#I am a flaming ball of emotion

[bjorkshire-pudding]

SHUT UP DON’T TOUCH ME 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[joelsdagger]

a love so fine || one shot

joel miller x f!reader

for my girl, @dinandwhiskey, happy belated birthday babe! ily so dearly. massive shout out to my beloveds, @phoeberidgers and @pedrospatch for being my eyes, my brain and my heart, without them, i am equivalent to the tin man (they also keep me sane) <33

pairing: jackson joel x f!reader summary: an evening in with your husband helps to quiet the brain noise.  warnings: jackson era [around tlou part ii timeline], canon divergent [golfing doesn’t happen and everyone is happy and thriving bc i said so], implied age gap [no specific age for reader but joel is late 50’s], established relationship, HUSBAND joel, DOMESTIC JOEL, sickly-sweet fluff, reader can’t cook [i swear i can], pet names [baby, sweet baby, darlin’, (1) use of the word kiddo, an excessive amount of the use of the word “baby” bc i can’t seem to help myself], JOEL IN A THIGH HOLSTER, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, biiiiiiig breeding kink [ruh roh], joel says dagum bc he’s old, hint of a mama kink, praise kink, (1) (2) (3) uses of the word “daddy��, smidgen of begging + teasing, a bit of mocking, angst in the form of internal turmoil [duh it’s me what did you expect], feelings of inadequacy + guilt/shame, hurt/comfort, tinge of sex as a coping mechanism, soft emotional smut, finger sucking, oral [m!receiving], cock and ball worship [girl’s got a big oral fixation let her live], hand kink, blink and you miss subby!joel, switch reader, hint of dacryphilia, gentle–turned–semi–rough sex, soft dom!joel, mean!joel [but the sexy kind], prone bone, doggy style, hair pulling, light spanking, creampie, size kink [joel is huuuge and big and strong and at one point lifts reader onto a counter], & reader has hair long enough to grab. word count: 6.4k dividers by @saradika-graphics

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs!!

gorgeous moodboard by @here-briefly

Cold air whimpers into the house as Joel steps through the front door when you’re pulling the semi-burnt meat pies out of the oven, the cold nip blanketed by the heat emanating from the cavity. You set them aside, and turn your attention to the pot of soup on the burner, your mom’s old family recipe, when you’re greeted by Joel’s figure materializing behind you. Broad palms splay across the expanse of your back, big, thick arms wrapping around your middle, shivering at the cold bite of his cheek against yours. You sink into his embrace, allowing him to feed off of your warmth.  

“Was patrol okay?” you ask, unfocused as your eyes scan over the creased paper for what feels like the hundredth time in the last two hours. 

His chin dips. Snow dusts from his head onto your shoulder. “Was fine. Couple of stragglers. Took care of them,” scruff of his face scratches at your neck as he nuzzles into your skin. “You’re home early.”   

You hum, your free hand drifts to meet his.“Surprisingly slow day at the clinic. Closed up by six, the staff booked it to the bar afterward.” You tilt your head to rest against his, basking in the crisp scent of snow, pine, and gunpowder on him, one you’ve come to recognize as home. 

“Y’didn’t wanna go with them?” he asks, thumb stroking over your stomach. 

“Nah, the clinic kicked me on my ass today. Wanted to come home, make somethin’ nice for us,” you say, reaching over the stovetop, turning the rusted knob up a few notches, flame sizzling beneath the pot.   

“Already got my something nice,” he purrs, dips his nose into your hair, reveling in the scent of your shampoo as he presses two kisses in quick succession to your temple, broad hands retreating and sneaking into your jean pockets over your ass, squeezing as he leans in to nip at your carotid.

You shrug him off in jest. “Alright, slow your roll, cowboy. You’re pulling my focus here.” His chest rumbles with a laugh against you.  

“This one’s still giving you trouble, huh?” his lips pressed up against the shell of your ear as he peers over your shoulder.  

You set the wooden spoon aside, opting to let the broth simmer, flavors marry that way. “I just don’t get how she did it. I’ve tried it about a million times. It never comes out right,” you sigh exasperatedly.

He chuckles. “Honey, you’ve been cooking all of what? Five seconds? This recipe’s been in your family for years. Cut yourself some slack here, baby.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. 

You can’t help rolling your eyes because this isn’t your first attempt. You’re exhausted and hungry, and you know Joel is too. You’re more than capable at work, cleaning up blood from surface wounds, expertly wrapping the occasional tourniquet, extracting bullets lodged in patrollers without even blinking. But in this slice of your life, you know you could be doing more. 

He doesn’t hesitate, head wobbles a bit, right shoulder tips, “I know it’s a lot to ask of ya,” he says softly. 

You huff slightly. “Alright, alright, enough,” sparing him a quick glance, picking up the spoon again. 

“Give it here,” he attempts, fingers motioning to hand over the spoon. You scold him in turn, reluctant to seek his help, something else you seem unable to forgo despite the world going to shit. 

“Alright,” he starts, as he moves to wrap his strong arms around your waist. “You. Sit here,” he sets you down on the countertop beside the stove. 

“Joooeeel,” you protest and begin shifting your weight in readiness to hop off the countertop.  

“Nah–” Joel puts his palm up, intercepting your movements. 

You roll your eyes but don’t fight him again, fingers curl under the countertop, legs dangling from the edge as you watch him swirl the wooden spoon in the soup. You bite your lip, a knot curling in your chest. Domesticity is a nice look on him. You often tell him as much, but this time you don’t. “Oh – don’t tell me you can cook now. Much less my own family recipe. You can do everything else, can I have this one damn thing.” 

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and mouth tugs up. “Says the doctor who spends all her time fixin’ up everyone else in this town. Could probably do it in your sleep.” He spoons the soup, pinching a sliced carrot in the bowl of the spoon, testing its tenderness. 

“Alright, but if you burn it, we gotta eat at the community hall again.” You lean back, your head resting against the cabinet. 

He lifts the spoon to his lips, eyes closing as he savors the bite and swallows. “You even taste it? ‘Cause it’s pretty darn good, sweetheart.”

When you don’t respond, he dips his index finger into the pot, strides over to you, and slants himself in between your legs. He taps the bottom of your lip. “Open up,” he commands softly.

You do as he says and close your lips around the digit and hum.

A balanced blend of rich sweetness and delicious saltiness with a hint of tang on the finish dances on your taste buds.

He’s right; it’s pretty good. But you don’t revel in it. Your mind focused on Joel’s lips parting at the sight, his eyes trained on your lips around his finger. You watch him, your lips curving into a smirk as he removes his index finger, swiped clean, and replaces it with his thumb, pushing past your lips and onto your tongue. 

One of your hands instinctively reaches up to wrap around his wrist, his head dips slightly lower, lips only a hairsbreadth from yours, woodsy-salty taste of him and the heat from the burner melding together, clouding your mind. You feel the hitch in his breath against your lips, black slowly taking up the hazel hues in his eyes as they stay trained on your mouth, sucking his thumb. 

“Good girl,” he whispers softly, almost casually. 

You preen at his praise. Teeth barely grazing the pad of his thumb. You can feel the bulge against your belly, sitting firm between layers and layers of clothing, growing more and more evident with every passing second his thumb stays pressed into your mouth. 

You release his thumb with a soft pop, biting back a grin, your hand reaching up to card your fingers through his too-long hair, “tastes good.” 

You both know you’re not just talking about the soup. 

You tuck a curl behind his ear. The corner of his mouth tugs up, and his thumb traces the shape of your lips, lustful eyes focused on yours as his soft lips envelop yours, the hairs of his mustache tickling your face. You giggle into his mouth. Then both his hands cradle your face, the metal of his wedding band bitingly cold against your cheek, you shiver. 

Your finger hooks into the holster on his thigh, drawing him in, grinning when you feel the tightness behind his jeans, rock solid, and throbbing. You grind upwards, rolling your clothed cunt against his bulge, a deep groan pours from his mouth into yours. Arousal clouds your senses as you fuse your body to his, nails digging into the leather of his strap, lungs fighting for air between heavy pants until—

A loud sputtering sound from beside you forces you apart, and your heads dart towards the stove. 

Shit shit shit. 

You hastily hop down from the counter, lunging for the knob, your other hand simultaneously pulling the pot off the burner.

You let out a sigh of relief, “Thank God. It’s not burnt. Think it’s ready if you wanna eat now, or do you wanna run through the shower first?” you ask over your shoulder.  

Joel huffs out a quiet laugh, places a firm hand on the small of your back as he reaches for the tethered cabinet above your head, “let’s eat darlin.’”

—

You’d been glancing to and fro between your sketchbook and Joel propped up beside you with a book in bed for the last fifteen or so minutes. The soft glow from the lamp on the nightstand to your left, capturing his features just right for you to doodle them as accurately as you can.

His post shower hair combed back into soft waves, tucked behind his ears and down his neck. It’s getting quite long; curls threaten to slip into the collar of his sleep shirt. He’s long overdue for a trim really, but you love it this way. He won’t admit it, and you won’t remind him, so it stays. 

A thin pair of old rimless reading glasses are perched on the scarred bridge of his nose. He’s got his free hand stretched out and resting on the top of your thigh beneath the covers, thumb slowly stroking your skin — always needing to touch you. The hour is quiet. Peaceful. You could stay like this forever with him; bellies full and freshly showered, in bed before ten. If he’ll still have you.  

His other hand props up the book holding his attention. An Idiot’s Guide to Space, reads the broken purple spine. The book so small in his big hands. Heat blooms in your chest for the second time, the first when he pulled it out of his nightstand an hour prior. Something he does at the end of each night. 

Joel found it on patrol one morning. He kept it to himself at first, tucked away in his top drawer, until you stumbled upon it while putting his folded clothes away. A freshly showered Joel emerged from the bathroom, Ellie’s always goin’ on and on about space. Ain’t got a damn clue about any of it, he admitted shyly. 

Sometimes he’ll blurt out a fact or two while you’re in bed or padding out of the bathroom. His voice cutting through your reverie –

“Baby, says here you could cross the damn Milky Way in twelve fuckin’ years. Did you know that?” he chances a glance at you.

You chuckle at him. “Yes, I did know that, baby,” shaking your head a little. 

“Shit. So it’s just me with the two of you experts?” he asks with a laugh.

You smile to yourself. You don’t tell him that Ellie's the one who told you that little tidbit. 

You tuck your pen between the pages and close your sketchbook, laying it on the small table beside you, “We’ll get you there someday, baby,” you tease. 

Joel snorts, reaching for your arm and tucking you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, his fingertips softly brushing the skin of your arm. “Quit yankin’ my chain, ‘cause baby, you got no idea what you’re playin’ at.”

Oh. But you do. 

You peer up at him, studying the hard lines in his face and the soft gray shadows under his eyes from exhaustion, too much violence.  

You shift to dip your head lower down the curve of his belly. Your hand traces a line down his middle, following the thickening trail of hair down his supple belly, slipping beneath the covers, fingertips grazing the outline of his length over gray sweats, hand cupping his semi-hard cock.

Joel flinches, glasses jolt. It spurs you on. 

You palm him through his pants, and he hisses through clenched teeth. 

“Whaddya doin’ down there, kiddo?” he asks tersely, his gaze lifting over the top of his glasses.

Heat rises to your cheeks. That damn pet name. One that he uses more often these days, when you’re being a pain in his ass. The one that reminds you just how much older he is.

Liquid heat pools between your thighs. 

You gaze up at him, “I just wanna play with him a little. Is that okay?” Falsely innocent eyes sparkling, your fingers circling the head of his cock over his pants. 

He makes a low sound, and stirs. “Darlin’ if I ever say no to you, you take my revolver n’ use it on me.” A hint of playfulness in his tone.  

You giggle softly. “As fun as that would be, cowboy, that’d deprive me of my happiness,” fingers pulling the blanket and his sweats down in one fluid motion, revealing his hardening cock. 

Deft fingers now stroking through your hair. “Lemme guess. That happiness got more to do with my dick than anythin’ else?” he asks, lips curling with a soft laugh. 

You don’t respond, you suspect the smirk that quirks your lips is answer enough for him. Your head dips lower; grabbing the full length of him in both of your hands — so fucking big. Your lips close around the wide head, and you hum. 

He rests the book on his stomach, tucks an arm behind his head, and watches you as you get to work on his length. You pull your lips off him. “You want me to continue? You better keep readin’ that book of yours, Miller,” you say firmly.

A blush creeps up his thick neck; watch as his Adam’s apple bops in his throat. “Yes, ma’am,” raising the book again and continuing where he left off. 

Satisfied, you shift to move down the mattress, the sheets moving with you and bunching at the foot of the bed. 

Your mouth gets back to work on his cock, now fully stiff in your grasp, head swollen and flushed red. Your lips curling around it, your other hand wrapped around the base, fingers barely wrapping around the thick girth of him. You lathe a wet kiss to the tip, and then suction the mushroom shape of him hard, an obscene sound filling the quiet of your bedroom. The heavy weight of him pulses and leaks onto the pink softness of your tongue. You lap up the salty precum leaking at the slit and in your periphery, catch Joel fisting the corner of your pillow. He’s panting, shaky breaths escape him while he attempts to read. You smirk around him. He likes it like this; slow, lazy – sloppy. 

Your gaze drops back down as you pull off him and dip your head down to his low-hanging balls, heavy and already set to burst. You take one in your mouth, the tip of your tongue slowly draws circles along the thin, stretchy flesh, while your other hand slowly pumps the long length of him. You feel a strong hand meeting the back of your skull, fingers sewn through the strands of your hair, his muscles beneath you tightening.

You feel the heat of his gaze, almost impossible to ignore, it urges you on. Your other hand cups his other ball, gently fondling the heavy weight of it, fingers gently twiddling the skin. You suckle softly at his sac, eliciting a strained whimper from Joel, his hips cant upwards, cock twitching in your face.

“Fuckin’ love them,” you whisper, turning your attention to the other, laying a soft kiss on the underside of his ball. That one is just for you. 

“Yeah?” he exhales. “Keep goin’ then, baby,” fingers curling around the back of your neck, instructing you with the faintest bit of pressure. 

Your eyes glance up in time to find him dragging his other hand down his face, book now stacked haphazardly upon the others on his side table. His glasses sit low on the tip of his nose, eyes shut tight, dark brows pinched. All his features meld together in pleasure as he loses himself in you.

You asked him to continue reading but you can’t deny this is what you wanted all along. He looks beautiful like this; in the soft golden glow in the bedroom, tan sun-freckled skin all bare for you, mouth ajar and chest heaving with ragged breaths, veins in his neck thick and prominent as his chin tilts upward. The sight makes you ache. 

You never minded this. Matter of fact, you love it. Giving. Taking care of him, encouraging him to chase after something he wants. You never used to enjoy it before but Joel Miller so rarely takes. So rarely selfish. And seeing strong, stoic men, your man, come apart for you just from your mouth makes you rub your thighs together to soothe the brimming ache. 

Joel Miller – the man who despite the kinder, slower years spent in Jackson and never once hesitating to lend a hand to those in need, who still had a mean reputation, allowing himself to revel in the feeling of you taking care of him. The hard lines of his usual scowl gone from his face and replaced with twisted lines of pleasure. Letting himself take take take and being shameless in doing so.

You suck hard on the ball in your mouth and he moans loudly, feel it draw up between your lips. “Oh – fuck – that’s good,” his head topples back against the headboard with a hard thud, “so good,” he breathes. 

Your clothed core tightens, feel the ruined material cling to your lips. 

And because you can. You pull off him and give the head of his cock a little wet kiss. 

You blink up at him to find him watching you with bated breath, hazel eyes blown completely black. You gather saliva beneath your tongue, let a strand drool, and land directly on his slit. Joel’s entire body shivers, hips thrusting upwards into the air on instinct, his fingers in your hair tighten, blunt fingertips digging into your heated skin. “Dagum you’re good at that, baby.”

You smile and pump the length of him slowly, twisting upwards and running your thumb over his tip. Your mouth retakes its place on his length, lips stretching open around the bulbous head as you ease your head lower and lower on his length, pushing him in, in, in past your gag reflex. Tears prick at your eyes, pushing him in until his cock coaxes the back of your throat; you gag around him, and Joel groans raggedly at the sound. He loves it. You lift your head and hum around him as you begin bopping your head up and down the length of him, your fist pumps what you can’t fit into your mouth. And Joel whimpers, and jerks, hips canting to meet every bob and every stroke, every lick and every kiss.  

A tear cascades down your cheek when you swallow, the silken walls of your throat tighten around him, and at that, Joel makes a pained noise. “Get up here,” he growls, his hand drawing your mouth off him. 

You prop yourself up, shove up his shirt to lay wet kisses up the trail of his graying hair. Your mouth dips left of his belly button, pecking the deep scar, an unwelcome reminder of his fall that nearly ended in fatality.

Your lips press a kiss south of his belly button before you tongue at it. You feel the muscles in his belly quiver beneath the softness of your tongue, goosebumps ghosting his skin, your hand still wrapped around the thick girth of him — it pulses in your grasp. “Fuck– You’re gonna make me come,” he tugs at your neck again, dragging you up to straddle his lap.

“That’s kind of the point here, baby,” you say as you pepper the whiskered corners of his mouth in little kisses. “I wanted you to come in my mouth.” You brush your lips against his, and he chuckles. The hand still at the base of your neck holds you there as his tongue sneaks into your mouth, licks along the line of your gums to taste the salty flavor of himself, you moan in unison. 

He’s still panting when your fingers run through his tousled hair, feeling droplets of sweat at his temple. You kiss at the shadows under his eyes, glasses long forgotten somewhere. Joel’s tongue flicks the corner of his lips, thumbs away the tear beneath your eye then at the thin string of saliva clinging to the skin on your chin and he presses another quick peck to your lips, and against your lips.

“You look so goddamn sexy like this,” he whispers softly, before pushing his lips to yours once again. 

You smile against him. “That mean I can continue?” you whisper. 

You feel his lips twitch, he peels your shirt from your body, then his, and then his hands find your hips, swiftly flipping you over, his broad form towering over you. “Got another idea, little mama.”

“Like what daddy,” dropping your voice at the word “daddy”.  You’ve never thought to try the nickname out but you know you’ve plucked a chord when you feel his cock twitch between your bodies and you’re mentally kicking yourself that you’ve waited this long.  

Who knew Joel Miller, at the ripe old age of fifty-nine would realize he had a daddy kink. 

A low growl slips from his lips, “say it again.”

You bite back a grin that threatens to pull over your lips, your chest blooming at the thought of Joel Miller growing so comfortable with you that he’s unashamed in asking you for things that make him feel good. You want nothing more than to give that to him, so you do. 

“What are you gonna do with me, daddy?” you ask, feigning seriousness. 

“Might need to stuff that slutty mouth of yours again,” the amber in his eyes so warm and filled with lust.  

You shrug, exaggerate a sigh, “I wouldn’t complain.”

He shakes his head but you catch the creases around his eyes, feel the low chuckle reverberate through the slats of his ribs. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he begins and his fingers hook around the waistband of your panties, “but like I said, I’ve got other plans for you tonight.”

“And what exactly do those plans entail, daddy?” you ask, your fingers ghost over his shoulders, up his neck and into his dampened temples. A smirk tugging the corner of your lips at the slow drag of your underwear down your legs. 

He doesn’t answer. His hand cups your mound, feels the sticky wet at your opening, your body jolts at the first fleeting sliver of attention your hungry cunt’s received all night. “Pussy’s this wet all ‘cause you blowin’ me, hm? You like it that much, baby?” He cocks his head, a smug grin plastered on his face. 

A blissful sigh falls from your lips, he encourages you further when he guides the head of his cock to your messy pussy. 

You arch and squirm and moan on instinct, the agonizingly slow drag of his cock through your puffy folds meticulous in measured movements. Your head falls back, fists clenching, pussy fluttering, and Joel just smirks. 

“Yeah she likes that, don’t she?” he asks, his hazel eyes burning into yours.

Your heart falls. A wanton moan slips past your lips. You want to respond. You do. But you can’t ignore that sudden, all too familiar spike of fear beginning to flare in your chest. 

His hand cups your chin almost immediately. Joel knows you all too well. Before you even know it yourself, he sees it in the storms in your eyes, the slight tremble of your fingers, the sudden rapid rise and fall of your chest. Joel’s observant, always functioning on high alert. He’s helped you through moments like this over the years, and both of you thought they were long gone. But the guilt and shame claw their way back tonight, decidedly paying a visit. 

“Hey. Stay with me, honey,” he implores, brows pinching.

Unbidden tears prickle your eyes. Your eyes slip shut. I can’t. You want to say. It’s too much. The sharp blackening teeth of shame sinking into your skin, gnawing a hole low in your belly. How do you tell your husband that even after six years together you’re still afraid to put yourself first. Afraid that if you do, he’ll abandon you just as everybody else has. How do you tell him that even though he’s never shown you he has any intention of doing so, you’ve made yourself believe that he will. That small noise in your brain ugly, rotten. And no matter how hard you try you can never seem to quiet it. How do you tell him that all you want is for him to fuck you. So hard he brings you to tears. To quiet the noise. Stamp out the flame. But you can’t seem to form the words. Can’t bring yourself to tell him and maybe even worse, you still don’t understand why after all these years spent with him. I don’t know how. 

He hinges forward, broad form crowding yours into the mattress, hands find yours beside your head, a soft clink ricochets in your ears when the metal of your wedding bands meet. 

