediately felt the warm water cascade down your back before giving yourself a quick rinse.

chris had already become soaked. stray thick strands were resting across his forehead before he combed them back. he looked good. the water droplets slowly making their way down his toned stomach… down to his v line. your eyes landing on what you craved most.

chris pulled you by your waist connecting your lips shortly before picking you up again and pressing you against the wall. he grappled the shower head and adjusted it before leaning back and moving it across your skin then down your body. he let it carefully caress your clit over and over causing a light moan to come up your throat.

your hands were strong around his neck as you felt your body become a bit weak at the touch. since he had his way with you earlier, you were still a bit sensitive and felt that same orgasm coming up on you once again.

“look at you. look so pretty.” he groaned. you felt his dick nudge you slightly.

“need you how chris. please. m’gonna cum n i don’t wanna.” you bit your lip slightly.

he laughed lightly before putting the shower head back and picked you up a little bit before slowly inching himself into you. your jaw dropped at the feeling of being so full.

it wasn’t long before he was ramming into you with desperation. the shower was steaming and your sweat was getting mixed with the freshwater of the shower.

your hands were gripping him trying to hold on as you heard your skin slapping against eachother.

everything came together pushing both you and chris to come together as well. he let his head rest against your shoulder as his hips stuttered inside you before he stilled.

you moaned out loud as you came along with him, holding him close.

when he finally caught his breath, chris lifted his head up to meet your gaze. “i missed you so much.” he pecked your lips. “what a warm welcome.” he licked his bottom lip.

“i’m glad i could give you a warm welcome.” you laughed kissing his cheek softly.

as time passed you both showered, washing each other and kidding each other and later that night you did it all over again while spending time with each other and enjoying each others presence.