“Talk to me, baby, what is it?” he whispers, his cock still gliding through your lower lips. 

“I–” your stammering cuts off into a soft whine, eyes flittering.   

“What?” He cocks his head, warm breath fanning across your face. 

Your guilt-ridden mind screaming at you to scramble for words. To get him to understand. Little do you know, he does. Has for a long time. Your past often makes you forget. Here. In the now, he reminds you. 

“I can’t–” you sigh when he kisses the corner of your mouth, “Joel– I–”

“I– I– I–” Joel mocks above you. “Can’t use your words cause you’re only thinking of my cock ain’t ya?”

You keen at that, cheeks bloom. He’s right. Only you rarely ask for it. 

“Always want it, but you never ask for it. Been your husband for two years and I still oughta show you I ain’t ever leavin’, is that it?” 

You mewl all petulant and small. 

He reaches to bring your left hand to his mouth, pressing a fleeting kiss to the cold metal of your wedding band. “Y’know m’all yours, sweetheart. Haven’t I shown you?” He presses another kiss to the band. “Or these mean nothin’ to ya?” A hint of smirk passes over his lips as he lays a third kiss to your fingers, your skin ablaze.  

They mean everything to you. He means everything to you. The words die on your tongue but he knows. He’s only teasing you because he needs to hear it, needs to hear that honey sweet giggle to bring you back to him. And although you wish he didn’t have to, you can’t deny that his persistent efforts make you feel just as desirable as the day he slanted his mouth over yours and made you his forever. Long before solemn vows and makeshift wedding venues. Before ratty ‘his and hers’ bath towels and engraved silver bands. He claimed you as his and he as yours and even still, it doesn’t seem to be enough. Your mind slips and the pulp of his forefinger traces down your sternum, follows the line of your stomach, goosebumps rising in its wake. 

“Joel–” you giggle quietly, and his eyes gleam. 

“Ah. There she is,” he says so softly in that honey Texan drawl that makes your stomach fall away. 

His hand flattens, broad palm drifts down the softness of your belly and settles beneath your navel, the cold bite of his wedding finger making you quiver. 

His dark eyes flicker. “How about I really fill you up? Hm?” His hand drifts further south, grips the root of his cock between your bodies, glides the underside of his cock, featherlight, through your swollen lips, the angry red almost purple tip bumps your throbbing clit before he slides it back down through your folds, letting the head catch at your drooling hole. “You wanted to know what I plan on doin’ to ya? M’gettin’ my wife pregnant. Give my sweet baby a baby? Would you like that?” 

The rest of what he wants to say lingers on the tip of his tongue, mulling around in his mouth, show you, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

Your breath hitches, eyes go wide. Your thoughts are clouded by him. Your belly swelling, carrying your child. His child. Yes. Yes. Yes. You want it. You want it with him. 

You breathe out a desperate moan, “God, yes. Joel. Yes.”

His cock, heavy and thick, still glides through your messy folds, the head of his cock catching, catching, catching at your hole, coating his length in webs of your slick. The sweet sound of your wet echoing loudly in your shared bedroom. 

“That sound like I wanna leave you?” He asks gruffly.

You shake your head vigorously, your hips canting upwards, chasing after him. 

You hiss when his tip bumps your clit. You pout at him. “Joel. You’re being mean–” your words tapering off into a soft sob. 

He laughs at that, presses the incredibly wide head in, then back out and up again, “Not being mean, baby. Just tryna get you outta your head s’all.” And he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like breathing. Your chest swells. He’s right fucking there. Right in front of you. But it seems as if there is no end in sight for the longing you feel for him. 

“You want it? You oughta ask for it nice, sweet baby,” he says simply.

Your pout grows more petulant, but you concede. You’re always the first to let up between the two of you. You’re easy for him that way. 

“Joel, please fuck me. Need you to fuck me, please,” you plead, words slipping into a soft moan.  

His eyes scan your face, feel his lashes flutter against your skin. He lines himself up at the opening of your cunt. “I will. I always fuck you well don’t I?”

You nod numbly, biting your lip and guiltily averting your gaze. Finger tracing up a line up his strong thigh, over his soft belly that protrudes over his still hard cock, circle the scarred tissue on his lower abdomen. 

He takes your hand in his, lays a kiss to your palm before settling it to cradle his own face. “M’gonna fuck you real good, sweetheart. Remind you how good you are for me.” 

You make a soft sound that halts his movements, fingers squeezing his. “I want it hard, Joel,” you say. And he nods in understanding. Always meeting you where you are. There’s no halfway with him. He sits back, gently taps the side of your thigh, turn around. 

You do as silently requested and twist; your stomach and chest meet the sheets, body prone on the mattress — your favorite way of taking him. 

He presses his body weight into you, his entire form enveloping yours while his hand dips south to line himself up. He thrusts forward, moaning in unison as he breaches and stretches you wide, quelling the ache when he fills your cunt in one sharp thrust. He bites your shoulder on instinct, and your eyes pinch shut in response. Joel sets a blistering pace that has your cunt constricting around him. His soft belly is flush to the small of your back, feel the sweat sliding between your bodies, welcome tears spill from your eyes, and the guilt that sat in the pit of your belly turns molten. 

“That’s it, thatta’girl,” he grits into the dampened space behind your ear. 

His words make you clench, and in response, his hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers curling and smothering your face into the mattress, and you practically sing for him in return. Your legs clamp shut, limiting the space he has to fuck into you and he groans so beautifully for you. His hand sneaks around your front, scrubs expertly at your throbbing clit, and your vision begins to blur, fists clutching the linens so tight you’re tearing them. 

“Oh god, Joel,” you cry out, the intense pleasure beginning to overwhelm you. 

“That’s it–fuck–” he grunts, “make–me–so damn–happy, baby–fuck, never—never–known it before you,” Joel rasps, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust.

You mewl and writhe beneath him in tandem, and then his massive hand grips your face, angles it towards him so your lips meet his, his index finger in your mouth, hooked behind the line of your gums to take take take. Your body jolts as his cock kisses your womb on every brutal thrust. 

“Joel, harder, please, harder,” you beg against his lips. So fucking desperate for more. 

He pulls out suddenly; a lewd, wet squelch of gaping emptiness escapes your cunt when it closes around his absence. He takes you with him, collecting you in his arms and moving the two of you up the bed and guiding you to your knees, facing the headboard. His chest fuses to your back again, knuckles brushing the globe of your ass as he parts the flesh to sink into you once more. Your head topples back onto his shoulder, buries his face into the crook of your neck, muffling the guttural moan that elicits from him as you take him deeper.

He lays a harsh slap to your ass, then firmly grips the plush flesh, soothing the sting with a rough squeeze. And then, his right hand finds a home on your hips, dull fingertips digging into your lush flesh. Your head turns, mouth meeting the hinge of his jaw. Your right hand reaches for his scalp, carding a hand through his sweaty curls to pull him closer as you babble breathlessly, fuck–I lo–I love you. I love you, Joel. Joel. Joel. Joel.   

He chants in turn, I love you, baby, my sweet baby. I’m not goin’ anywhere. M’not. I swear it, branding each word with messy kisses to your temple. His left hand interlocks with yours, wedding bands clinking, kissing at the close. Your cunt flutters around him when he recites the same words he groaned into your waiting mouth on your wedding night, God, you’re so good for me. S’ you n’ me sweetheart. You n’ me. Always and forever.

His hand releases your right hip, fingers tangling painfully into your hair at the base of your neck, pulling on the strands to drag your mouth to his. He slants his plush lips to yours, a deep groan pours from his mouth into yours when you squeeze around him. His cock grazes that spongy spot he made his long ago, and your hips push back, meeting him thrust for thrust, wanting more. His thrusts grow harsher, faster, stronger, until pain and pleasure coalesce. The pressure of his massive, unrelenting length battering your wasted cunt makes the room spin, vision waning.  

“Give it to me, baby. Come with me. I got you darlin’,” he chants as he pounds into you. “Let go for me, honey. C’mon. Show me you’re mine. Need to feel this pussy come for me. Let go, Let go.” 

Your walls pulse and Joel moans, low and breathy, something deep in his chest crumbling. You feel his cock jerk inside you, desperate and holding holding holding for you to meet him there. His teeth nip your ear and it’s all it takes for you to fall apart. Your navel tenses, cunt fluttering around his length, as you come with loud broken moans of his name, and he swallows them with deep groans of yours. He breaks, his fist slamming against the oil painting above the bed while he empties himself inside you, his cock spitting his cum at the mouth of your womb.

Your body goes limp against the painting, thighs still trembling against his, his body going lax against yours. Your head drops forward; tacky skin of your forehead meets the sticky surface with a soft thud. Joel groans lowly against your neck, chest heaving as he sears wet kisses to the top of your spine as he comes down.

You stay like that for a while. When Joel’s chest stops heaving, he rolls off you, and when your breathing slowly returns, you flop to the mattress by his side. 

You turn to face him, your chest sticking to his, tacky skin glistening with sweat in the moonlight from the window across the room.  

He cradles the side of your face in his palm, the pad of his thumb wipes away the tears before pressing it into your mouth. You nip at it gently on instinct, and Joel laughs. 

“I don’t got another round in me tonight, baby,” voice throaty and gruff. You giggle and call him an old man.

And he grumbles something that sounds a lot like, m’not that old. To which you quip, whatever you say, grumpy old man. 

Joel scoffs. “Yet you still like suckin’ this old man’s cock, ain’t that right, sweetheart?” His hand tracing a line up and down your spine. 

You hum blissfully. 

A beat passes, and with a smirk on his lips, his hand wanders to your drippy slit, you whine when he dips two fingers inside your cunt — still sore and puffy, still gaping. 

He presses deep, the cold nip of his wedding ring inside your cunt making you jolt. “Thought you said you couldn’t go another round, old man?” You say, a little breathless.

His wicked smirk broadens. “I did. That don’t mean the same for you though.” 

A gush of his cum pours out of you, coating his ring in your joint mess as his fingers pump in and out of your gaping emptiness. 

He grunts and pulls you on top of him. “I said I'd give you a baby, didn’t I? I intend on keepin’ my promise. We oughta make sure it takes”. 

For hours, Joel made no effort to pull out of you. He fucked into your used, wet heat with his fingers. And he didn’t stop. Not until the snowflakes sprinkling outside your window turned into darts of rain that softly pelted against the glass. Not until the swirl of pale gray and muted blue in the sky washed away into a blush of dusty pink and petal violet, the sun splitting the clouds on the horizon, a sliver of sun peeking between the curtains and spilling across worn sheets, shrouding your silhouette in a soft golden light. And maybe just maybe, this time, it’ll finally take. And with it, maybe that flame of fear is snuffed for good. Always and forever.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Unreliable narrator!!!! Mature language. Descriptions of grief.

A/N: I was not expecting the response my silly little idea has gotten. I am very thankful for all of you who decide to read it, and would love to hear what you think of this chapter. Series masterlist here.

YOU CRUMPLE THE letter in your fist, hearing the parchment wrinkle with a satisfying sound. Then, you throw it into the flames, watching as the fire grows slightly bigger, and the ball uncurls, alight for a second, before it is fully consumed.

It doesn’t soothe you as you thought it would. The odious parchment offering you an honor guard from your future husband might be gone, but you still have to journey North before a moon since Luke’s funeral has passed.

At the thought of your brother, a sharp, stabbing pain, manifests in your chest. You choke down a sob. You had not realized you had started to measure time like this. Before and After Luke’s death, as people did with Before and After the Conquest.

Your grief only serves to fuel your rage, though. How could he? How could he demand you be wed when you were still in mourning? When you were still thinking of your sweet brother, not of keeps, and lords, and men?

“You dare!” You screech, barging inside Jacaerys’ rooms. Whatever he is doing, hunched over his desk, is interrupted. “You cannot do this to me! Mother will not allow it.”

Jace sets down his quill. He turns to look at you, his expression calm. You would think him indifferent, were it not for the fact that there is the slightest furrow of his brows.

“We need men.” He states, simply, and when you are about to interrupt him to say there are many more in the realm, he keeps speaking. “We need his men. The North is the largest kingdom, you know this as well as I. And when a Stark calls the banners, they are the only ones who respond in full.”

Your hands ball into fists. You hate that he is acting so composed, so rational. After Luke died, you felt like a chained dragon, roaring your grief and wishing to be freed to set ablaze those that had wronged you. Once, you had been as gracious as him and mother, composed even in the height of emotion. But grief has made you into live lighting, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Your emotions are out of control. You know this. You get angered at the barest hint of an insult, you cry as easily as a newborn babe. Knowing it doesn’t stop you from lashing out, though. It only makes you regret it later.

“Our mother promised I was to have my pick of suitors, not that I would be sold like a cow!” You point an accusing finger to his chest. Jace sighs and gets up, surrounding the desk.

“I understand you are upset.” He tries offering you a hug, but you jerk away. His face hardens slightly. “But this is war.”

As if you do not know. As if you haven’t lost a sibling, too. Your face crumbles, and Jace calls your name, but hearing his voice, how similar Luke and him sound, only makes you cry harder.

“Hey, hey, it’s not so bad.” He hugs you, pressing your face against his doublet. The material is soft against your skin, and you feel tempted to let go of your rage against him and sink into his arms. Jace is barely a man, too, just as you are barely a woman. He is doing as best as he can, spread too thin by the weight of responsibility that comes with being heir. “Cregan is a good man. I got to know him during the time…”

Yes, he was doing as best as he could. But it hadn’t been his own hand that he had bartered away, had it? The insidious voice in your head asks. It isn’t him who is making a sacrifice. And such a hollow one. He claims to need men, but he won’t be getting even the full northern army.

“You sold me for a few Greybeards! Not even a proper army! Good Gods, you are a fool.” You cry out.

“Lord Stark assures me…” Jace starts, with the tone of someone who has already had this same argument. Were you thinking clearly, you would pause and realize why. Instead...

“He has put a wife in the grave already.” It is the only thing you know about him. Not much is whispered about Cregan Stark, at least, nothing concerning. You would remember it. The only thing that you know, though, is that he is a Stark and his wife is dead.

“You make it sound as if he killed her himself with his bare hands.” Jace scoffs. “I assure you, he dearly loved Arra Norrey and would have never harmed her. You know the dangers of childbirth. Perhaps even better than I.”

Perfect. He hadn’t killed the damn woman, he was just still in love with her. By the Seven, Jace was a fool. You hated being second in anything. Here, at home, you were already second to Jace, and you resented it. Being a twin meant having to share everything, including the love of those around you.

When you married, you had hoped to be the only woman in your husband’s life, not to be compared to a ghost. You had seen exactly how that went. King Viserys had never forgotten his first wife, calling for her years after her death, even as Alicent was the one to nurse him during his illness.

“He is still a widower.” You repeat, stubbornly.

Jace pinches the bride of his nose, before letting out a deep exhale. His next words are spoken extremely slowly, as if talking to a child. It makes you bristle.

“You said you were afraid of childbirth, and he already has an heir. There is no better solution.”

It would be thoughtful, were it not for the fact that:

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

As Jace prepares a scathing comeback, face scrunched up in mirrored displeasure to your own, the voice of your mother startles you both.

“What is going on here?” She asks, mouth pursed in an expression identical to Jace. The Queen looks as regal as ever, and it only serves to make you feel a tad embarrassed. With wild hair and eyes, face flushed from rage, you are sure that next to her, you must look like a wilding. “Why can the whole castle hear your quarrel?”

“It’s his fault.” You accuse, pointing at Jace.

“My fault?!” He says, placing his hands on his hips. “Apologies, I think they didn’t hear your screeching about Lord Stark in Driftmark!”

“So you informed her?” Your mother asks, calmly. Too calmly for someone who has just found out. Had it been her plan all along?

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

Rhaenyra turns to look at you. As always, your mother has a smile ready for you, but as of late, they are laced with sadness. This one is no exception.

“I did. I think it is for the best. You will be safer next to Cregan Stark, in Winterfell, than you could ever be here.”

You examine her expression. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed, grief clouding her regal face. There is a certain determination in her features, a calm acceptance in her eyes, that tells you that her mind is already made.

Her face is not one of a distraught mother who will soon give her daughter away. You know her too well to mistake it for that.

“You hoped for this.” You keep your voice dangerously low, your anger threatening to bubble up in your throat. “You did because I have no dragon. I bet you are scheming to send Rhaena away too!”

Your mother doesn’t answer.

Her silence is damming. You turn to look at Jace, disbelieving. Of course the two of them had been scheming behind your back. Your brother had always been the closest one to your mother.

“And neither of you could tell me to my face?” You ask, letting out a hysterical laugh. “I had to find out from a letter from fucking Cregan Stark. I am not leaving. You cannot make me. ”

Suddenly, your mother grabs you by the shoulders. Her face is frightening, like an avenging goddess of Old Valyria. Her lips are curled back, teeth bared, and her eyes are as wild as yours.

“Listen to me!” She says, shaking you hard. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to register them. “Listen to me! Luke is dead. He is dead, and you will obey me because I cannot bear to lose any more of my children. You are going North. Your Queen commands it.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving you standing on still shaking legs.

CREGAN HAD BEEN lingering near the entrance of Winterfell ever since his men had spotted the Queen’s banner on the horizon. Back then, they had expected the party to arrive in half a day. He didn’t care if he appeared too eager, his usual stoicism was failing him in the face of his nerves.

The first time Cregan had married, he had known the bride for a long time. Arra had been his childhood companion, and they had spent many moons together, playing Come-into-my-castle and Bears-and-maids. Cregan had unfortunately been the maid many more times than he preferred.

He had not feared marriage then. Spending forever chained to another person wouldn’t be so bad if that person was Arra.

Now, he did. Cregan had been content on his own, and had no desire to remarry. Even if he had, a southron princess wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though Prince Jacaerys had been honorable and dutiful, he was still naive. They were nearly of an age, but when Cregan had stood next to him, he had felt as old as his Greybeards.

A naive little princess would never survive in the North. His lords would eat her alive. The Lady of Winterfell couldn’t be some frail little thing, she had to be strong. Strong enough to hold Winterfell in his absence if needed, were the threat from beyond the Wall come to pass.

Arra had been the only woman he had thought of marrying because she had been the only woman he had thought fit to the task. She had been of the North, as he was, and it had helped him envision a future together where they ruled over the very same land that had birthed both of them.

It was only adequate that the Lady of Winterfell was a woman of the North. Southron Princesses, especially those who had been groomed to marry inside the family, could be of little help running a keep. If he had to remarry and choose a southron, Cregan would have preferred a stronger one.

Yet if wishes were dragons, beggars would soar through the skies. Prince Jacaerys had seemed a bit insulted at his offer of Greybeards, but with winter coming, it was all Cregan could spare. He was no stranger to political games, though, and knew he had to smooth down the feathers his offer had ruffled.

Hence, the offer. To receive the toothless dragon in his home and keep it safe. A favor, from an older brother to another. The Gods knew if Sara was near war at all, Cregan would do everything in his power to send her somewhere safe. He would be forever indebted to the man who aided him to do so.

And Prince Jacaerys, showing himself to be the dutiful prince and brother he was, had understood the offer for what it was. A true alliance. A Pact of Ice and Fire, to bound their bloodlines and keep the beloved, but defenseless sister safe.

It had impressed Cregan. Jacaerys was a serious man, no matter his dubious parentage. He could picture himself following him. After all, his Targaryen blood and character were the important part. That was what made him a worthy King.

Without a dragon of your own, your journey had been perilous. He knew you had ridden without banners until you had safely arrived into northern territory, a feat that had taken you a whole moon. Cregan had offered to have his men meet you halfway, but his letter doing so had gone unanswered. It had only prompted new anxieties for him.

What if he failed to fulfill his promise because you were abducted or harmed in the journey? What if the people riding with Black banners weren’t truly your honor guard, but an ambush prepared by the enemy?

Cregan doubted he would be at ease until he saw you emerge out of your wheelhouse, whole and unscathed. Hence, his waiting by the door. He would not be nervous a moment longer than he needed to.

The first thing Cregan saw was that your honor guard was smaller than he expected. He had known you would travel with a sparse escort, as to not attract undue attention. It was a miracle you had made it here with only ten guards, though. The wheelhouse and the men carried so many packages that Cregan would have known you were a Princess even without expecting you. Anyone would have known.

In contrast, the woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse wasn’t miraculous nor was she what Cregan envisioned when thinking of a Princess.

You were… Pitiful. Cregan understood now why Prince Jacaerys was so desperate to protect you. You wouldn’t survive a winter in the North, hells, it looked like a strong breeze would blow you away.

Your hair and eyes were as dark as the ones of your brother. You wore a pretty wool dress, in mourning black. The lacings on the back were done too tightly, a lot of the ribbon hanging limply, and the dress was loose around your chest and hips. It was clear you had recently lost weight, probably during the journey because the gown hadn’t been altered to fit you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, which were also red rimmed. Your skin was pale, your dark hair braided back in a severe style. Grief didn’t suit you. You looked small and sad, despite having a pleasing figure.

It didn’t help that the dress you had chosen was one far too thin for a sensible northern woman to wear. The day wasn’t even that cold, but you were already shivering. It was barely snowing, for the Gods’s sake!

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

“Princess.” He extended his arm to you. You took it, shivering. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Pleasant enough.” At least your voice isn’t frail. The last thing Cregan needed was a soft-spoken southron lady. You even manage to smile at him, which makes you look considerably more attractive.

Cregan would admit one thing, and one thing only: Queen Rhaenyra made pretty children. Both you and Jacaerys had sinful mouths and bewitching dark eyes, though he found yours far more pleasing.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, as he escorts you inside Winterfell. Your trembling intensifies, instead of subsiding in the warmth of his hall. You say nothing.

When he risks a glance at your face, your eyes are suspiciously wet. You avoid meeting his eyes, even as he offers you the customary salt and bread.

“I remember when Arra got here.” Cregan offers, awkwardly. He isn’t quite sure of what to say to a grieving Princess, so he decides to share something about himself in hopes that you will open up too. He desperately needs to change the subject. Or to start a subject. He is not picky, anything that keeps you from crying will do. “She brought less of a procession than you did. And less luggage.”

“She was quite closer to home than I.” You reply, and your tone has regained strength. You no longer shake, body stiffer. Cregan decides to take it as a good sign. You are clearly struggling to get a hold of yourself, which is why you turn so tense, so he decides to keep speaking to give you some more time.

“She was. By far a more practical woman.” He smiles at you, teasingly. “But if the fuss makes you happy…”

You laugh. When he gets to know you better, Cregan will realize that your laughter wasn’t genuine.

He will also realize this had been the moment your heart iced over.

YOU PAGE THROUGH your book, in silence. Winterfell doesn’t have court musicians, and for that, you are thankful. Silence has always been your preferred companion right before bed. That, and a good book.

Your obsession with Valyrian history and traditions had been carefully nurtured by your stepfather, Daemon. Neither your mother nor siblings had much interest in your shared heritage, beyond the ability it gave them to ride dragons.

While Baela and Rhaena spoke fluid High Valyrian, the same could not be said for your brothers. As the only girl in the household, your lessons had been spent with the former and not the latter, forcing you to improve. Once you did, you had found reading the tales of old was a pleasant pastime.

You enjoyed laying in bed and imagining all the stories about magic, dragons, and empresses. When you had turned four and ten, Daemon had gifted you your very own book with Valyrian tales, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition that had followed you in your journey North.

“For you to read to your future children.” He had said, back then. You had barely flowered, so you had laughed. “I mean it, Princess. Out of my three girls, you are the only one I envision doing so.”

The day he had acknowledged you as one of his daughters, even if you didn’t share blood, was the happiest nameday you had had. He was right, too. As much as you loved the twins, you couldn’t picture them being motherly. Baela would have to have a son, to inherit after Jace, but you believed that it would be him who took charge of the more fatherly duties while she dedicated herself to statecraft. Rhaena, instead, had a thirst for adventure, to travel and know the world. Her ambition wasn’t conducive to motherhood either.

You, instead, had always dreamed of marrying a man who loved you and starting a family of your own. You envisioned yourself as the lady of a great keep, where you would rule fairly, and raise your children without wet nurses.

Those dreams had already been shattered. The man you had married didn’t love you. He had only done so to secure an alliance. And the man already had a child of his own, an heir. There was no need for you to be a mother anymore.

You turned another page of your book, watching the beautiful illustrations. You had dreamed of reading this to a little girl who looked like you, or perhaps a boy that would have looked like the man of your dreams. They would have learned High Valyrian, and spoke it as beautifully as your mother and stepfather did.

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

A soft knock on your door makes you set down your book, closing it with great care. Then, you get up and put on your robe over your sleeping shift.

“You may enter.”

Your husband steps in, dressed for bed already. He is a handsome man, you think, biting your lower lip. Tall, dark and handsome, Cregan is the sort of man your childhood self would have pictured marrying.

He could have been the perfect man to fall in love with, were it not for the fact that he would never love you back. He already loved someone else, someone who you could never aspire to match. His first wife, Lady Arra.

As Alicent had learned, it was impossible to overshadow a ghost. Dead as she was, she could never make mistakes. He would forget all her imperfections.

She gave him a child, she was the wife he chose. The one he married for love, not duty. A practical, northern woman his bannermen had surely liked far more as a match to him than a soft southron princess who didn’t even have a dragon.

“I was wondering if you would welcome my company tonight, Princess.” Your husband says, voice emotionless. He is only here because of duty, it seems. “We could share the bed.”

“You said we could wait to consummate our union.” You keep your voice firm. It is not a task you anticipate eagerly, but you are not afraid of it either. You had seen enough of your mother and Daemon to know bedding someone can be pleasing. It is only the awkwardness of doing so with a stranger that puts you off.

“I was not referring to that.” Your husband says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “The nights are cold in Winterfell. Is it wrong for a man to seek closeness to his wife?”

You frown. His behavior is most puzzling. He intends to share your bed… To sleep? Your mother shared her bed with Daemon, but she also bedded him. It makes no sense to you that he wants to sleep next to you without touching you. Most marriages don’t do that. Much less if they are political matches.

“It is not a sin. But why would you..?” You question, but your Lord Husband is getting up already, huffing. He seems angered that you are unable to understand his message, whatever it might be. He storms off, leaving you confused over his behaviour.

That night, Cregan dreams of running. Of having a snout covered in blood, of jumping into the river, trying to trap a seahorse.

He never manages to. Wolves aren’t meant to hunt seahorses.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: Sex. Minors DNI. Also, barely proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.8k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 1, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Sorry it has taken me a while to get this part out. But I think you’ll like it. *fingers crossed* FULL TAGLIST TO FOLLOW. Sorry, I'm in a rush today. This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. 

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part 4.5 | Part Five | Masterlist

A fancy hotel takeout sits untouched on your kitchen counter, the smell of roasted garlic filling the small space. You glance at the clock—6:47 PM.

Yoongi promised to take you to dinner, but given the circumstances, a quiet night in felt more appropriate. Safer for him. After all, the media has been relentless since the Dispatch scandal dropped close to midnight like Cinderella’s kitten heel at the ball.

You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.

You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.

You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.

“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.

Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.

“Hello?”

“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.

“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just… exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”

“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”

You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”

“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.

“Bye.”

You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again. 

You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.

You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.

Then, the doorbell rings.

7:01pm. 

You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.

You open the door.

And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.

Christ. He looks good. Criminally.

He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.

Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around. 

You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. 

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.

“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.

Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.

“I am now.”

You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.

“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”

Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away. 

You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.

His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.

Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced. 

“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.

“Dinner first,” he says. 

“Then what?” you challenge.

Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”

Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”

Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.

Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”

Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”

“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”

You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words. 

Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.

“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.

Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”

When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–

A knock sounds at the door, startling you.

Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”

You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple. 

“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.

“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet. 

“Just you.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.

You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.

You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.

“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.

“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.

Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.

“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”

“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits. 

Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.

Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm. 

“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”

He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.

He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.

What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.” 

Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock. 

Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”

Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.

“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.

You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.

“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi…”

He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.

You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.

“Someone prepared…”

You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”

“Shut uppp.”

He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.

A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage. 

You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.

“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.

“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation. 

When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips. 

“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.

Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.

You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance. 

You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated. 

“Shit—you’re so hot like this.” 

You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.

“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.

He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.

Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear. 

“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.

He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth. 

Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.

“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”

“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly, 

White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.

Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”

“So good.”

“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“Which one?”

“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”

You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”

“Bold of you, no?”

“Dumb, too.”

He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”

“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”

“Will you be my girl, then?”

Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.

You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.

“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.

His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.

:]

A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments! 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.

Love you!~

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

The rest to follow in a reblog.

[affableramen]

tsundere!pantalone having hateful sx with his sworn enemy (you)

explicit, mature, sexual themes, mostly rough and angry sx; female reader. if you proceed on reading you confirm being 18+

first time with pantalone is here

note: this one is short. also, pantalone is emotional asf.

“You’re so fake, it’s almost disgusting!” You raise your hand to deliver a slap to his pale face, but Pantalone is agile enough to take it quickly.

“I know I am fake, that is common knowledge”, he says with a strict tone, his eyes glaring at you as raging flames. This man is so smooth and cold, but behind his whole subtlety there’s fiery personality you slowly start to be enamoured with.

He tightnens his grip on you, dangerously painful, and his eyes fall down from your big rounded eyes to your plump glossy lips.

You know where exactly he guilted himself into staring.

“This is what I do for survival”, he takes one more step closer to you, his other hand moving up from the bottom, tracing the contours of your hip (you didn't know how he could feel your body under all those numerous layers of rough fabrics). “Lying to people.”

“Fake, fake, fake! All of you!” You almost scream into his mouth.

“I guess you are a saint, then?” One more leaning to your face, you feel his raven locks tickle your cheek and neck.

“No, I always admit when I am a bad guy. But you do not.”

“Oh, my dear. If only you could see what’s behind that ‘bad guy’ attitude…” He can't wait any second more, releases your hand and cups your cheeks gingerly.

“Let me kiss you, just this once.”

Before you could fetch him a respond, Pantalone already starts devouring your lips with long pent-up fervour at first. You grab his hair and grasped it in your finger though a sudden burst of adrenaline made you involuntarily bite his lip. A sound of protest merged with pain escapes him. Pantalone pulls away running his fingers down his lips that are bleeding weakly. You see the expression on his face and immediately rush to apologise, with your face red of embarrassment. As if in order to apologise, in a most different way though, you move your hand downwards and touch him below his belt. His surprise of pain falters and morphs into bliss, the corners of his lips dropping as his mouth opens agape. You rub it a few times, not enough to lead him to peak before you suddenly find yourself in the softness of sheets, spreading wide.

Pantalone cages you between his arms, his hands squeezing your thighs before he enters with one movement. You make an “oh” sound to one another.

You find yourself almost fainting, but Pantalone pulls you back into reality.

“Oh, Pantalone…”

“Say it again.”

“Pant—archons!..”

He chuckles and smirks, enjoying how he humiliates you with his size and bold movements, before being trapped by his own overwhelming sensations.

“Ah… yes…”

You allow him more depth and watch as your most sworn enemy bucks his hips against you with the most intense expression ever on his face.

“You’re mine. I got you.” He hisses. 

“I hate you… so badly.”

“I hate you, too. The way you soften me—ngh!”

Can you deny how much you want him? Can you not feel how good you and him fit together? Can you not see the expression on his face when he is balls deep inside you?

“There is no place for hate in intimacy with one another. Pantalone, I have the softest feelings for you, let me indulge it—oh!”

His hand slides up your chest and squeezes a breast of yours.

“Ngh—shit…” Pantalone lets out a profanity blended with the most private sound you could ever receive from him. “I just—want to—love you.”

You feel it too, the vivid sensation between your legs, your heat pooling. It was as if something within him had been suddenly awakened and he started thrusting more forcefully.

“You-” You move your hips in accordance to his, trying to keep up and match his pace. 

“You hate me? Keep… saying that… but I don’t think I… believe you…” 

Suddenly you grip him very tightly (and your heat squeezes him inside) which causes a yell from Pantalone’s lips.

“Ah! For archon’s sake, Y/N—”

“Don't yell so hard, you're scaring me!”

“I can't hold it in any longer. Not with you, little foolish dove.”

His sight is covered with haze and he starts losing himself completely, fucking into you roughly and desperately. The deep, precise pushes are met with your high-pitched sounds of bliss.

“You will pull out, will you?” You slap him. “Pantalone, will you?”

Drunken by desire to have you whole, he hums: 

“I will try.” Feverishly he nods but the sparks in his eyes tell a different story. He is breaking into a million pieces to not hurt you unintentionally.

Not many thrusts after Pantalone pulls out and touches himself until release. He gasps for breath with his head tilting back before landing on the bed, his hands to the sides, caging your head.

“You’re a beast.” He moves the forefinger down your cheek.

“Perhaps. But I’m also your enemy. And I didn't expect the intimacy with one to be so…”

“So what?”

“So desirable.”

“Oh, bastard! If you don’t kiss me now!”

Pantalone doesn't wait and pushes his lips against yours in a kiss that is gentle, not feverish like the first one. 

“Will you stay? For one more night, with me?” He gives it a long thought before cutting the silence like glass again.

“I’ll see what I can do. I need to make some calls to back me up.”

“Do you want me to wait in the other room?”

“I won't go anywhere without you. What if you decide to escape?”

“You are willing to make a phone call with me eavesdropping?”

“Darling, I can talk discreetly.”

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) - Chapter Fourteen

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months earlier than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. After all, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plan brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

(Let me know if you want to be added to the Tag List!)

____________________________________________

Author note: Dear Hoteliers,

There is a very important message after the end of the chapter. I will repost it because I know not everyone reads the messages hidden within this post!

<3 Stay smutty

Chapter Fourteen - Picking a Fight

Content Warning: MINORS DNI!!!!! Mentions of abuse, Smut (let me know if I missed any!)

Alastor was sitting in the Doomsday District when he felt his magic surge. The demon had found a half-destroyed bench to sit upon, the metal twisted upon itself from one of his previous meltdowns. With his head in his hands, Alastor sat and contemplated the past few days - days? Or had it been weeks, months, since you kissed him in Louisiana? His sense of time had no meaning anymore. 

“Hello, old pal,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. 

Vox stood before the Radio Demon, a slick smile on his face as he surveyed the mess with which he had found him in. That was satisfaction enough for the media demon. 

Alastor ran his hands through his hair - not to fix it, but to relieve the anger itching beneath his skin. Jumping right from helplessness to anger - he was so easily riled up these days, finding it harder and harder to contain his wrath. He had thought ripping up the Doomsday District would somehow help relieve that, like a slow release of propane from a gas tank about to be set on fire but it hadn’t. He should know better, the last time you had a hold on his emotions he tried the same thing, but to no avail.

“I am not in the mood for one of our little quips today. Go on home -“

And then he felt it. The magic beneath his skin surged, his aura pulsed, only, it wasn’t his magic which emanated from his skin. 

It was blue. It was your magic. 

Alarm sparked panic in his chest. This wasn’t a coincidence. 

“Yeah, I thought you’d say something like that,” Vox continued, completely unaware of the magic surging through Alastor’s veins. 

It smelled of Jasmine.

Fuck.

The media demon flips his phone around to show a picture of you, unconscious and tied to a chair. Vox smirked at the realization growing on Alastor’s face. 

He didn’t know it at the time, but Velvette had constructed two false images, including one of you. 

“Checkmate,” Vox gloated. “This is how this is going to go-“ 

Before Vox had a chance to complete his rehearsed speech, Alastor had exploded in a wave of rage - a ball of living fire - except these flames were blue. 

____________________________________________

For Alastor, everything changed the second you broke that seal. In that moment, he felt how much power you had. It radiated deep within his bones - even his soul felt it. 

You carried a power so potent even Zestial would cower at your feet and - as much as Alastor hated to admit it - even he found himself unnerved around the original Overlord. 

Roo. Here you were right in front of him the whole time. Raw power, hidden behind perfect teeth and red lips. 

All he had to do was reach out and take it. 

And then you leaned over him, had the audacity to leave yourself open. Alastor felt his body move before his mind did, his fingers itching for the handle of Velvette’s blade. 

For you, you had proven you would do whatever it takes for power - Hell, you killed Eve for it. And now you had to live with the consequences. Alastor? He hadn’t crossed that line yet - he had no memories of guilt which screamed “No stop! Don’t do this!” 

He had the memories of you, however. 

Of annoyance.

Of desire. 

Of lust. 

Of fear. 

Of worry. 

Of happiness. 

Emotions Alastor had not felt in such a long time… 

So, why was it so easy to palm that blade and stab it straight into your belly? 

Because Alastor was hungry. Like the cannibalistic murderer he is, Alastor has been chasing power long before he died - even so far as selling his soul for a drop more. And when you broke that seal and gave him but a taste of what ran through your veins, it pushed him past hungry, past starvation, the demon was dying and you were the only source of food for miles. 

It blinded him - the power consumed his mind completely, directing him towards one prerogative - kill.

You expected this. Why? Because you did the same to Eve. Because you saw it in your father’s eyes every time he beat you. 

The allure of power drowns its victim like a ship at sea in a storm. 

You’ve seen that barely contained anger in Al before. The warning signs have always been there. How he tried to hold himself back when he’s around you, his demonic form slipping in and out when he sees something that he wants. 

It wasn’t Alastor who sank that blade into your belly - it was the hunger for power, the Radio Demon within. 

After all, who hasn’t been tempted by power and chaos? 

“Absolutely beautiful,” Alastor had said. 

Absolutely beautiful…

Absolutely beautiful? 

Was he talking about you or the power…?

You broke the kiss. “Ha!” You laughed, the steel hilt deep in your belly. You didn’t even move, didn’t even flinch when Alastor stabbed you. “Oh, Mr. Alastor,” you sang, running your fingers through his bangs.

The demon sat back in his chair, completely confused. You’d die of shock seeing such an emotion on his face if you weren’t in the current situation the two of you had unfortunately found yourselves in. 

How did Alastor phrase your deal? “A mutual agreement. We stay out of each other’s way, yet seek out the other when we can benefit equally.” 

It was a verbal contract - not a written one. So, technically, the exact details weren’t drawn out. The magic was privy to the contractees’ interpretations, and magic works in funny ways.

Remember the dream the night you had your midnight meeting? Remember how Alastor attacked you and you defended yourself with your flames? Remember how it burned his clothes but didn’t hurt him.

That’s where it all began.

Anytime you had summoned your magic or Alastor had summoned his, it not only didn’t hurt you, but it empowered you. 

You have stood in his static, have been enshrouded in his magic, and yet you came out unscathed. So why should a blade in his hand, hurt you? How was that any different? 

You took the greatest gamble of your life, leaning over Alastor while he sat in that chair, allowing yourself to be vulnerable, knowing that there was a possibility that he could actually kill you. But you’re deal - it wasn’t just a quid-pro-quo, you help me out, I help you out. No, it was more than that…

… Alastor couldn’t harm you. 

Which meant he couldn’t kill you. 

And so you took the gamble. 

You smirked, knowing your red lips did nothing but taunt the demon, “Quid-pro-quo,” You laughed. Grasping the blade, you slid it easily from your belly. You showed him the steel, absent of your blood. At most, the blade merely ripped your leather.

You laugh, “You shook on it.” 

A huge fucking gamble, and it had paid off. 

You take the blade and stab it directly into his right thigh. The demon didn’t even feel it. Batting your eyelashes, you turn your head like you sometimes see him do when asking a question, “Remember?” 

Confusion turns to anger. And for the first time, you are met with a full-fledged Alastor in demonic form. The demon rips the blade from his leg and growls, his ears flattened against his head in irritation. 

Oh, you were about to get the fight you have been dying for. 

A tentacle wraps itself around your middle and flings you backward across the dirt. Landing on your back, you quickly jump to your feet, preparing for a possible second attack. 

Alastor slowly rises from his chair, the knife slipping into his Void, and summons his microphone. He slams the cane against the ground, green sparks exploding from where it makes contact with the dirt before black tentacles emerge from his back.

The demon smiles, his lips threaded with green stitching. His sclera turn black, his antlers elongate, and prongs multiply atop his head. A green glow surrounds the Radio Demon as his body contorts in a series of cracks. Then Alastor begins to grow, the power with which he has gathered now physically represented by his size.  

“Ha, ha, ha,” the demon chuckles, his laugh echoing as if through a broken radio. “Let’s begin.”

And then his tentacles lunge, the black tendrils encased in Alastor’s green static. You spin, taking flight. You fly right past the demon, weaving through his flurry of tentacles as you head for Pentagram City. 

Alastor is hot on your tail the entire time, and just as you reach the edge, a tentacle wraps itself around your leg and flings you into a nearby abandoned building. Brick and metal come crashing down upon you as the building collapses, pinning you beneath it. 

But it doesn’t slow you down. Summoning your blue flame, you set the rubble alight, and, like a newborn phoenix, you rise from the ashes. Only to be attacked by an army of… shadow demons? 

Tiny doll-like creatures sewn together from black fabric lunge for your feet. Pulling your sword from the Void, you strike, but the blade does not cut them. Instead, they merely bounce off, like a ball hitting a baseball bat. 

What the fuck are these things!? 

One jumps for your leg, giggling as it attempts to sink its teeth into your flesh. Although you know it can't hurt you, you still instinctively jump out of its reach, using your wings to gain height. Luckily, the dolls can’t fly, and you watch as they jump beneath you, their arms outstretched as they lick their lips. 

Cannibal dolls? 

A growl warns you of Alastor’s next attack. You look up fast enough to see a literal car crash into you, the horn breaking as it slams into you. You land, the crumbled car crushing you as you roll down the street. Your wings take most of the impact, shielding your skin from the asphalt. Coming to a stop, you push yourself to your feet, the magic of the Book of Knowledge still surging through your veins. Standing, you face a demonic Alastor, his tentacles, as if legs, running down the street straight for you. 

He’s made himself a target, blind with rage, drunk on the pursuit of power. It would be all too easy to summon the power you stole from Eve and turn it against the Radio Demon. You had never used it before, but there was no time like the present to learn. 

Yet, as you stood, watching Alastor barrel straight for you, you hesitated. 

No. Not because you couldn’t technically hurt him, but because you didn’t want to even try. Something within your chest twisted, stopping you. 

You’ve been keening for a fight with him, but… but you couldn’t do it. 

Instead, you stood your ground, focusing on the magic thrumming through your veins, and forced the power from the Book of Knowledge back behind its lock. The words disappeared from your skin as Alastor raised his staff. 

A clang rang out as metal hit metal, your sword against his microphone. The demon was relentless, his strikes never letting up as he backed you down the street. All you could do was block, your heart not having it in you to strike back. Screams rang out as Sinners finally understood what was going on and fled in fear. 

A crazed look in his eye, the demon continued to hack, his strikes sloppy, his weight thrown into every thrust. Technique-wise, he was no match for a skilled warrior such as yourself. You could have easily had him on his ass if you wanted to - but you didn’t. 

A tentacle wrapped around your ankle, and as Alastor swiped at you with his staff, he pulled. You landed face first, a smack against concrete, rolling just in time to dodge the blow which was aimed directly at your face. As you rolled, you climbed to your feet and flung yourself out of reach of his next physical attack in one big beat of your wings. 

The demon threw his microphone forward, just as he had done every time his tentacles came soaring for you. You readied yourself, prepared for the attack, but his tentacles remained still. The demon looked confused, so he did it again, but again, nothing happened. 

He looked at his feet. 

Oh, he wasn’t trying to attack you with his tentacles but with his shadow. The demon was commanding Rolf to attack you. 

The shadow swirled at his feet, and frowned. Rolf actually frowned and then shook his head in refusal. 

Ooooohh, and Alastor was not happy about that. 

“Aaaaah!” The Radio Demon screamed as he slammed his staff down. 

The ground cracked and broke in half, creating a chasm beneath your feet. You jumped just in time, but not fast enough to miss the Hellfire that was released from the earth. The green flames consumed you as you flew skyward, but, like all of Alastor’s other attacks, it did nothing to you. Soaring, you stopped as you reached the rooftops and got a better understanding of where you were. 

You were on the edge of the Magne District and the Bordertown - in other words, you were blocks away from Alastor’s radio tower. As you caught sight of the iron structure, you felt that thing twist in your chest again. So many memories…

Again, the demon went after you, his tentacles propelling him to the rooftop of the building you soared over. His eye twitched, his smile constrained. And as he sent the next round of attacks your way, you felt your will to fight begin to fade. You didn’t dodge as quickly. You didn’t fly with as much vigor. 

He wasn’t going to stop. Alastor wasn’t going to stop…

You’re not sure why you did it; perhaps some part of you was still holding on, but you led him right to the radio tower. 

Landing on the balcony, you slipped your sword into the Void and waited as Alastor made his way up. The demon came to a stop at the other end of the landing, the lights of Pentagram City your backdrop. You put your wings away, your demon form slipping from you until you were just standing in your ripped leather gear. 

There was a gleam in Alastor’s eye as he surveyed you. He thought he had you. God, he looked absolutely mad. You dodged as he swung, staying easily out of his reach as if it were a training exercise. Jesus, you could do this but not dance? 

You looked into his eyes as he attacked you, seeing nothing but steel, a raging fire that had consumed him completely.

And that’s when you realized… Despite the contract you had made ensuring your safety, Alastor was still trying to kill you. 

And your heart shattered. Your steps faltered, giving Alastor the opportunity to knock you to the ground. You didn’t even try to fight him as he climbed atop you, straddling your waist. The demon pulled Velvette’s blade from the Void, forgoing his microphone completely. 

And you let him. 

The Radio Demon held the edge to your throat, his entire body seething in anger and frustration at the object of all of his desires just out of reach. So close, yet so far. 

“You want this more than you want me…” You whispered. 

His mask slipped ever so slightly, his movements freezing as you spoke. 

You gritted your teeth, “Fine. Alastor. You want it so badly, enough to kill me for it, then take it. Fucking, take it.”

You were so stupid. How could you think Alastor would be any different? Everyone in your life you’ve ever cared about ends up disappointing you…

“Alastor Hartfelt, I, Mikaela Morningstar, release you from our contract.”

SNAP!

The connection between you was severed. 

And almost immediately, you felt warmth on your neck, the edge of the blade digging into your flesh just enough to draw golden blood. Alastor’s eyes were instantly drawn to it. The demon gasped. Something behind his gaze shifted at the realization of what you had just done. 

“... And that’s when I decided she was not worthy of your death,” you repeated the words Alastor spoke to you after he saved you from Vox and Velvette, a moment in time when your death had nearly broken him. “No one was. If anyone was going to draw your last breath from these lips, it was going to be me.”

The demon met your gaze, his crazed smile faltering, the fire in his eyes sputtering. 

“Make do on that promise, Radio Demon.” Your voice cracked as the tears streamed down the corners of your eyes. “You’d be doing me a fucking favor.”

A favor… because you’d rather be dead than live with the fact that Alastor would kill you for something so trivial as power. 

He made you care about him. The way he rescued you from Velvette and Vox, how he dotted over you as you healed. He was killing himself with worry when you collapsed the second time. He made jambalaya from his mother’s recipe and spent hours sitting with you on this balcony, watching the City lights. He was worried when you didn’t eat, running straight to you when he heard. He kissed you as it rained, whispering promises in your ear. The demon danced with you in Mardi Gras, bought you a fucking donut, for crying out loud, and told you things about his mother that he never told anyone else. 

Alastor made you fucking care about him, and now he was ripping out your heart and stabbing it with an Angelic blade - literally and metaphorically.

So yes, he’d be doing you a fucking favor because Alastor was killing you either way - slitting your throat was just the much less painful option. 

You closed your eyes and waited for death… 

You had taken so many lives, and yet you had never thought about your own. You never imagined how you might die because, up until recently, you didn’t know you could. 

God, you didn’t know death could be this fucking painful. 

Yet, you welcomed it. There was no afterlife for you to look forward to, which was a blessing. You didn’t have to live with this weight anymore, this burden of existence, of the trauma and torture you have been put through. Finally, you could just cease to be… 

____________________________________________

The moment the golden blood trickled from your neck, Alastor’s mind flashed to the night you killed Val.

The demon had stalked you from the shadows, having heard the explosion all the way from the Doomsday District. He watched from the darkness as you burned Valentino from the inside out, absolutely mesmerized. 

And then Velvette ran her blade across your chest, and golden liquid spewed from the wound onto the concrete. Alastor had never moved so fast in his life. In a blur, he summoned a tentacle and threw a car at Velvette and Vox, stopping them only momentarily but long enough. Then he was at your feet.

SNAP! The golden liquid disappeared, and Rolf shadowed you to the Nothing.

Alastor’s heart rammed so hard against his chest he could hear nothing else, think nothing else as he collected you in his arms. The Radio Demon had never really known true fear before, even as he died he wasn’t afraid. Such a foreign feeling… He didn’t know how to process it. It left his mind blank, his lungs devoid of air, his body aimless as he forced himself to move. 

And then you were on his bed, your golden blood pouring into his red satin sheets. Rolf acted on his own, immediately taking off for Cannibal Town without Alastor even having to command him. The demon collapsed to his knees at the edge of the bed, forcing his claws to untie the dark cloak around your neck, but his damn fingers wouldn’t work! He was shaking so much…

“Oh, my stars!” Rosie melted from the floor, curlers in her hair and wrapped in a pink bathrobe. “Alastor, what is…” She caught sight of you on the bed and the Overlord in full panic next to you. 

Alastor turned to her, desperation swimming in his eyes as he managed to utter two words, “Help me.”

____________________________________________

“Alastor,” Rosie set a steaming cup of tea before him - chai - but Alastor didn’t move to drink it. He couldn’t even pick up the cup. It reminded him too much of the coffee you made him, how you flavored it with chai leaves. It reminded him too much of you. Of the beautiful woman held together by nothing but thread in the next room.

Rosie lay a hand on his arm, moving slowly so as not to startle the demon. He had calmed down immensely but was still shaken up. “Tell me what happened.”

“She went after Valentino,” He swallowed dryly. 

“Sweetheart, that’s not what I’m asking. I can see the destruction of the Tower from your window. I’m asking what happened to you. I’ve never seen you like that before.” The demon prodded carefully. 

Rosie had asked about you before - attempting to pry information from Alastor. It’s not that she was spying on you. She didn’t need to do that. You told her everything. She wanted to know what Alastor thought of you. A matchmaker from the very beginning - from the moment you stepped foot into her Emporium and ran right into Alastor. 

Alastor looked down at the cup, the leaves of tea swimming around the steaming liquid. “I don’t know. All I know is… It hurt… I hurt…” 

Rosie cooed, “And why do you think that is?”

Alastor was speechless. Nothing coming to mind. He honestly didn’t understand what was happening to him. Why he was feeling the way that he was feeling. He’s never felt so utterly helpless and honestly couldn’t understand why. 

“Darling, let me ask you, cannibal to cannibal, what is the most important organ in the body?” Rosie smiled, her teeth wickedly sharp. 

Of course, Alastor picked the brain - so iconic and representative of his character. 

Rosie giggled. “Oh no, I think my late husband is evidence enough of that. No, dear, it’s the heart. Something so vital that keeps us alive, and yet one tiny little nick and you bleed out and die. And dying hurts, let me tell you.” She shrugged, sipping her tea. 

Rosie let Alastor stew on this for a moment before clearly spelling it out for the Overlord. “You are hurting because the Vees went after your heart.”

____________________________________________

CLANG! 

Your eyes fluttered open to find Alastor looking back at you, tears in eyes of his own. His chin trembled as he cupped your cheeks. Alastor had dropped the blade, the steel clattering between the cracks in the balcony flooring before falling to the street below. 

The demon’s forehead came to rest on your own as his demonic form receded, his green aura fading. “... a drop more might break me.” His voice shook, his words absent of his radio static, his Louisiana accent slipping through. “Rarely am I wrong about something.” He chuckled through a sob. “I just didn’t think it would be by my hand.”

“Alastor…?” You searched his eyes for an explanation. 

“My darling.” A breath. “Ma cherie.” Another. “Mon couer.” Another. “My heart.” 

Alastor’s eyes were glassy. “One cannot live without their heart.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Was he saying what you think he was saying? 

“You choose me?” You asked, hope sparking in your chest. 

The demon smiles softly. “I choose you, mon couer. I choose you…” 

You smiled as you grabbed Alastor by his shirt and pulled him in. Your mouths crashed together.

You can taste the relief on his lips, the solace evident with each swipe of his tongue. Finally, you could allow yourself to simply enjoy the taste of him. Finally, you could simply not think and only feel - no longer weighed down by the troubles plaguing your mind every time he grew close to you.

He knew your name.

He knew your secret.

He knew your power.

He knew everything.

And he had chosen you.

Nothing held the two of you back now, not emotionally or physically.

Alastor broke the kiss, already panting, his chest heaving as it matched yours, “How are your injuries?” His eyes roamed you, searching for active bleeding.

You smirked, “I’m in perfect health thanks to you,” you pulled the collar of your leather gear aside to reveal the injury Velvette gave you, the skin now pink and scarred over.

Alastor ran a finger across the mark, making you shiver beneath him. 

You had much to figure out today, but it could wait. 

The demon smiled, “Good,” he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I believe I made some promises to you that I intend to keep.” 

Alastor dipped lower, and you gasped as his tongue connected with your skin. Alastor traced the outline of the cut on your neck. His forked tongue lapped the golden liquid, not letting a single drop escape. When his lips were wet and sweet with your blood, he leaned back far enough only for you to see his eyes, his pupils blown, “You’re mine,” he breathed. 

Your body shuddered in what might have been a sob, a cry in joy as his lips found yours. 

Finally. Fucking, finally. 

You expected the kiss to be gentle - soft - a kiss that could take its time. After all, you had plenty of that now. But Alastor had warned you - he was not gentle. You moaned into his mouth, the iron tang of your blood on your lips as he crashed into you. The kiss was powerful, threatening to drown you in him completely.

The demon scooped you up in one fluid motion before you were shadowed into his bedroom and placed on red silk sheets.     

The demon had his jacket off, never breaking your connection, before crawling up on you. The demon pushed you back, laying you out on the platter of red, his own personal feast. He pressed himself into you, one leg between your thighs, and you instinctively arched as his warmth soaked into your bones, as he hardened against you. 

Alastor broke the kiss to run his tongue up your cheek, licking the golden liquid that had bled from your now-healed skin. The demon moaned, his dick throbbing in his pants in response. You took the opportunity to find the buttons of his red suit jacket, popping open the three buttons before diving into the ones on his collared shirt. 

There was something so intimate about undressing him. You could - if you had wanted to - magicked the clothes away, but where was the fun in that? There were layers to Alastor’s outfit, layers you wanted to peel back one by one; it was a privilege to do so. In a way, you felt like you had earned that privilege, and you were going to take advantage of every moment of it. 

Al pulled back, surveying your face. He ran a hand through your silver locks as they splayed out across his sheets, pushing it aside from your neck where bruises once decorated your skin. His eyes lit up, almost as if they were screaming, mine, all mine, before his lips found your neck. 

Oh, if you thought his kisses were intense before, it was nothing compared to now. Alastor held nothing back, his canines nipping at your skin till he drew blood. The pain was a beautiful burn that made your head dizzy. His tongue licked away the gold, soothing the erotic pain pooling in your core. You gasped as his hands found your hips and tugged.

He wanted your clothes off. 

SNAP!

Your leathers disappeared, leaving behind nothing but your bra and underwear. The armor didn’t have zippers or ties, it wasn’t meant to be slipped on and off, but you wanted Alastor to undress you. You wanted to feel his claws as they scraped across your skin and slid your underwear down your legs…

Alastors hand found the waistband of your underwear. The demon chuckled against your neck, after stealing a glance. “Such a naughty little thing.”

You may have changed into your favorite pair of undergarments, a dangerous matching set of silk. All in red, just for him. 

Alastor bit your neck, hard, not a full on bite, but a nibble that made you gasp. You arched up into him, his knee between your thighs. With one hand thrusted into your hair, the other went to your bra, to cup the swell of your breast. 

The demon had perfectly sized hands, your breasts a matching handful. You cried out as he squeezed. Goosebumps rise on your skin as the demon’s mouth travels south, his lips trailing to the swell of your breasts. His claws scraped across your skin, finding the strap of the garment and slowly lowered it over your shoulder. You arched, prompting him to slide both hands behind your back as he smiled up at you, his eyes promising to do terribly wonderful things to you. 

Then your bra was off, and his mouth was on your breast, and he sucked, his tongue flicking your nipple. You plunged your fingers into his hair, wrapping them around his locks. Your finger lightly brushed his ears, and the demon growled, his mouth on your breast, his hips bucking instinctively. 

Alastor pulled back despite your bark of protest - that turned into a gasp as the demon backed off the bed, wrapped his arms around your hips, and tugged. He yanked you to the edge before violently ripping off your underwear. 

Your cheeks heated as Alastor kneels before you, his face mere inches from your heat as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.

He was kneeling. The all and powerful Alastor Hartfelt was on his knees for you. No one would ever believe you…

And then he sinks two fingers inside you, all the way up to his first knuckle. You cry out, your breath stuck in your throat as your nails dig into his sheets. He slides his fingers out slowly, then shoves in hard again, practically pushing you back up the bed. 

“Oh, my - Al!” 

Alastor cuts you off with his mouth, his tongue licking your clit and setting you on fire. Instinctively, your toes curl, and your body pulls in on itself, but Alastor’s claw digs into the meat of your hip, keeping you spread open as he thrusts his fingers in again, his mouth feasting on your juices. 

Digging your nails in tighter, you swear you rip the fabric, trying to hold on. 

The demon chuckles as your next gasp turns into a moan. God, it was like Alastor was punishing you, dominating you, a relentless force pent on overpowering you in every sense of the word. 

You swore you'd never bow before another again, never let another command you, but for Alastor, you'd gladly fall to your knees if he asked.

The pressure was starting to build. Fuck, the last time this happened, you leveled a building.

“Alastor,” you choked out.   

But the demon didn’t stop, didn’t even come up for air. Alastor pulls his fingers almost all the way out before thrusting them fully in. 

“Al-”

The demon glares at you, a gleam in his eye. He wanted to push you over the edge and was not going to stop, no matter what. 

Shit. Shit. Shit!

He picks up the pace, his fingers constantly roaming in and out, his mouth working in tandem quickly working you up towards your climax.

Your head is gone now, your breathes in gasps with each pump of his fingers, each swipe of his tongue. The demon bites down on your clit between his upper teeth and lower lip. A wave of pain has you teetering.

“Al!” You scream as, on the last thrust, Alastor curls his fingers, hitting that wonderful bundle of nerves that has you flying over the edge. You arch up as spasms overcome your body, as Alastor continues to pump and continues to ride you through your high.

Be damned if you burned this place to the ground. It was worth it.

Your inner walls clench around his fingers, your entire body tensing up. Heat floods through you as you pant, breathless and dizzy. 

Alastor doesn’t stop until your back finds the sheets again, until your twitching has slowed, and your breathing has normalized. 

This entire thing feels like a dream as Alastor stands, untucks his shirt, and takes off his belt. 

“No,” you squeak out, your body and mind numb with pleasure.

Alastor freezes.

“I want to,” you practically beg, reaching out a hand. 

The demon chuckles, his face in his hands. 

Wait. 

You sit up, your mind sobering as you whip your gaze across the room. “It’s not on fire?” 

Alastor’s smile kicks up in a sideways grin, “It’s not.”

You shoot him a questioning look. You don’t know how this is happening, but you know Alastor had something to do with it. A rune? Some sort of mark in his Voodoo? 

The demon answers your question with a chuckle as he climbs atop you. Alastor’s arms frame your face, his smile lighting up yours as he towers over you. His locks were like a halo of red around his face, his antlers a few prongs larger than you remember. 

You’re so captivated by a half shirtless Alastor towering over you that you completely forget what you were supposed to do.

He pauses, his breath hot on your lips, “well?”

Well? Oh! Yes. 

Hesitantly, your fingers find his belt as you continue what he had started. Your heart is ramming against your chest, your hands suddenly very sweaty. Get it together. He’s made you orgasm twice now. You’re sitting beneath him, in his bed, wearing nothing. Why were you so nervous? 

You paused at the button of his pants. 

“Al, I… I’ve never…” You met his gaze and hoped your eyes communicated the rest of what you were trying to say. 

His cheeks turned pink, “We move at your pace, mon couer.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He was giving you time for your mind to catch up with the rest of you. 

First, thing’s first…

You force your fingers to move again and help him slide his shirt off. And then you don’t want to stop touching him. Alastor was so soft, the short fur along his torso and arms like the down coat of a fawn. It was longer around his chest, producing a fluff you were already making plans for. To spend your night sleeping on his chest…

You traced his scars, each old and grey, marking his beautiful ashen skin. Then you found the mark over his chest, the run of Transformare just over his heart. You traced the outline of it. 

“My favorite one,” he smiled. 

And that gave you the bravery to continue on. You shot up, your lips crashing into his as your fingers undid the button of his pants and began to tug down. Alastor laid you back out as he pulled off his pants and underwear in one swoop. 

You gasped as the demon pressed onto you, his cock perfectly lining up with your folds. The demon ground his hips against you, coating his shaft in your juices, hitting your throbbing clit. Your mouth went dry at the sheer size of him. You wanted him, wanted every glorious inch of him in you.  

And then you're drowning again as he kisses you, his thrusts harder and faster as he grinds atop you, Alastor the ocean wave which was pulling you deeper and deeper. And you gladly drowned. He rocks back on his hips, stealing the heat of his cock before he lines himself up, his tip pressing against your opening, and pauses. 

He was waiting for you. 

In response, you wrapped your legs around his thin waist. They sat perfectly at the crest of his hips, almost as if they were made for you, for this. The demon growled as you kissed him, and you laughed.

And then he slid in. And in. And in. Until his hips were flush with yours. Your nails dug into the muscle of his back, making the demon growl. 

Jesus, he had your eyes watering; it was like your body forgot how to breathe. He stilled, letting you adjust.     

“Are you alright?” Alastor was out of breath, his voice raspy and absent of static, as his forehead found yours, clearly bombarded with the same wave of emotions you had been. 

You nod as you pull him down on top of you. You wanted to feel Alastor, to feel his warmth, to feel his chest heaving against yours, to feel the muscles in his abbs as he thrusts into you. You have been starved for touch for so long that you have become desperate - desperate and greedy. 

The demon moved slowly, pulling out slightly before pressing back in. His hips stuttered, “Satan,” he choked. “You’re tight.”

Again, he pulled back, then thrust in. The demon fisted one hand in your hair, the other coming to rest behind your thigh, giving himself leverage as he moved. 

And as Alastor moved, his forehead on yours as you kissed, your breath building as you huffed through your noses, it became easier. It became pleasurable. It became faster, deeper. 

It made you hungry for more.

“Fuck me,” you breathe between moans. “Fuck me, Alastor.”

A fire sparks in his eyes as his hands sink to your ass. The demon has your legs wrapped around him, and off the bed, your back pressed against the wood head rest as he fills you. Every inch, every hard ridge. Alastor’s teeth find your bottom lip, and he bites down as he slams into you with enough force, that the bed shakes. 

Your moan is on the edge of a scream as blood fills your mouth. Alastor’s tongue laps at your lips, at your tongue, devouring the tangy liquid flooding your mouth and dribbling down your chin. The cannibal is determined not to waste a single drop as he feasts. You wrap your arms around his neck and hang on for dear life, your nails digging into his skin, just exciting him even more. 

There is nothing gentle about the Radio Demon - no wonder he wanted to wait, no wonder he held himself back all those nights ago. He surely would have split you in two had you begged him to try.  

But it would have been so worth it. 

Your veins sang beneath your skin with the build of your climax, your heart beating in time with Alastor’s. 

The demon released a hand to find your clit, circling as he thrusts. Immediately, you’re toeing the edge, your moans choked screams, as Alastor picks up the pace, sweat licking your bodies. 

Alastor’s claws dig into the meat of your hip as pulls you down on him with every thrust, as he buries himself over and over again, the tip of his cock brushing the entrance of your cervix. You’re there, you’re at the edge…

“I’m close!” You breathe, every edge of you burning with pleasure. You’re so wet, you’re dripping down his balls as he sinks into you. 

Not yet. No. You want to linger. You want to savor this. Every second of it. 

And then Alastor’s lips find your neck, and he bites. The pain sends you over the edge, and you scream as the orgasm tears through your body. Alastor continues to pound into you, hard and fast, drawing out your pleasure. The demon grows harder, more frenzied with his movements, and then he’s roaring as he slams into you to the hilt, spilling inside you. 

Alastor growls as his dick throbs against your clenching inner walls, milking him of every last drop. And then Alastor slows as he collapses into you, his head resting on your shoulder as he slowly thrusts in and out, his body spasming with pleasure.

And then there is silence, interrupted only by your panting breaths. 

When your souls finally return to your bodies, you take Alastor’s face in yours. The dreamy, drunk look on his face has your heart soaring. No one has ever seen Alastor like that. You’ve earned the privilege to see him like this.  

Alastor rocks in and out of you in slow, languid thrusts, like he’s savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. 

“Mon couer,” he breathes before he kisses you, long and slow. 

You giggle, just as high as him, “mine.”

The demon freezes, giving you a look as if he didn’t hear you right. 

“I choose you, too, Alastor. You’re mine.” You beam before kissing him. His mouth is unmoving for a second before he kisses you back. The demon digs his hips into you, sinking his head in till it hits your cervix - you swear to God!

The demon lays you back down on the bed.

“I’m yours,” he smiles against your lips, and then he swallows your gasp as he thrusts again. “I’m yours, mon couer, only yours.” 

Alastor’s mouth trails down your jaw, across the bruises forming on your throat. You moan when his tongue finds the bite, the mark he used to claim you, the soreness that now represents everything. The demon uses his tongue to outline the mark, the golden blood now clotting. 

With the taste of you on his lips, the demon was growing hard again, his dick throbbing inside of you as he stroked slowly. 

This time is different. This time Alastor is slow, his fingers bunching in your hair but not tearing, his lips kissing you deeply, his mouth drunk on your taste. You breathed Alastor in as your tongue lazily played with his, as your hips moved in time with his strokes. 

This wasn’t just him claiming you. This was Alastor promising you. This was him pledging to be yours and only yours, to be all the things he was scared of being, to devote his very being in honor of you. 

And you could feel it. You could feel his growing desire. It wasn’t just in the pounding of his heart or the way his breath quickened as it mixed with yours but somehow sank into your bones. 

If your magic could be summoned as it had whenever Alastor’s lips were on yours, the colors of your magic would be singing right now. Their masterpiece a demonstration of the vow he was making you. 

You let your hands wander over every hard ridge of him. Outlining his pecs, the defined abbs on his torso, the strength in his shoulders. To his cut jawline and soft hair. You played with his locks as Alastor continued to thrust in you, your quick breaths turning to moans. 

It was slow, it was passionate, it was intense. 

Alastor breaks the kiss to decorate your neck, marking his territory, the bruises proof that this was real. Your gaze falls to where the two of you are connected, his shaft pulling away with both of your juices, turning his dick white with cum.

Oh, God the way he filled you with his cum…

You clench around him at the memory of the feeling, making the demon’s hips stutter, eliciting a growl that vibrates from his chest through yours. 

You can’t help but smile as you kiss him. The power you had over him, over his body…

Alastor responds by thrusting harder. 

CRACK! 

The bed breaks, and the next thing you know, the two of you are rolling off the side. Alastor takes the brunt of the fall, pulling you into him as his back smacks against the wooden floor. 

“Al, are you -?” 

The demon interrupts your question with a laugh. It was so genuine and absent of his usual radio static that it catches you off guard before you’re laughing right along with him. 

And then the two of you realize something: you were on top. 

You blink at each other a moment, registering what this means, but Alastor doesn’t make an attempt to move you. Instead, he grabs your hips and guides you up and down his cock. It’s awkward at first - you’ve literally never done this before - but you eventually find a rhythm that has the two of you moaning all over again.

Regardless of the position, Alastor was still in control, which was a relief - your lack of experience was frankly embarrassing. 

You dig your fingers into his fluff, using it as leverage as you bounce up and down. You can feel the wetness pooling out of you and dribbling down his cock. 

From this position you could fully appreciate Alastor, disheveled and overwhelmed by you. His chest is heaving, his hips bucking up into you, deepening the muscles on his torso. 

God, it was a beautiful sight. 

The demon reaches up and wraps his fist in your hair before using it to pull your lips down to his. His claws dig into your other hip as his thrusts quicken, as he pounds into you.

And then he’s spilling into you all over again, his warm seed filling you and then sliding down his cock. The orgasm surprises you, overtaking your body without warning. 

God, the feeling of being filled was enough to drive you over the edge. 

You collapsed on Alastor, your face in the fluff of his chest as he thrust, your orgasm milking every ounce of his seed. 

And when his hips finally slowed, Alastor collapsed fully, his hands coming to rest in your hair and on your back. The two of you lay there for a long time, not minding the mess you had just made, your minds and bodies too numb to fully comprehend anything but the aftershock of pleasure. 

You breathed him in, letting his scent of forest and musk prolong your ecstasy. The room danced in the flavor of warm vanilla, evidence of what you had just done wafting out the slightly ajar back door. The curtains were down, so no one could see in. 

When Alastor somehow found the ability to move again, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Mon couer?” 

“Hmm?” You hummed, dreamily snaking your head up to meet his half-lidded gaze through your curtain of hair. You were sleepy and oh-so-content. You could fall asleep right there on the floor and sleep for days if he let you. 

“How about a bath?” As if on cue, the sound of a faucet turning creaked from the bathroom. Running water could be heard echoing through the tile walls. 

You giggled, nodding. 

Slowly, Alastor pulled out of you. You whimpered at the sudden empty feeling, the loss of warmth that was purely Alastor filling your core. It was a feeling you were instantly missing.

The demon carried you to the tub, now steaming and filled with bubbles. He gently sat you in before climbing in behind you, letting you lay against him as he washed you. 

The fluff on his chest was like a pillow as you lay there, drowning in the scent of his shampoo. It was like being on sensory overload, except the only sense was Alastor. 

And you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Alastor took his time massaging your limbs, easing the tension from your muscles. He inspected every healed cut and new scar he had never seen before until he was satisfied that you were fine and really and truly in one piece. He even took the time to wash your hair, his claws scraping against your scalp as he scrubbed. You hummed in delight, bringing a genuine smile to Alastor’s face. 

The wash was more cathartic for Alastor than it was for you. For him, he needed this. After you almost died, he needed to see you be strong again. He needed to see you at your highest before he could heal from seeing you at your lowest. And, as if to solidify it in his brain that this wasn’t a dream, and you were really and truly alive, he needed to inspect you himself - and he also did get satisfaction at seeing the new marks which he had left on your body. The slowly darkening bruises and bites he had left behind… 

The narcissist… 

When he finished with you, he washed himself. You were practically asleep when he finished - although he did do his best not to disturb you as much as he could. The demon slowly slid out from behind you to grab you a towel. It took some coaxing, but he finally got you to stand on your own as he wrapped you in the soft cotton. 

When you returned to bed, you found it perfectly made, with fresh sheets and fluffed pillows. The foot on his bed frame had snapped during your endeavors, but Alastor had it repaired while you bathed. You’d sleep soundly in a level bed tonight. 

Soft jazz clicked on as Alastor tucked you in before sliding in himself. You curled into the demon, who had crawled into bed with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, immediately seeking his warmth. 

Alastor rarely slept, but today was an exception…

With your head on his chest, your feet tangled in his, and his arms wrapped around you, you felt complete. 

And the two of you dozed off into slumber to the words of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” 

Okay, Hoteliers, why did I do this? Why not have Alastor never attack Mikaela in the first place? Why didn’t he just drop the knife and kiss her, and then I write a chapter filled with some seriously overdo smut? Because there was still one thing about Alastor that had not been challenged yet - in the fanfic and in canon. Yes, Alastor had fallen for the reader, but there was still this giant thing hanging over their heads that they did not address, which needed to be hit upon in order for the two of them to finally accept their feelings for each other. What would Alastor do if something/someone he loved more than power stood in the way of him achieving it? You, as Mikaela, already made that decision when you killed Eve - you’d do anything. Yet, deep down, you knew you couldn’t do it to Alastor - you, as the reader, had decided that without me even having to write it. You were literally screaming in the comments about it as you read chapter thirteen.

Yet Alastor had never been asked that question. So we needed to see what he would do. Given the opportunity, he needed to be forced to choose, and he needed to see that that choice would have consequences. That's why I needed Alastor to stab you, to go after you, to draw blood. Why go to such lengths? Because Alastor is a stubborn, stubborn man, and changing him would not be an easy thing to do, especially when it is something so central to his character. I mean, he's a cannibalistic murderer; how much more literal does Viv need to get about his desire to consume power? Being forced to choose was not only about you but about him as well. In the writing business, we call it ~character development~.

So no, I couldn't simply have Alastor drop the knife and whisk you away into a fairytale. This moment, this part of Alastor, posed an obstacle for me: a giant wall preventing me from continuing on. I needed Alastor to grow, to unlock that part of himself that let you in, choose you over everything else, and for him to accept that.  

Don't worry, we still have more to go - they still have to learn why they are both at the Hotel, what their involvements are with Lilith, and what Mikaela’s big endgame actually is, but that stuff is trivial compared to their cannibalistic desire for power - especially considering Mikaela is Roo, the embodiment of it. I mean, that’s how this fanfic all started, right? “Power is of two kinds. One is obtained by the fear of punishment and the other by acts of love. Power based on love is a thousand times more effective and permanent than the one derived from fear…”  And I think it’s important to remember that because it will be a theme through to the end of this fic. 

<3 Stay smutty Hoteliers - smut is coming next chapter. You’ve earned it ;)

-> Chapter Fifteen

Tagged Hoteliers (Let me know if you want to be added!):

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @mommymilkers0526 @goyablogsstuff

@eris-norwega @missgirlsstuff @alastor-the-radio-demons-blog @sillywormtrixareforkids @its-a-dam-blue-brick

@cloverresin20 @blue-bird251 @speedycoffeedelight @littlebluefishtail @saw1987

@mopeyghost @beelz3bub @fraugwinska @minamilinaqueen @demoarah

@diffidentphantom @divineknightmare @animecrazy76 @sleepykittycx @graunta

@reath-solia @satansdaughter123 @mysticatto @freshonyourpages

[in1-nutshell]

Whirl goes to wobbles with a challenge how much engex does wobbles need to drink before they can't walk

The answer is thirty two drinks

First aid and ambulon now have to deal with a very cuddley drunk wobbles

Wobbles had a bit too much to drink.

Please drink responsibly and at the legal age.

Hope you enjoy!

Ambulon and First Aid vs Drunk Wobbles

SFW, Platonic, Romantic, Mention of intoxication, Please drink responsibly and at legal age, Slight Angst, Cybertronian reader

MTMTE

First Aid and Ambulon knew something was up when Whirl of all bots called.

Something about picking up Wobbles.

They figured that Wobbles had started falling apart in the bar again and grabbed their equipment.

They both arrived to Swerve’s to find something very odd and rare.

Ambulon and First Aid stand frozen in place, drinking up the scene in front of them. Wobbles was half lying on a table with a microphone in servo. Several bots are just watching them ‘sing’. Wobbles: “I aM aN oBjEcT iN mOtIOn! I’vE lOsT aLl EmOtIOn!” Ambulon: “Are they…?” Whirl comes from behind and swings both his arms around the medic laughing. Whirl: “Drunk off their pedes? Absolutely!” Wobbles: “My TwO lEgS aRe BrOkEn! bUt LoOk At Me DaNcE!” First Aid: “How much—” Rewind and Swerve: “32 drinks.” Ambulon jumps a bit at the minibot’s appearance. Swerve: “I don’t know how they got 32 drinks either! I just served 3, suddenly they have 31 more!” First Aid winces a bit when Wobbles drops the mic on their face. Whirl: “Rewind, you filming this?” Rewind: “Every second.”

The medics got a summarized version of what happened thanks to Swerve… after interpreting a bunch of rambling.

Wobbles had walked in the bar with Whirl.

Looking a bit down in the dumps too.

Whirl had bought Wobbles a drink and they started talking.

Then out of nowhere Whirl wanted to do a drinking game with Wobbles.

Wobbles, surprisingly, agreed.

Wobbles ended up fully drunk at 32 drinks and now they were singing into a broken microphone.

Wobbles looks up and spots the medic and SQUEALS!

Wobbles: Aid! Ambby! You’re here!” They make grabby hands at the pair. Ambulon blinks before walking over to the drunken bot. They giggle as Ambulon steadily set them up straight. They lean into his chassis. Wobbles: “Hey handsome~” Ambulon feels his frame getting hotter as they wink and give him a lopsided smile. First Aid: “Yeah we aren’t doing that now.” First Aid slips an arm around Wobbles waist and hoists them up. Ambulon slips another arm around Wobbles. Wobbles rolls their helm to look at First Aid. First Aid: “Wow, you’ve gotten stronger. Have you been doing that workout from that Wrecker’s magazine?” First Aid: “And we are out of here!”

The bots started making their way to the medbay.

They weren’t going to risk putting Wobbles in their habsuite alone.

Primus knows that they’d trip over that bowling ball in their room going to the door.

Wobbles was incoherently rambling in a low voice.

Occasionally complimenting First Aid on the good work he’s been doing and cheekily flirting with Ambulon.

Ambulon’s frame is on fire.

First Aid also teases his co worker by adding more fuel for the flame.

Ambulon feels betrayal as Wobbles coos at him.

They finally managed to get to the med bay.

Wobbles is placed on the med slab. Wobbles blinks confused as they let them go. First Aid goes to get some supplies for the hangover. Ambulon goes to get something comfier for Wobbles. The medics freeze hearing Wobbles start to cry. First Aid is the first to get to them. First Aid: “Wobbles? Wobs what happened?” Wobbles: “I- I’m go—gonna miss you guys whe—when you leave.” Ambulon: “What do you mean leave?” Wobbles: “No one—one stays wi—with me for long. Everyone leaves me in the—the end. It—its only a matter of time before you—you realize it. N—no one wants a--a wobble bot…” Wobbles vents hard before continuing. Wobbles: “I’m gonna be a—a—alone forever. Gonna go offline cold and alone.” Ambulon cuts them off by hugging them hard. Wobbles just cries on his shoulder. First Aid joins in. Ambulon: “We aren’t going anywhere Wobbles.” First Aid: “Overlord himself could try and keep us apart and we’d still come for you. You aren’t alone Wobbles. Never…” SNORE! Wobbles fell asleep while they were talking. Ambulon carefully sets them on the slab. First Aid: “… Can you try and tell them to see Rung?” Ambulon: “I’ll do my best First Aid. I’ll do my best.”

[darliings]

"How did you talk me into this..." - 🙀

"Because I didn't give you the chance!" - 🔥

happy sabomisty wedding day !!

“You have that look in your eye. I can already tell you’re planning something, Sabo!” Misty wailed out as she tried to pull the string back from his hands; he laughed, that same intimate, heart-warming laugh that made her jittery and smitten in a bewildering bowl of emotion.

“It’s not my fault,” Sabo started, leaning closer to the half-mink, “but you were right, I am planning something!” Misty huffed, tail hit the ground in frustration as she attempted to pull the twine ball back from him.

Misty pouted. “We’re on a mission! Married couples don’t do this! They’re prim and proper and the groom has to have some semblance of — H-hey, what are you doing?!”

“Getting Married!” Sabo exclaimed as the fibers wrapped around her body and tightened until she was utterly trapped in the string. “We’re dressed for it. Might as well.” The flame emperor tossed her into his arms like she weighed like a feather already running towards the nearest altar.

“B-but what about Koala!?”

“Koala would understand! The mission can wait.”

“Sabo, no!”

“Sabo, yes!”

taglist under cut!

@dreamychu + @whenyoucomeback + @manchalands + @secondaryworship + @wayfinderships + @dmclr + @permafrown + @porekawa

AND

@latinoluffy BECAUSE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU WANTED THIIIS.... happy birthday oomfie.

[ruiniel]

What You Choose

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader

Count: 2K

Rating: T (M later)

On AO3

Summary: I recently watched/read KNY and have emotions. Likely done before, but wanted to get this out of my system so wrote it down. Rengoku survives the fight with Akaza, but some battles are not so straightforward.

Tags & Warnings: Rengoku lives AU, multichapter, blood, injury, pining, angst, second person POV, demon slayer!reader, tsuguko!reader, alternating POV, Oblivious Rengoku Kyojuro, for a while at least, Death, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

All characters depicted are 18+

I.

Everything fades. His body is going numb, his vision blurs as he stares down at his reflection in the dark pool of his own blood, unable to lift his head. The cries of grief surrounding him become dim and scatter like dying leaves from his consciousness.  

I've done my duty, I've given my all.

The last he remembers is a small, clawed hand and a sudden, blooming flame bursting through his shattered torso, scalding him from within in ways his own fire never could. 

I see... So this is what it feels like… to burn. 

The balmy weather outside has no effect on you, seated at the side of the infirmary bed, your head in your hands. 

“Perhaps you should go and rest. There’s been no change, and we’ll be sure to inform you of any developments.” 

Aoi’s words are void of their usual sternness. You’ve heard them before, and yet—

“I’m fine, I really am.” You gaze back at the prone figure lying motionless beneath crisp white sheets. His gold and crimson hair is messy, and you’ve never seen him so pale, his features so sunken. The bandage covering his left eye is stained red in places, the usually smiling lips dry and bloodless.

Aoi sighs but says nothing else, and soon her departing steps echo against the walls.

I can’t. I can’t leave his side. You wish your thought could reach him, down to whatever place he’s struggling in now. You ball your hands into fists over your knees, a poor attempt at holding your composure. Please, come back. Please.

Weeks have passed since the mission on the train, since your group has returned with wounded bodies and spirits, though none in such a critical state as your mentor. Rengoku Kyojuro has not awakened since, and in contrast, since the nightmares the demon has placed upon you in that baleful encounter, you’ve not been able to sleep more than two to three hours every night. Every time, waking up in a sweat, the memory of what happened always the last image you remember. 

“How is he today?”

You’re drawn from your thought by the gentle voice of the person you feel like you owe a life of debt to, and turn to gaze into the tired, worried eyes of Tanjiro Kamado. He stands by the bed now, glancing down at the Hashira. The slow rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he is still alive. 

You shake your head as Tanjiro takes a seat. “How is rehabilitation training going?” 

Tanjiro smiles, still staring at the bed and its unresponsive occupant. “Almost done, I feel my strength returning to what it used to be and more. I admire how well you’ve upheld yourself, though,” he murmurs. 

It’s true, for some reason, you’ve been the least scathed of them all, needing much less medical care than the rest. No, you know the reason why. “It’s because of him,” your words escape you. “If… if he hadn’t trained me as he did, if he hadn’t driven me so far beyond my limits, I don’t know if I would have survived for as long as I have in my role.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. They say Lord Rengoku’s methods are… harsh to say the least.”

A smile tugs at your lips as a known pain pricks your heart. “But… but I’ve been remiss in thanking you, young Kamado—or rather, your sister. If she hadn’t…”  Your throat tightens; you don’t want to break down, not here, not before Tanjiro and not before him, no matter he can’t hear it. 

“Please, please don’t worry, it was a stroke of luck and quick thinking on her part, I only brought the box closer—”

“... she healed him! I saw the flames engulfing him, I saw the wound close. I don’t know how she did it but… Nezuko is someone... very special.”

Tanjiro lowers his head in humble acknowledgement. “I will tell her.” Then, as though remembering something, he reaches into his pocket and hands you a small bag. “Here, I’ve not seen you join meals very often and… well, please take them.”

You don’t have the strength to refuse, and take the bag from his hand, meeting his kind smile. “Candies…”  You thank him before placing them on the bedstand, and after a few more moments of sitting in comfortable silence, Tanjiro takes his leave. You watch him depart, endeared by his manner and honesty. He has a good soul, a strong will—perhaps the strongest you’ve known, apart from…

You stare back at your mentor, memories of the past flooding behind your eyes.

Five months prior

“Good! Again!”

You’re panting, your total concentration breathing nearly failing as you evade another deadly arc of the Third Form: Blazing Universe. 

The sun has westered and a bluish twilight sets over the lands, but your mentor still has you parrying his unwavering techniques, before making you attack using combinations of them in turn. 

“Lord—lord Rengoku—”

His blazing speed cuts your words short as your blades clash, and you stare into bright, golden-rimmed irises. He’s smiling, as usual, with a devilish spark in his eyes. There is a sudden flutter in your stomach, overriding the fatigue in your burning muscles. “Come now, don’t tell me you’re beat! You’ve come so far after only three years!” he says as you fall back, lunging for another attack the following second.

The sudden weakness you feel when you’re close to him has you confused, because it was not there before. It all began in the past year: whenever he stares at you in a certain way, whenever he touches you during training or meets your eyes, something gnaws achingly at your chest. It’s as though you need something from him, but have no idea what it is. 

“I knew it from the moment I took you on as a successor,” he says, merciless in his offensive. “If you—” Parry. Lunge. “—carry on like this—” Attack. Jump. “—you’ll reach a Hashira level of skill in no time at all!” 

You don’t have the chance to reply, though his words feel like honey coating your senses. At first, he’d been sparse and strict, keeping to instructions and nothing else. But you struggled, worked harder than you had for anything in all your life, and it seems he acknowledges this fully now. 

“Now—Ninth Form: Rengoku!” 

That means you must attack, and he must deflect. But—Ninth Form?! “I—I can’t, I’m… I’m too exhausted for the Ninth!”

He bursts forward with Unknowing Fire, forcing you to duck and curl your body, rolling away into the dust, rising on one knee. 

The Flame Hashira turns, pointing his weapon at you. “Is that what you plan on telling the demons?”

“Well, no, but—”

“At no point during a battle will you have the luxury of biding your time. If this were an actual encounter, you’d be dead.” He no longer smiles, his face turned cold, eyes glinting like molten steel.

You feel the rush of shame like fangs biting into you, fueling a horrible need to prove him wrong, to rise up to the challenge in his voice. With a hiss and a groan you grip the handle of your katana tightly, breathing and striving to light that spark in your heart. 

With a cry you speed forward, clashing with him in a desperate lunge. 

“Ha!” The smile returns as you grit your teeth. “Better!”

His face is so close to yours again, so close you feel the rush of his breath on your cheek. 

Your knees feel weak again, and you close your eyes, pushing forward in an attempt to skew his balance. 

What the hell is happening to you? 

“Faster, the fire is still weak! It must rage!” the Hashira says, grinning like a madman now, and where once you enjoyed the path of learning and reaching your full potential, now his attitude brings forth an ache that confuses you and leaves you anxious.

Even so. Your blades sing against each other as you lunge back in a high jump, landing in a lowered stance with one palm braced against the earth. Your uniform is wet on your back, and you’re closer to your breaking point than you've ever been.

But the thought of disappointing him, now that feels unbearable. So you do what you always do: you push yourself more, more, harnessing all your strength into one melting core, bathing your heart in it and firing up your veins. 

You attack.

He laughs outright. “Not bad, but—” Your swords clash, fiercer than before. “I know you can do better, and you can be faster.”

“I’m doing all I can!” you yell, at the end of your tether now. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But he takes no offense, he never does, and that's one of the things you appreciate about him. “But you—you make it impossible! You always want more, even if you know I’m not ready for it!”

It must be the fire rushing through you that has you speaking this way, daring to say such words despite knowing full well what you were in for, when you accepted to become his successor. 

“Wait until you’re ready, and you will never improve!” the Flame Hashira throws back.

A growl leaves your throat as you fall back then speed towards him again, trying the Second then the Third form in succession sloppily but you’re past caring. 

Your arms feel as though they will tear and your bones might splinter as you crash against his unwavering stance, and you meet his scarlet-gold gaze as he speaks softly, his voice imbued with warmth: “You can surpass the impossible. I believe in you.” 

Your eyes widen, that damned ache ringing through your body like a weakening poison and—

For one split second, your stance weakens, and you’re thrown back, losing your balance and falling heavily onto the ground. 

Rengoku stares down at you, tilting his head to the side with a strange look on his face as he sheathes his katana. 

Your vision sways, your lungs might burst. You barely clutch at the helping hand extended to you, aiding you to your feet. He grasps your shoulders. “What happened there just now? Your focus melted like wax.”

“I…” You can’t look him in the eye. His hands on you diffuse heat, permeating through your clothing. It feels good. It scares you. “I don’t… know.”

“Tomorrow, again,” he says, releasing you. “Please do better. Remember we’re doing this for you, but foremost for the people.”

“Understood,” you murmur, biting back tears as you watch him walk away.

Midnight has arrived when you end your reverie, thinking about that emotion that took root in your body and spirit, growing stronger as time passed. And you never dared tell him, never dared facing it nor can you explain why. You take a deep breath, leaned with your arms folded on the edge of the bed, your forehead resting on them. You never told him, and now… 

And now with each day I’m losing hope.

Your shoulders are shaking, and your eyes sting. There is no one else here but you and him, the long chamber of empty beds the only witness to your breakdown. 

You’re so absorbed by despair, you don’t perceive the faint movement, or the hand gently placed on your head.

“... Why are you crying?”

You choke on a silent sob, blinking in shock at the low, throaty voice, broken with disuse. Slowly, you raise your head.

He's staring at you, a bleak smile on his lips, and you're utterly, incomprehensibly frozen.

“You… you’re awake?” It feels like the dumbest of questions: your body knows the truth before your mind catches up. 

“That… depends. Are you really here?” he asks in turn. 

You nod, biting on your lower lip and wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “Yes, yes I am.”

The smile wavers for a moment as he grimaces in pain. “Oh, I see. Then… it seems… you’re not rid of me yet.”

All the gods in all the world couldn’t keep the emotions flooding you at bay, and you shake your head as warm tears flow down your face. 

PART II

[shadowdaddies]

Hi:) I'm so happy that I am not annoying you with all the Eris requests, I really thought I was. May I ask for another one? One where the reader and Eris are mates and she is had always desired to dance with someone but she never had the chance and he arranges that. Please🙏

No you have NEVER annoyed me!! I've never been annoyed by requests, it brings me so much joy when you guys enjoy my writing💜 I appreciate you

A/N: oh this made me EMOTIONAL thinking about Eris with a mate where he doesn't care about how others perceive them, he's only focused on them

Dance with Me

Eris x fem!Reader

You were perched in Eris’s lap as he spent another late night in his office, sorting through reports that had him tugging at his flame red hair in frustration. Wiggling on his lap, your nose nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his comforting scent as you pressed a soft kiss to his skin. Eris stiffened beneath your gentle touch, letting out a quick exhale. 

“I need a break,” he announced, hands wrapping securely around your waist as he lifted you from his lap. Eris stood from his chair, smirking at you as he took your hand in his and led you to the open space of his office, between his desk and the fireplace. “I need a dance with my lady, if I am to make it through this evening,” Eris spoke dramatically, bowing to you before he offered his hand. You giggled at your mate’s propriety - he was such a skilled dancer, and you were thankful that he entertained your attempts at the activity. 

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your hand that made you blush furiously before pulling you into his arms and leading you in a silent waltz. Eris’s heartbeat, the crackle of the fire, and your laughter as you tripped over his feet - only for him to catch you in a graceful dip - echoed through the study. Amber eyes glowing with amusement, Eris smiled as he twirled you around the floor.

It was a favorite pastime for him to dance when he was stressed, and you loved learning something new from your mate. You dreamt of dancing in a beautiful ballgown, your mate leading you in front of the courts one day. Eris could tell you were lost in thought, a soft smile playing on his lips as he twirled you. “What’s on your mind, little vixen?” 

You blushed, laughing nervously as you told Eris what you were dreaming about, but rather than laughing with you, Eris stopped the dance. Tilting your chin up, amber eyes looked deep into yours as Eris promised you, “I will not allow my mate’s dreams to remain such. I can think of no higher honor than to dance with you for everyone under this sky to witness.” Melting at his poetic way with words, you broke form, holding Eris close as you slow danced to no music, just the sound of his heart beating with yours.

~~~

Weeks passed, and before you knew it, the Autumnal Equinox was around the corner. It was an obscenely grand celebration in the court - for obvious reasons - and you had spent weeks helping plan the festivities and having fittings for your gown. 

The Equinox was a twenty-four hour celebration, recognizing the equal hours of day and night as the season turned - but the night festivities were the highlight of the year, when the grand ball was held. The ball always began as a formal, civilized affair, but around midnight inevitably devolved into hedonism and debauchery that put Calanmai to shame.

You smirked at your form in the mirror, the shimmering ruby dress adorned with gold-toned leaves accentuating your figure perfectly. A knock on your door sounded, and one of your ladies-in-waiting who had helped ready you for the evening answered it with the excitement that you all shared amongst yourselves. Eris let out a soft laugh though the doorway at her eager expression, but all joking disappeared from his face as he looked to you. 

Eris stumbled back a step as he admired you, the slightest bit of silver lining his eyes as he let out a small gasp. “You look... ethereal, my Lady,” Eris breathed, his eyes never leaving yours as he held out his arm for you to take. 

You arrived at the ball, Eris seemingly still dazed by your appearance as the grand doors swung open to reveal the room of people. Many males watched as you entered, anyone who dared approach you earning a frightening snarl from Eris. You didn’t mind, leaning into his warmth as he wrapped an arm protectively around you and led you through the crowd.

Swiping champagne from a serving tray, Eris handed a glass to you and toasted to the beginning of Autumn. You watched the dancing for awhile, admiring the twirl of skirts and the rhythm of the music as they spun around the floor, all the while Eris gossiping about court politics and scandals that had you snickering in amusement. You had finished your drink, leaning into Eris’s side when the dance ended, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, Eris took your champagne flute, setting it down as he pulled you to the floor.

“Eris! I can’t dance here, I haven’t had enough practice for this yet,” you whispered as he smiled down at you with a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll do just fine, vixen. Just like we practiced - and I’m always here to catch you if you fall.” You felt the deeper emotion behind his words, taking hold of his hand as you lifted your chin and settled into practiced form. 

The swell of the violin signaled the start of the dance, and Eris led you in a waltz as the orchestra played, groups of people stopping to watch as you fumbled your way through the motions. “Breathe, my love,” Eris whispered in your ear - just before you stumbled. Holding onto one of your hands, Eris spun you in a perfect circle before catching your waist, dipping you as if your mistake was a practiced maneuver. People cheered from the sides, impressed by your skill while you and Eris continued the dance. You felt like a princess, your own skirt flaring out as you spun around the ballroom with the love of your life. 

The dance ended, Eris pulling you in for a deep kiss as the crowd again clapped for you. The adrenaline from the performance was coursing through your veins, and you hadn’t registered your surroundings until you felt the cool breeze of night air against your skin. Standing with Eris on the balcony, you smiled so hard your face hurt as you pulled him in for a passionate kiss. “This was the best night of my life. Better than any of my dreams,” you whispered, tucking a strand of fiery red hair behind Eris’s ear.

“The night isn’t over yet,” Eris said, a mischievous hint in his tone as he let you go, walking back to take a paper lantern from the staff. You looked around the yard, realizing it must be nearly midnight as you took in the people scattered about with their own lanterns ready. The clock struck, clanging out as Eris lit your lantern with his flame, and you sent it up into the sky with the others. 

You watched the lanterns float away in the night until they disappeared over the horizon, turning to Eris. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you felt his own settle over your back and you whispered, “so what now, my love?” Eris let out a dark chuckle. “After midnight is when the real debauchery begins.” With that, you were winnowed back to your bedroom, Eris looking at you with a deeply hungry expression, tilting your chin to look at him. “And you wouldn’t believe the debauched things I plan to do to you tonight, little vixen.”

[whatonearthisgoingon]

So doubt this is popular at all, because I've seen nothing with it, but practically emotionless Sirius.

"Aaro, What are you thinking? Sirius is the most dramatic and emotional little shit you'll ever meet." But what if he's not. What if it's all fake and a mask.

It's not even a "oh I am trying to manipulate people and make everyone love me because I love the attention" mask. He just notices what other people do to fit in, and observes what people enjoy, and mimics it.

I love the idea of him being a very emotional and loving child, but that being beaten out of him, to the point he struggles to feel real emotions anymore; it is very rare for him to actually feel an emotion other than numbness, but you could never tell with how he acts.

Despite how depressing his home situation was, he had to act happy there, especially for parties and dances with other prominent Pureblood Families. So he learnt how to fake the emotions he essentially no longer felt, pretty early. His act is pretty easily done at Hogwarts too, as he now has a perfect example to copy, in James, his now best friend.

However, after years at Hogwarts and less time with his family, Sirius begins to feel things again, even if it is still small.

The lighter that lit his candle again? James. James was the carefree ball of sunlight and energy. He always listened, always cared, and always did everything he could to try and make Sirius feel real emotions. And the amount of effort eventually paid off.

It was a very long process of healing, but after a lot of separation from his family, moving to the Potters, the support and care from the Marauders, and more, by the time he's graduated, he can actually feel true emotions again; the world was no longer numb.

Sirius is a burning candle. The smiles are no longer fake, the laughter over jokes is real, the happiness when seeing someone is more than a practiced reaction. And he burns bright with all of his found-family.

.

.

.

But then, candle after candle is snuffed out. First it was James and Lily. Then it was Peter. Then Sirius was dragged away, locked into an emotion numbing prison, for a crime he did not commit. His true emotions were gone once again, the candle snuffed out.

But, just like he was as a child, he smiled, he laughed, he chatted with people. He seemed so normal and sane; the prison staff that visited once a week were creeped out by his "happiness" despite being in the worst prison in the world, the other prisoners hated him because he was not suffering like they were.

But he was suffering for over a decade. The candle of real emotion long flickered out. Now it was just a matter of time until his brain went so insane it could no longer preform on it's childhood learnt instincts.

But then one day, as a newspaper dropped into his cell, he saw a face..

The flame, although weak, flickered to life again..

[lustlovehart]

Summary: [Angst] The balladeer watches as you receive an electro vision right in front of his eyes.

A/n: I love him, but felt like he should be sad on his birthday tbh <3. (The bonus is a bit happier though so enjoy that all you want.)

Warnings: Mostly pure angst, but some possessiveness in him, not to the point of being yandere though.

---

Your fingers tremble as you look at the man in front of you, his face typically adorning an expression of scorn a vast majority of the time. You’ve gotten use to the look, others feared it, you used to as well, but eventually time passed on and you’d grown accustomed to all sides of him, perhaps not all, only the ones he was willing to show you. However as you look at him now, the mask he wears on his breathtaking features, make you loose your breath.

He had no emotion, none that could be seen at least.

Your hands griped tighter onto the purple glass ball that had floated in front of you. You tried your best to stay composed but the stiffness of your joints had made it obvious.

"Kuni-"

He turns away, something he never does. You’ve never witnessed him not look at you, to the point of growing accustomed to his watching eyes. His body continues to get smaller and smaller as he walks further and further away from you. Unbeknownst to you, the puppet had turned his figure away in order for your eyes to not gaze upon his crumbling composure, the exact thing that led him to not be worthy in the eyes of god, no… the eyes of his mother.

No matter how hard he himself tried to deny it, he understood his feelings for you were the wretched thing called ‘love’, which is why he lets himself gaze at you with such an emotion in his hollowed chest. In fact, thats all he can feel when he’s around you. Yet as of this moment, he no longer knows how he should feel.

The scene of you, would typically make his heart race in way that seemed unhealthy for the regular being, yet, the image of you, holding the vision his mother had ruling over, struck a chord with him. He feels, grief. If he was still the way he was before he met you, he’s sure he would’ve ended you right where you stood, jealousy filling his veins full of unfiltered anguish at the thought of a mere mortal being chosen by Celestia as an potential candidate to ascending like his mother.

But, this is you, not some random stranger, not a random mortal beneath him. It was you who was chosen by a higher power.

You walk closer behind, even through his fake skin, he can feel the warmth of your very human body, transferring to his puppet one. But even with the fluttering feeling you gave him, he could not help the words dripping with venom spill from his lips.

"Give it up. Do you believe your grandiose belief of ambition reached the heavens? Do not forget, I am the only one you truly need in this cruel world."

In your eyes he can clearly tell the shock you held for his sudden change in deamonur. A complete 180 to the way he was just prior moments ago.

"What...?"

"Did you not hear me the first time? You dont need that so called 'blessing', for you already have me, its foolish to believe you need anything other than me. Am I not capable enough? Am I...." his words seem to catch themself in his throat, like he was holding back as to not further embarrass himself, yet the words make it out in the end.

"Am I not enough for you too...?" His hues dont make contact with, almost as if he was the young puppet he once was again.

You only stare at him, not understanding the underlying message of his words. The silence was deafening, yet as it continued, he could only sigh before walking away.

"At least be with me, [Name], even if you were the one who's worthiness was recognized, I want you to still care for me the way no one else had stayed." His words faded away with the wind though quiet, they were still there.

[Bonus]

In the dead of night, your eyes are trained on the dim candlelight in the room. Despite its unsure flame, it still stayed lit as it wavered. Similar to the man who laid beside you.

You couldnt remember his words anymore, but even then you doubt youd understand the context. His arms are tightly wrapped around you waist as you laid still, despite his unique trait of not needing to breathe, it still felt as if he was inhaling you as much as he could.

"Kuni, just what did you mean by 'too'...?" Despite your words being barely a whisper, it seems his mechanical ears still heard what you had said.

"That doesnt really matter anymore. All that matters is that you dont become the forth of it all."

"What does that even mean... I swear you need to start making sense for once..."

---

This was made while I was like half asleep during class, so if it isnt too good please dont blame me you guys.

[anticidic]

It often goes like this in movies,

someone abandons reason over fear,

A little interesting if you ask me.

So to warm up your nogging,

let me send you this prompt

Do not say we should split up.

(throws kitsune!Dazai and human!Chuuya at you)

“I didn’t wait three hundred years and for so many people to die for you to tell me we should split up,” Dazai said.

Chuuya’s attention shifted to where Dazai’s hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling. Barely-restrained anger—pointed nails digging into his palms.

Or frustration. The only time Chuuya witnessed a flicker of emotion beyond amusement at his expense was…was that one time he peered into Dazai’s memories and saw the entire forest burning down all around them. A three-hundred-and-something-year-old memory as fresh as yesterday: a man’s voice ladened with the guilt of having slaughtered animals and people alike and coming to terms with it.

“I killed them!”

“…I killed them…”

Then, Dazai sitting just outside his hut on the steps, carefully wrapping his wounds in a fresh roll of bandages as he hummed a tune. Trees collapsed and flames licked at their heels, and Chuuya could do nothing except watch it all go up in blazing glory and right down to the ground in ash. A younger Dazai, no older than the six tails swishing behind him, walked through Chuuya and disrobed, exposing a back with raised flesh and the angry markings of a clawed beast like he had just been mauled.

“Here I was, and here I am not. But I will not give up, we will see each other again. We have to. This world is truly enough.”

And then the present came back to him. His ears rang and a terrible pain wrapped around his head, squeezing the thoughts out of his brain.

“The last time we split up, it was you who died, and it was the worst and last mistake I promised I would ever make so long as I lived.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth and clutched his head, trying to will away the swelling, festering fragments of Dazai’s past that threatened to consume him from the inside out. Too much, too much, too much! And he was helpless to stop it. Dazai warned him that it was something best forgotten, and truly, Chuuya felt the weight of remembering pushing down on him.

“How did I die?” Chuuya asked, barely above a whisper—unsure if he wanted to know the truth. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, the tatami lining Dazai’s hut suddenly hard and painful beneath his feet.

“Everyone we knew died because of that wretched thing. The tanuki cursed the entire village and its people to an endless nightmare plagued with the illusions of the final days. They saw the world was ending before their eyes and took everyone down with them.”

Everyone we knew. Chuuya didn’t know what to make of Dazai’s words still except that, once upon a time some centuries ago, they knew one another.

And then Chuuya existed no longer. Not until present day. Now their memories were merged, and every time Chuuya recollected that one fateful day, when he once was confident it belonged to Dazai, Chuuya no longer knew if his own ancient memories were somehow resurfacing.

He was just himself. He’d celebrate his twenty-third birthday in a few months. But Dazai had Chuuya’s face cradled in both hands, warm and strangely soft against his skin. His eyes burned with determination, a piercing yellow that saw right through Chuuya and screamed both familiar and fond for what they once had.

If only Chuuya could share in that joy. He could only mimic with a pained smile and pretend to understand.

“Your eyes,” Chuuya whispered, willing himself to stare back into what felt like a bright void. Dazai no longer masked his true form. He was completely, perfectly inhuman and laid bare: the nine tails behind him, the ears atop his head, the sharp nails against Chuuya’s cheeks lightly scratching.

“I wished to be a human forever,” Dazai said, voice low. He caressed a cheek with his thumb and tilted his head with the slightest smile. “But not at the cost of losing you again. When you died, I vowed to keep a part of you alive within me for as long as I needed to wait until I could return you to this world—so I absorbed your soul before it could be trapped within the tanuki’s illusion and lost forever. That’s what I sacrificed.” His fingers shook as they slid down to Chuuya’s chin, keeping his head leveled and their eyes locked. The smile fell. “I no longer have a piece of you with me, but I’m content knowing our minds are linked and our souls are whole once more.”

The hand left Chuuya’s chin as he was pulled into a crushing embrace. Dazai had the grip of someone who experienced a violent, devastating loss and would not let it happen again. He would not let Chuuya go. There was only sinking into those arms and succumbing to history.

There should be something here—a memory, a feeling, anything—but the depths of Chuuya’s psyche remained silent. He didn’t have a single memory of Dazai. Something about that fact terrified him. He was in the arms of someone—something—barely more than a stranger, and he still didn’t know what to believe.

Dazai could still be making it all up. But when the illusion vanished and Dazai pushed him out of the forest with a last goodbye and stayed behind and turned back, Chuuya stood there looking back at a field where the flowers didn’t grow, and trees didn’t exist. None of it seemed to exist. And Dazai was nowhere to be found, when Chuuya’s hand was still warm from his lingering touch. All that remained was Dazai’s haori still around Chuuya’s shoulders as proof that he existed.

That they both existed.

“At what point can I trust what my real memories were? If the last twenty-whatever years of my life are a lie, then what’s real? And how will I know what’s real when I have your thoughts and your memories in my head now?”

“The day of your death will cease to exist and become a relic of the past as does all history. Without your soul and the souls of all the others who perished on the land to haunt the illusion and keep that day in an endless loop, it will now be forced to move on.” Dazai leaned back enough to press his forehead against Chuuya’s and look into those eyes unlike his but fascinating all the same. Chuuya had a fascinating, human curiosity brimming in them and Dazai didn’t have the heart to read his mind this time. He’d leave Chuuya to his thoughts and his thoughts alone. “I am the last remaining product of the past, but it was also a sacrifice I was willing to make. I have moved on. I mourned for three centuries and now no longer.”

Rooted in place as if petrified by the gaze upon him, Chuuya let out a shaky breath and nodded, closing his eyes. If he didn’t clear his thoughts, he’d dwell on the racing what-ifs knowing his identity was suddenly split in two and he was left fumbling endlessly in the dark. There was only him, a hollow shell of a man, but to others, he was everything and nothing at once. Dazai’s world ended where Chuuya’s began. “When will I actually know and remember you? I feel…empty trying to force myself to remember someone who never existed for me up until recently. I can’t look at you and smile the same way you smile at me because I don’t see what you’re seeing.”

“Witness yourself returning to me every time you look in the mirror. Piece by piece. It will happen. And the day might yet come when your powers return and I ask that you wipe my memories so I can also put that day behind me forever, Chuuya.”

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Extremophile" 4/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 4: "it gets better" 4892 words

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

“No.” Killer immediately answered, before they’d even finished with the proposition. 

Dream sighed. “Okay,” he accepted easily, like he’d been expecting the response. 

“Why not?” Night bulldozed over him, frowning. Interesting. It seems he wasn't one to back down from a stance. 

“Well, for one,” Killer leaned back in his seat. They’d occupied the living room for this little chat, since all three of them could sit somewhere. There were additional seats now, not just the couch. “It won’t prove anything about your little experiment. Dream influencing me to have emotions isn’t me having emotions,” he pointed out. 

“But it could help,” Night argued. More and more, he seemed to be finding his voice around Killer. It was funny to watch. Like a grown lion slowly comprehending it wasn't a baby kitten. 

“Not really, I don't think so,” Killer inspected his nails, just hoping to rile him up further. 

“Then why not?” Night crossed his arms, back straight. “Why not try it? You lose nothing,”

Killer mimed rolling his eyes. “It's stupid,”

“And?” Night pressed. 

“It's annoying,” 

“And?” 

“I don't want him to touch me,” Killer growled. 

“That’s fair,” Dream reasoned, trying to mediate between them. 

“No, I don't think that is quite all,” Night placed his hands on the table. Why was he so hung up on this of all things? “I think you're scared.”

...

...

...Oh? 

“Bold words for someone within knifing distance,” Killer warned, voice low. 

“We are both aware you can hurt me worse than a mere stabbing,” 

Ohohooo, little Night-night grew some balls? What a fascinating development! Killer wondered what the reason for it was? Was he finally snapping? Oh he really, really hoped so. Or maybe he simply finally understood Killer was nothing but a terror! It was about time, really. 

Killer grinned wider.

“Oh really?” he purred, “How cute,” 

“Yes,” Night crossed his arms again. “I think... I think you're full of shit.” oh naw, was he losing steam? Was that hesitation there? But they were just getting started!

“Uh-huh?” Killer tried to stoke the flames. “What, you’re going to tell me how I actually feel baby? Or maybe just force it onto me? We both enjoy that,” 

“No,” Night parried him easily. Maybe he was getting used to the verbal assault, though Killer knew it must still hurt. “However...” Night hesitated. 

“Come on, spill it alreeadyy,” Killer prodded him. 

“...You’re scared, Killer,”

Killer barked a laugh. So he really was going to claim that? 

“You are,” Night gained some confidence, getting to his feet. “You rave about power and strength and yet you are– you–” 

“I’m what.” Killer grinned wider, pushing himself up from his lounge to sit up properly. His gaze pinned on Night. 

Night’s expression scrunched up. 

“Come on, don't be shy,” Killer leaned against his palm, “Talk sweet to me, like you did before,” 

Night stiffened, cringing at the comparison to his corrupted self. 

“What’s it gonna be this time? I’m annoying? Lowly? Am I disgusting or just right for you, Mr. Despair?” Killer teased sweetly. 

“...You’re a coward,” Night dared to say, swallowing. “And you are abysmally incapable of self-reflection.”

Killer let out a rolling laugh, loud. 

From the corner of his vision, he saw Dream was watching this all unfold, tension in the way he sat. Unsure if he should intervene or not. Killer couldn't decide which would be more fun. But for now, he only had eyes for Nightmare. 

“Oh really?” Killer got up as well. 

“Yes.” Night stood in place. 

“Want to know what I think?” 

Night’s resolve faltered minutely. “What? I– yes? Yes–” 

“I think,” Killer walked towards him slowly. Sorry not sorry Dust, but the house may get thrashed in about two seconds. “That you’re projecting,” 

“I’m not–”

“I think you loathe yourself,” Killer cut him off. “I think you loathe all of what you did for hundreds of years, and most of all the fact that you enjoyed it. Sure! You or your twinsie or whatever can argue it wasn't you, but you remember it oh so clearly, don’t you?” he stalked closer, a blade materialized in his hand. 

Night, to his credit, didn't cower away now. He stood in place with his back ramrod straight and his arms pinned to his sides, but eyes not moving from Killer’s. A set expression on his face. How commendable. 

“You remember the blood on your hands. You remember speaking the commands,” Killer drilled in the point. “It was born from you,” 

He wasn't going to buy the whole ‘the corruption was a parasite of pure negativity that took control of Nightmare and destroyed him on the inside’. That was a goddamn cop-out. If Killer didn't get to pin his actions on Chara or the Player, then why the hell should Nightmare get to?

“And I think you want to believe so badly that I can be good,” Killer continued, “because you wish for your life to not be so abysmally hopeless. You’re desperate for it to be true that anyone can change,” he was so close now. He pressed his blade under Night’s chin. 

He heard a swift shuffle, but Night raised a palm to his side. Dream must've gotten up, likely to interfere. But it seems Night wanted this personal matter resolved intimately. 

“You are the coward, baby,” Killer crooned, staring him in the eyes with his own Void-filled ones. “You are the one deluding yourself you can be good when all you're good at is being horrid. And you hate yourself for it.”

Night swallowed. Emotions were swimming over his face, each miniscule movement crystal clear to Killer with their proximity. 

Night breathed in. Breathed out. It trembled, but didn't get snuffed out.

“...Maybe that’s true.” he reasoned, audibly doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Maybe I even believe it–”

“It’s not–” 

“But,” Night pushed onwards through Dream’s immediate rebuttal. “That doesn't make what I said incorrect. Because... because I did spend... years ruining people’s lives, and you did as well, and there’s one thing I can claim,” 

He held Killer’s ever-blackened glare. 

“Well?” Killer prompted. 

“It is... so much easier to destroy.” Night stated emphatically. “You parade your violent attitude around, claiming strength, but the reality is, you cannot even fathom how to do anything but hurt. You shrivel away from any shred of happiness or love because you are incapable of preserving it. You are weak.” 

The silence rang between them. 

...How... manipulative. Killer would be delighted if he wasn't so–

Slowly, Killer was pushing his knife in and in. Until he could feel the resistance of bone against the tip. Right where Night’s throat was. 

If he leaned closer, he would be able to feel Night’s heavy but measured breaths. They stared at one another. Blackened despair dripping from Killer’s eyes, on the floor between their feet where it faded into the ether. 

A rubber band being pulled more and more taut. Until you could only watch in trepidation, wondering when is it going to snap? When, when, when? 

Killer chuckled low. 

But it seems Night hadn't quite said all he wanted to.

“I know you attacked Dream when you felt his aura passed through the physical connection of an embrace,” he spoke, a little quieter. Did he soften? 

Killer wanted to take that softness and rip it to bloody, gorey pieces. He wanted to give the walls and floor a fresh new coat of paint in the shade of Night’s blood. He hated these damn twins to the bottom of his soul.

“I know you've felt nothing but bad for... for so, so long, I know that because Corr– because I was responsible for it for so, so long. I intentionally kept you at your lowest possible point, Killer, and– I know you care not for my apologies so I will hold them for later–” Night continued on and on, “I– I intentionally took advantage of you at your most vulnerable. But you can be– you are more than that.” Night slowly lifted a hand. “Your suffering does not define you.” his hand lingered, hesitant, halfway raised. Killer wondered what he’d imagined doing. 

Killer slowly tilted his head. He wondered what would hurt Night the most.  

Killer’s free hand shot up and grabbed Night by the collar. Night’s eyes shot wide, and he most likely expected Killer to start ruthlessly attacking, which Killer would've loved to do! But that was old news. Night was familiar with his routine now. 

Instead you yank him forward and kiss him. 

It’s rough, it’s loveless, and it’s short as Night shoves you away by the sternum. 

You stare at his expression, wide-eyed and shocked and grasping to make sense of the action, and you start laughing in his face. Loud and cruel. Tar-like hatred streams down your face in rivulets.

“Ohhhohoo,” you snarl, breathless, hysterical, “that’s so mighty rich of you.” 

Night just continues gaping at you. In a flash you rear back your hand and punch him straight across the face so hard he stumbles back with a yelp. He stands there, stunned, one hand pressed to the spot your knuckles connected. 

“At least when you called me scum you didn't dare LIE to my FACE,” you sneer, hands shaking with the desire to take Night and rip him apart. 

“I’m not lying!” Night raises his voice. “You have the capacity for it, I’m sure, you’re just– you’re too damn stubborn to even entertain–!” 

“OH because you are SUCH a charitable man, a real miracle-worker! Or am I just a special case baby?!” you yell back, unable to stop the convulsions in your chest from your laughter. “You NEVER cared about me!” 

“I DO!” Night finally screams at you. “I DO care about you, I-I don't know if I did before but I do, I do, I–” he breathes harshly, and you hope he is about to cry. “That is the SOLE reason I am doing any of this, I–!” 

“I will NEVER forgive you!” you snarl, because you want to hurt him, you want to choke out any hopes he might have, anything he could gain from this. “I will lord every little bit of harm you caused over your head for eternity! I will stab you and kill you and RUIN YOU, believe me I will find a way!” you swear. 

“I don't want your forgiveness!” Night yells. “I– I do– angel above I will do whatever is necessary to try and earn it but I will never demand that of you! I’m helping you because– because I genuinely believe you freaking deserve it, after everything you've been put through–!”

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. You hate him more than you have hated maybe anybody. You hate him so intensely it spills out of your brain and down your face, so intensely you choke on it.

“I hate you.” you let out a gutteral growl, all teeth and venom. 

“You have every right to.” Night is shaking, but he stands his ground. Tears are building in the corners of his eye sockets but he still holds your hateful glare. 

You despise him. 

“But I still love you.” 

...

...

...

Your ears are ringing. 

The icy behemoth that is the ocean rages around you. A storm. Ravaging and merciless. 

A leviathan. You can never even hope to go against it. 

There is no hope. There hasn't been hope in such a long, long time. 

Hope doesn't exist here. Hope is the sunshine above the surface. You have nothing but cold and drowning and darkness. 

Hope doesn't exist for you. It can't. It– can't.

...

“...What?” hissed out, animalistic. Barely comprehending. The desire for violence screeching in your head, ricocheting around your ribcage and stabbing into your soul. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Night whispers, eyes shot wide open. The lights in them small and quivering. “I– I didn't mean to– I would never put that on you– it isn't impo– I–” 

You barely hear him. You barely hear him over the chorus in your soul demanding maim hurt rip apart destroy kill kill. 

Night is a little mouse. A tiny minnow. Small and pathetic, nothing compared to the leviathan that was The Corrupted Nightmare. Night used to barely be able to look you in the eyes. Night always pulled away from you in fear.

Now, your soul is tearing itself apart in the frenzied need to execute. 

Now, Night steps towards you. 

“I’ll kill you.” you barely even hear your own words, airy and detached. 

“...You like... you like chocolate,” Night speaks.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You’d read even a children’s book if it was all you could do to fill the silence,” another step forward. 

“I am going to rip you apart.” 

“You like playing rough with Dust, because you like someone matching you beat for beat without hesitation.” Night takes another step forward. Your magic is summoning itself, charged with heaps of violent intent.  “You like the way he doesn't pull away in fear,”

You are trembling with the tension just waiting to be unleashed. 

“You’re playful; you can't be bothered to listen to anyone, yet when ignored, you seek attention, like a cat,” another step forward. “You are deeply curious about how people’s brains tick–” 

“I will spill your brain over the floor–” a row of blasters right behind you, their energy glowing like a readied gun. Like a spotlight on him. Or maybe a target.

“You laugh at your own jokes even when you find them unfunny,” he keeps speaking, “You are loyal to a fault even when you don't act the part,”

“You are delusional,” you snap, snarling and animalistic. 

“Because you hate being alone.” another step forward. His voice is steady. He’s getting so close. “That’s why you came here to be with Dust. That's why you haven't killed me yet–”

“I will kill you–” 

“Because, Killer, you love.” 

It rings. You want to slam his head into the concrete floor over and over and over–

“You crave it,” another step forward. “But you are terrified. You lash out and you destroy everything around you because you are terrified of it being taken away.” 

You’re shaking your head. You’re drowning in your own hatred and rage and violence. You want him to shut up. You barely know where you are. 

...A hand ghosting over your face. Not daring to touch. So apprehensive. So gentle it shouldn't even be possible for it to exist in the same reality as yourself. 

So close.

“But I told you,” spoken quietly. Intimately. Sincerely. “I’m not leaving you.”

.

.

.

...Arms wrap around you. You don't even twitch. 

The embrace is gentle. The embrace is firm, in the way real things are. He didn't ask. You wouldn't have wanted him to. He knew that. He knows you. It's horrible. It’s terrifying. It hurts. It's real.

Your knife remains clutched in your hand. 

When you raise it ever so slightly, the light reflects off the smooth metal. 

For a brief second, you catch your own reflection in it. Dark and distorted. You haven't known who that is for a very, very long time. 

You barely even breathe. 

It’s silent. The hum of charged magic potent.

He doesn't pull away. He stays. 

The point of your blade presses to his back. He surely feels it. 

He doesn't even flinch. In fact, he holds you tighter. 

...

“...I know it’s scary to be soft, because you could be hurt so badly,” he whispers. Soft. So close. So easy to trample and ruin. 

You want to. You want to. You don't care about him. You hate him. You're not sure how those two could be simultaneously true.

“I know it’s scary to care about something, because it can be so easily ripped away from you,” 

SHUT UP, you want to scream. You say nothing. Your magic is unstable and unfocused and erratic. Pulling itself apart at the seams. 

(...are you even real? 

...is any of this real?) 

“...But you’ve never been the type to lose against fear.” 

You're not sure if you're breathing. He is. He breathes, steady. Like he isn't scared of you. He holds you, tight and secure. Even as you press a knife to his back in a cruel promise. Both hands clutching the blade like you’ll fall into the abyss if you let go. You watch your own eyes in the reflection of the metal. 

He knows you better than anyone. He doesn't let go of you. 

It–

You–

...

...It’s...

...nice. 

...You watch your own eyes in the metal of your weapon. 

...Since when... were there lights in them...? 

(Sunlight against the surface of the water. So far above, and yet, it's there, it's there, it's there. It's real.)

“Come on,” Night whispers, “hug me back.” 

It's not a request. It's not a command, either. It’s...

The silence in your mind rings and rings and rings so loud. Endless empty caverns. Ruins. Dark and abandoned. No direction of your own. 

That’s what it is. It's... direction. It's instruction. It's purpose. 

It’s a desolate universe. It’s a hand held out and an offer to join him. 

Drowning, you are weightless. You are untethered. It’s been so dark you lost track of up and down. 

This...

Your hands twitch. You slowly let go of the magic. The constructed blade dissipates.

This is an anchor. This is something to hold onto when nothing feels real.

Something to grasp.

Something new. 

You move your arms that don't quite feel your own. You wrap them around him, hesitant and untethered. You wrap them tight and desperate. You hold on.

You hold on. 

(And you breach the surface of the water. 

And you take a desperate breath.)

—

.

.

.

Dream did not interfere, because his brother asked him not to. Even if it became dangerous, they both needed this, clearly. And he was... working on his relationship with Night. He had to trust Night and allow Night to trust him in return. 

He was still reeling from the shock of everything that happened. From the other two’s argument, to the kiss, to– to this– 

Just... watching them hug. In the middle of the room. It felt surreal. Killer and Night, hugging, willingly. 

And to top it off? To top it all off?

Just for a split second. Amidst the culmination of their fight. Dream swore he saw Killer’s soul flicker in the shape of– 

Dream blinked rapidly, as Night’s head turned ever so slightly towards him. Wide-eyed, mouthing what do I do?! 

Dream stifled a laugh. Don't laugh. Night was probably triple-shocked about how all this went down. Many, many jaw-droppers, haha. 

His own shock was slowly morphing into something fluttery and warm. 

Dream gestured to the couch in a silent suggestion. 

He watched Night take a breath. 

“Killer,” he spoke up again, “ah, let’s, sit down?” he offered. Then reconsidered, “Killer, sit down, come on,” he instructed. Because... apparently that worked much better with Killer. Apparently that's what Killer needed. 

Which... wasn't what Dream had assumed? He thought after years of the Corrupted Nightmare’s iron-grip control, and considering Killer’s proclivity to doing whatever he personally wanted, he’d assumed that... Killer would revel in the freedom.

Apparently not! Apparently he’d been with Nightmare because he needed the control from the start. And then he withered without its support. Maybe... it was taken away too abruptly, after so long being used to a short leash?

Learning experience. Dream reminded himself he was not, in fact, a mind reader, and did not, in fact, know what’s always best. He pushed aside the sadness and disappointment and guilt for now.

(“What sort of example are you setting, sunshine?”)

...Dream carefully compartmentalized them to be processed later, rather than burying them entirely.

He watched Night maneuver Killer towards the couch where they could sit. Still hugging. With the way Killer’s hands clutched onto the back of Night’s capelet, they would probably be at it for a while. 

Night didn't seem to mind. He began gently rubbing Killer’s back in return. Was Killer upset? It was often difficult to tell with him. It's not like Dream got a screen that spelled out the category of whatever emotions everyone was feeling, he had to parse it on his own. 

...It was really nice to see them like that. It made Dream smile sincerely. He really felt happy for them. So happy. Satisfied with the massive amount of progress they made with Killer. Proud of Night for handling it. Just really dang happy with the end result of all this. 

Obviously, Killer still had a long way to go. Dream himself could attest that he, personally, was still learning and growing as a person, and he’s been alive for much longer. But this... felt like a turning point. It felt hopeful.

...For just a split second, he’d seen Killer’s soul take the shape of a monster’s. And he knew Night saw it too.

...Haha. Maybe they won the bet.

—

.

.

.

Dream asked if they needed him to stay. Night shook his head. 

Dust passed by. Stared at them. Questioned, tentatively, what's going on. With similar hesitation, Night summarized he... may explain later. Dust left them be. 

And now it was just the two of them. Killer still neither moved nor spoke. Night was slowly concluding that maybe, once again, he needed to be the one to initiate. 

It felt... hm. Counterintuitive, for one. Uncomfortable, too. To tell Killer... what to do. It made some traumatized part of Night start screaming and blaring the alarms, insisting he was just like his old self, he was causing harm, he was horrid–

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

He’s been... working on it. Dream has been an incomparable pillar of support and help in the process. Night constantly had to convince himself he wasn't abusing Dream’s kindness. His brother was also high on the list of ‘People Corrupted Nightmare Hurt The Most’. Very high. 

...And so was the skeleton still holding onto him. It was– hm. It was... ah. Well. 

Night just had to ‘grow some balls’. As that whole rant from earlier hopefully showcased, he did know Killer quite well. He knew Killer sneered at those he deemed weak, that he idolized and respected strength. So with strength Night approached. He knew Killer needed direction, like an anchor to hold onto when his head was a mess. 

(He used his knowledge of Killer to manipulate him into what he thought was good for him–)

So Night gathered up his guts once again. This whole fight would be... extremely heavy to process no doubt, but not right now. 

He tapped Killer’s back gently. They've been at this for... a while now. Not that Night was displeased with that!

“...Can we... talk, now?” he asked, still gentle. Because with everyone else, Night must be gentle. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to be a thing that cared and nurtured and fixed and loved, because he’d been denied that for... what felt like millennia. 

But that’s not quite what Killer needed right now. Not in that way, at least. He wasn't the type for meek love. 

Night cringed. Agh, love. He... really hadn’t meant to let that slip. Hnggh.

(...The one person. The one person beside his own brother who cared about him even at his worst.)

“Killer,” Night rephrased, “Let’s talk,” 

Killer’s first sound post-breakdown was a discontented grumble where his face was buried in Night’s shoulder. Typical. Night huffed in amusement, patting his back as though in comfort. 

“Yes, the world is terribly cruel,” he sympathised, “if you want a hug so bad, I promise you more later,” 

(Because he knew teasing Killer for being affectionate would get him to let go, to put distance. Manipulative–)

“Tch,” Killer scoffed, hands finally loosening, pulling away. He didn't get up and leave, though. He didn't stab or throw attack magic. Didn't even sit further away from Night. Just disbanded the hug and crossed his arms, looking at Night expectantly. “Well?”

Night stared, once again stupefied. Because–

...The Corrupted Nightmare had toyed with Killer’s mental state many, many times. Had handled his soul in the most cruel ways, had always kept him from any sort of healing or recovery or change. 

...

...Killer’s eyes were... it was nice. To see the lights in them. It was... such a lovely sight. 

“Well?” Killer pressed, snapping him back to the moment. Still waiting for a reply.

I’m sorry immediately came to mind, but unfortunately, as much as Night meant it, it wouldn't be productive. Are you alright? was a good contestant too, but would likely receive the same amount of defensiveness and apathy.

“I... the rest aside, I did mean what I said. I wouldn't demand anything of you,” Night clasped his hands in his lap in order to not fidget. “Not forgiveness, not kindness not– not love,” 

“You wouldn't get any of that even if you did demand it,” Killer leaned back in his seat, a lot more comfortable than Night felt. Perhaps uncaring. A neutrally amused expression on his face. 

(So much more expressive with the eye lights.)

“Right.” Night nodded, keeping himself composed. “If you’d prefer, I won’t–”

“I don't love you,” Killer cut him off, speaking light-heartedly. It hurt. Many things that he said hurt. It was also true. 

“...I know–”

“I can't love you,” Killer inspected his nails, and Night watched the miniscule twitches of his eye lights, “not like other people do,” 

Night blinked slowly. Frowned. 

“...I know,” 

“But if you ditch me, I am going to hunt you down,” Killer hissed, grin widening, “and I am going to ruin you.” 

Night choked down the surprised laugh that bubbled up in him. 

“...Deal,” he was trying not to smile. 

“And I refuse to go all... soft and pathetic like you,” Killer insisted. 

“I... didn't expect you to,” Night agreed. He held no beliefs that Killer was a saint of some sort. He was all too willing to do horrible things. But Night’s heard these things progress with time and effort. He wanted to believe that. 

“Great,” Killer stretched, “Now you should give me a damn way to call you, it’s always you idiots who come here, what if poor ol’ me was sad?” he complained, and again, Night had to hold back a laugh and just grin. 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Night nodded along. 

“And one billion gold and five chocolate cakes,”

Night couldn't hold back a snicker. “Obviously,” 

Killer threw his head back and groaned loudly. 

“And here I thought you grew a spine!” he exclaimed. “Where's all that ‘Killer, you’re a coward and a jackass’ stuff from earlier?? That was fun!” 

“I never called you a jackass!” 

“That was your first mistake,” 

Night muffled his escapeé of a laugh with a hand. 

He felt all warm and fluttery. It was so, so rare to have chats like this with Killer. Where it felt... semi-normal. And fun. 

...Instead of like an abuser and his enthusiastic victim with Stockholm syndrome. 

Night’s enjoyment dimmer. He inhaled, and then let it out. 

“...Killer–” he hesitated. The idea made discomfort squirm in him, but it was the right thing to do. “...Do you... want... your soul back?” Night offered quietly, keeping his eyes on the low table in front of the couch. 

It wasn't about the bet anymore. It never felt right to keep Killer’s own soul away from him. Never. Every moment, Night was gnawed by guilt. But he knew what would happen if he returned it to its owner. And he was selfish, because he really, really didn't want that to happen. It was like a made-up philosophical dilemma that he was stuck in, which wasn't meant to have an answer in the first place. And yet here he was, living exactly that reality, and needing to answer it. 

He expected a moment of silence. He expected... he wasn't sure what he expected. A hopeless part of him expected for that argument to have changed nothing. For Killer to say yes, to take it and– 

“Hm, well, I felt quite a lot of hatred there,” Killer hummed performatively, tapping his chin. Eyes looking up and to the side in faux contemplation. “And that is very far from numbness, don't you think, O mighty Lord of Negativity? Some consider that to be the other side of love’s coin,” he joked, voice low. When Night’s eyes flicked to him, he was grinning sharply. 

Night’s jaw worked as he tried to puzzle how to respond. Floundering. Caught off guard. 

Because Killer didn't care about being fair. If he had a way to win, he would take it. He was made from twisted code. 

And yet here he was. 

Turning down Night offering to let him win. Just like that. 

Night stared at him. 

Killer stared back with those no-longer-empty eye sockets. They made it all feel so much more tangible, like reality was finally in focus.

“...Oh.” is all Night managed to reply with, quiet and soft. Stricken and shocked and anxious and ecstatic. 

“I’ll be waiting on those cakes,” Killer moved on, as if it was that simple, that easy. 

It wasn't, of course it wasn't. Everything was still difficult and complicated to hell. They were both deeply damaged. Night was still trying to figure out how to even start fixing it. 

...But now, maybe there was hope.

[shadowqueenjude]

Elucien for @yennas-stuff, who wanted to see a confrontation scene after Lucien is "so gentlemanly it angers Elain," haha.

(lol suggestive but not complete smut)

It wasn’t like Elain to be so down. At least not outwardly. She tried to hide her negative emotions when she was at a ball or a party. But that insufferable man- or male, whatever- was driving her absolutely mad. There he was, at the center of the ballroom, laughing at whatever the woman he was dancing with was saying. Through a small gap in the crowd, Elain watched one of the woman’s sleeves slip, revealing a metal arm. It was Lady Nuan, the woman who had made Lucien’s metal eye. She typically resided in the Dawn Court, but she had come to visit in Day since Helion Spell-Cleaver was throwing a ball to celebrate the announcement of his new son and heir, who was apparently Lucien by bastard birth. Elain, who typically enjoyed balls, found herself slouched in the corner, arms crossed over her chest as she scowled at her mate from across the room.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Stupid insufferable man. Absolutely idiotic man who apparently knows everyone who has ever breathed. What a pathetic male with his glossy tousled hair and perfect smile. I want to punch that smirk off of his face.”

“Are you alright?” came a male voice from nearby her. Elain abruptly sat up straight, patted down her hair and gave a practiced smile. The man had long blonde hair and long sharp bullhorns. Looking down his legs, you could see a tail poking out between them. He had bright blue eyes and a spotting of freckles on his nose. He kind of looked like Tamlin, actually.

“I am alright, my lord,” Elain replied. He raised one bushy brow skeptically. “Are you sure? I heard the things you were muttering…they weren’t quite so ladylike.”

Elain felt herself blush. And now this man had bore witness to her frustration! “It is, well…” she sighed, pinching her nose. “Can I be frank with you, my lord?”

He sketched a deep bow. “I shall take your words to my grave, my lady.” Elain couldn’t help but snort at the theatrics. But then she leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you see the male with flaming red hair?”

He nodded. “Ah, Lucien Vanserra. Or oh dear, shall we call him spell-cleaver now? Either way, he is hard to miss.”

He really was. It was both infuriating and endearing at the same time. “He is my mate, and I would like to make him jealous. Are you game?”

The man grinned. “I knew it. Luckily for you, I wish to do the same. My…lover has been looking at another all night. I wish to make him jealous.”

Elain tilted her head. “What is your name?”

“Tevan. You?”

“Elain.”

Tevan guided Elain to the dance floor. He was not a half-bad dancer, but Elain took the lead and guided them towards where Lucien stood in a crowd by a bunch of friends- or admirers. When the song ended, Elain gave a hasty curtsy before sprinting the remaining distance to Lucien, manners be damned. She came from behind him and slapped her hand on his wrist, gripping it tightly. She stood on her tiptoes so that she could reach his ear. “We need to talk,” she muttered. She got a whiff of his smell-crackling embers and pumpkin pie. UGH why did he smell so good too?

Lucien gave his apologies as Elain dragged him towards the door with purpose. The outdoor hall was dark, but Elain could make out several couples participating in activities not suitable for public view. Elain shoved him against a wall, surprised at her own strength. Perhaps Lucien was too, for he stared at her wide-eyed, out of breath.

“Elain?” he asked uncertainly. “Is everything alright? Do I need to call a healer? Or should we lea-“

His utter politeness in that moment caused Elain to snap. “Oh, spare me your perfect gentleman act, Lucien. I have seen how you are with Jurian and Vassa. I have seen you converse with my sisters; I have seen you snark at Eris. I have watched your behavior with your parents, with Nuan, with Tamlin, in nearly every court in Prythian. Why don’t you drop the noble lord act and tell me what you really think of me? Or do you think me too delicate to handle your cutting remarks?” Why wouldn’t he, after all? Everyone else did.

Lucien’s eyes simmered with fire in the dark hall. Good. She had drawn his ire. Perhaps now she would see some emotion from him and not the mask he had been wearing around her. “You think I mean to insult you with my kindness?”

“I don’t need you to be nice to me,” Elain hissed. “I need you to be real to me.”

“Fine,” Lucien growled. “You desire to know my true thoughts? Well, here you have them, lady.” His blazing eyes met hers as he murmured, “I do not know how to act around you.”

“Why?” Elain demanded.

“Because. You. Drive. Me. Mad,” Lucien rumbled, emphasizing each word. “You-you marvelous creature, who appreciates every subtlety of conversation and nature, unbearably gentle, yet filled with a fire that may go unnoticed but whose heat and light will never go out. You, so overwhelmed with sorrow that I can feel it in my very soul, twin to my own pain. I have never felt this way before. Never have I been so unsure of myself, of what the person I am speaking to thinks of me. I thought my mate died long ago, and I mourned her for a couple of centuries before meeting you. It leaves me free to move on, yet it is exactly what pushes you away. I cannot know if you will ever accept a rotten faerie as your own but know this: I am driven mad with longing for you every moment of every day, a desire so intense that oftentimes I cannot breathe. When I close my eyes, I dream of sin. Is that what you wish to hear, Elain? That when I sleep, I see our bodies intertwined, my lips all over your skin, your expression one of bliss? You may think me a filthy bastard, but I cannot help it. It has taken every inch of my control not to touch you more than is necessary.”

Oh.

Oh.

Elain was speechless. What did one even say after that? Words weren’t good enough to respond. She was suddenly hyperaware of her hand clenching the collar of Lucien’s shirt, their heavy breathing, and their utter isolation. No one would disturb them here.

Suddenly feeling bold, Elain ran her hand down his chest, stopping when she reached his belt and yanked him towards her by the buckle. Elain stared up at his fiery eyes. He towered over her, and she had to crane her neck to properly meet his eyes.

Lucien lifted a hand to her face, his thumb rubbing her cheekbone back and forth. The way he was looking at her…so intense, so passionate, filled with raw need…Mother spare her.

She leaned forward, her eyes fluttering shut as Lucien’s lips met her own. And suddenly, she was overwhelmed with sensation. Lucien moved forward, Elain backward, until she hit a wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist as one of his hands leaned right beside her head.

She had never done anything like this before. The few times she had been with Graysen, it had been arranged; they’d stripped their clothes in advance, Elain leaving her clothes on the side and waiting wrapped in a blanket while Graysen left his clothes in the next bedroom and walked inside. There had been some kissing, then Graysen had stuck his shrimp in her a few times, grunted, then got up and walked away. Not very pleasurable, and Elain had been in no hurry to do it again; she had not understood why so many were enamored by the idea of sex if that was all it was.

But this…all of their clothes were on, yet Elain was more aroused than she’d ever felt in her life. Her legs were hot and soaked, and loud moans escaped her lips at Lucien’s every touch.

“Not very ladylike of you, Elain,” Lucien whispered against her neck. In response, Elain shoved her hand into his hair and pressed his face against her breasts. “Just shut up and kiss me, Lucien.”

“As you wish,” he said, his voice muffled against her chest.

[towriteloveontheirarms]

I am my own worst enemy (Wyll Ravengard x Reader)

synopsis: When you agree to dance with Wyll, the night does not end like you would have expected it.

warnings: kinda emotional hurt/comfort, afab reader

word count: 2.2k

taglist: @hopelesswritergall

(If you want to be tagged for a specific character/fandom or in general let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)

Dividers by me

It has been a long day, too long in your opinion and the sleep that is soon to take you for the night is pulling you in with insistent arms as you slip out of your armour into some casual clothes. You are ready for your head to hit the pillow as you pass out, but the shuffling of steps around the dying embers of the campfire alerts you into a state of heedfulness. There has been just one too many uninvited nightly visitors in camp as of late.

Groaning you rub your eyes and force your legs to carry you out of the tent again. Sluggish, heavy steps lead you to witness a true sight to behold. Moving around the dying flames, with a grace you knew only a small group of people to possess, is none other than Wyll. His eyes closed and humming a slow, simple melody under his breath. His smooth voice instantly calms any tension in your body and as you take on a more relaxed stance you allow yourself to bask in the tranquillity of the moment. Your feet shuffling in the rubble on the ground is what ultimately breaks his peace. Or perhaps he just heard your heart beating out of your chest, you tell yourself. His one dark eye flies open and finds you immediately.

“Ah, my apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt you.” You rasp quietly, scared to chase away the remnants of tranquillity if you spoke too loudly.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He responds calmly.

The gentle, smoothness of his voice would never not send comfortable shivers down your spine. And it never would make your face heat up less. Ever since you have met Wyll, he has never looked as calm and happy as when he had danced.

“I do hope you weren't waiting for someone and I just chased them away.” Though there is light heartedness in your tone, the thought produces a stinging feeling in your chest.

“They have just arrived.” Wyll grins as he answers.

Looking around you see everyone is still in their tents. Then it dawns on you who he means and as you point at yourself, your face begins to warm up considerably. Something thought impossible before. The raven-haired man nods once and with a final step towards you, he offers his hand as if the two of you were at a grand ball in one of the palaces in Baldur's gate, dressed to the nines, instead of mortal peril somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

Biting your lower lip to fight back a growing smile of your own, you gladly lay your palm onto his. Immediately you get caught up in the embrace of his arms, body not yet cold from the nightly chill. The movements he leads are slow, deliberate. Bordering on sensual as the two of you dance around each other. Electricity crackles in the little bubble around you, the rest of the world gone. Pushed into the background by the energy rushing through your veins. It feels so surreal, yet nothing has ever felt better or more natural before than being right there with him. At the same time, you can feel your heart racing dull and echoing painfully in your chest. The joy of the moment being overshadowed by a, in your mind, very well-founded fear.

Wyll takes your hand again as the two of you come to a stand. Together you sink to one knee, feeling the cold earth underneath seep in through the comfy clothes. The sensation is solely fought by the touch of your palms and the intense chocolate brown eye searching your gaze. It's inevitable what's going to happen next, the moment is as perfect as the two of you could have wished it to be. If only you didn't turn your head to the side at the last second.

You don't dare to look at Wyll. Ashamed at the confusion and hurt pulling the corners of his mouth down and drawing his eyebrows together. Deep creases of worry laying over his forehead as he slowly stands up. Everything inside of you tightens, painfully so at the restraint it costs.

“I apologise if I have come on too strong with my advances.” The resignation in his voice could break the hardest of hearts. “I must have lost myself in the thought of prancing around the balls of Baldur's Gate in my younger days.”

You open your mouth in an attempt to soothe his hurt, or maybe your own, but not a sound comes out around the lump in your throat. You have nothing left but to sit down on the cold ground as Wyll walks away and takes all the warmth that had previously flooded you with him.

Even when you thought it impossible, you break even more when you finally look up at him. Wyll had started to slowly retreat, facing towards you and ever so slightly reaching out one of his hands.

“Sleep well.” He mutters despondently.

“Wait.” You call out loud enough you are sure for a moment it would wake up everyone else.

But desperation makes oneself care little about unimportant issues like that. Especially in the face of scaring away the first good thing you had found in a long while. Even if stupidly enough, scaring him away had seemed like a completely viable option for the longest while.

The kiss the two of you had shared at the riverbed hidden away from the visitors of the Tiefling festivities, practically tortured you. Unable to forget it when it plays over and over every time you close your eyes.

The beat of silence between you stretches into infinity, filled with your racing thoughts and even more rapidly racing heart.

“Wait.” You repeat, quieter this time. “Please stay. Just a moment longer.”

There is a struggle to decide freezing him to his place a few steps away from you. You don't dare to let your mind rejoice yet as he sits down beside you.

“Something wears on your mind.” It's a statement more than anything else, followed by another beat of silence.

“Do you mean aside from the pressure of getting told that all the realms' fate lays in my hands wherever we go and the danger of the worms in our heads threatening to consume us any moment?” You manage a short and bitter chuckle.

The action gets you met with a stern look and waiting silence. So, you sigh and sink in on yourself as you get ready to make the confession you never thought you'd have to make.

“I care about you, Wyll. More than I would have ever liked to care about anyone.” You murmur at a measured pace. Thinking thoroughly how to explain your reasoning.

It´s obvious that he wants to say something, but one look tells him he would get an explanation in time. A strange calm fills you when he closes his mouth again. Glad for the understanding.

“But I cannot allow myself to give in to the longing that has pulled on my heart strings since the day we met. Not until all of this has been resolved, if it ever will be. I could not bear the thought of losing you right when I just found you. I can barely stand the sight of any of you getting hurt. And we don´t know what to expect at Moonrise, or beyond that when we reach the city.”

“So you are simply swearing off anything that does not serve the purpose?” He asks incredulously. There is a certain irony to his words.

“Well, I tried. It worked well enough in the beginning, but…” You take a pause to breathe before the confession you had tried to avoid. “I cannot seem to shake my affection for you. No matter how hard I try.”

Wyll lets out a huffed breath beside you. The action pulls your eyes to his face to better gauge his reaction, but he does not lead anything on. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard you are sure the sound fills the silence as it does for you.

“I understand that you are afraid. A lot has happened in quite a short amount of time.” Wyll finally speaks up, his eye steady on your face. “You should know however, that I would gladly be by your side as more than a friend for everything that is about to come still. No matter if we know what that entails for certain or not.”

“Are you sure about this?” You look up at him with a shimmer in your eyes that he could feel himself melt at.

“How did you phrase it? We will find a way out of this, if we just put our worms together.” Wyll chuckles at the phrase.

Another wave of warmth floods through you and as if on its own, one of your hands wanders over his shoulder and neck to rest against his cheek. Feeling the difference between the soft skin and tender scars under the pad of your thumb. Following it down to his chin. His eye flutters close and electricity courses from your soles to the crown of your head. His words strangely quell your fears. Or perhaps it is just his voice that could persuade you to do almost anything. Slowly you kneel down in front of him, laying your other hand on his chest.

“I love you.” You murmur full of admiration.

“I adore you.” He hums, laying his hands over yours. "Deeply."

“My knight in shining armour.” You mumble, hopeless admiration flickers in your eyes.

“My one and only.” He answers in a hoarse murmur.

Hopelessness turns into bliss under Wyll´s watchful gaze soon as you reangle your face to let the bridge of your nose rub against his. Your foreheads lean safely against each other, holding space for the affections taking over you. Affection that is unwilling to be held back any longer.

The air grows more charged with every second the two of you let pass by in silence. As your breath mingles and heavy eyelids slowly fall close, as the barely existing space between you gets breached for your lips to lock in a shy show of your emotions. Delicately tasting each other for the first time and all of a sudden, the responsibilities on your shoulders feel a little lighter, the world a little less grim, a little less cold, a little righter. As soon as your lips touch however, the two of you part again already. While you are sure what to await in terms of Wyll’s reaction, the raven-haired man still manages to floor you with the sheer softness in his left eye. At that moment, you are sure you have never seen anyone more beautiful. No one´s touch had ever felt so invigorating or had left a trail of fire in it´s wake just like Wyll could. There is no denying any more by now that you have no strength left to withstand him any longer. So, you lean into his palm on your cheek further and allow your lips to mirror the smile on his ones.

“I wish dawn would never come so we could stay in this moment forever.” You sigh.

“I wish so as well, yet dawn must always follow the night. Even if it is a night as this. And there could always be more like it to come.” He replies, hope shimmering through every word.

“I would like that very much.” You agree quietly.

“May I kiss you again?” Wyll croaks.

“You may.” You smile shily. Unable to recline such a sweet request.

The initial shyness quickly dissolves with the new touch to make way for the earlier desperation. Driving the two of you closer together until there is no room left for breath in between your bodies. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, while Wyll’s arms rest over your hip bones. Your lips dance together much like your bodies had previously, passionately, pouring every emotion into the experience. Hands not only exploring but also holding the other right there with you. Not wanting to pull away so soon after you had finally admitted to your feelings. Pulling each other close by anything you can hold onto.

Heavy breathing fills your little bubble the longer the kiss goes on as the sheer intensity seems to rob every last breath from your lungs. Only for him to breathe life into you once more. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours for all you know, but eventually Wyll does pull away again. Just enough to look at you in all your wide eyed and parted lips, heavy breathing glory.

“You are so beautiful.” He croaks. Under your fingers his heart beats a little faster, leaving no doubt of the truth in his words.

Together the two of you lay down to get some rest for the remainder of the night, but you find yourself unable to take your eyes off him. Sleep had managed to get far away enough to evade you entirely now.

“I do not know if you are really charming or if I am simply easily charmed, but I do know that I would not have it any other way.” You muse.