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myladysapphire · 4 months ago

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A doe, A deer - A Drop of golden sun

being the youngest archeron sister often meant that you were the forgotten one, no one ever saw you, until he did.

Azriel x Archeron!OC

CW: mdi 18+, selective mutism, struggles with eating, talks of nausea, war/acowar? but its not described just happens, kidnapping, angst, fluff, canon character death, violcene, king of hybern being a creep. not beta read!

word count: 2,280

authors note: thank you for so much support in part one! hope you all enjoy this one as much as the last!

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

Daphne had yet to wake.

Three weeks had passed, and Daphen remained unconscious. Her face pale, and the rise and fall of her chest was barley noticeable.

The inner circle feared she was dead. Or at least had been dead when she was tossed into the cauldron.

Madja thought as much but refused to admit it as she overlooked the youngest of the Archeron siblings.

She had had to work around a loitering Azriel.

The male was hellbent on watching Majda’s every move and refused to leave Daphnes side.

He only left when the high lord ordered it. And even then, he was quick to return.

The bond between them bounding her to him.

It had since the moment she bumped into him and her pretty eyes connected with his.

And when she had spoken, though little and shy, her sweet voice taunted his dreams as he thought of her.

He had been as shocked as everyone that she had spoken. Having been told by Feyre she had been silent since an event in their youth. And He worried after her departure. And more so as after every visit, she laid bound in bed, and the reck of death loitered around her body.

The had begged Nesta to allow him to take her with him, to have a fae healer her, and he had been refused and forced to leave her to the useless hands of whatever healer the Archerons had employed. The very healers that had all but killed her.

He had felt the bond go dead as she was thrown in the cauldron.

The scream he let out as he wept and mourned the bond he never truly got to experience. He mourned the person he had begged to know for 500 years; the person he had begged Feyre to tell him about.

And now he was stuck preying to whatever gods would listen that she would wake up.

As Feyre retuned home, he was forced to focus his attention on matters of the court, his heart aching as he was forced to leave Daphne, and though she was in the company of at least one of her sisters or even Mor. He hated it.

He hated even more the fact that when she finally did wake up, it was like she hadn’t woken up at all.

she was silent, more so than before according to Feyre.

She refused to eat or leave her seat by the window.

She seemed to rock back and forth on the floor, her hands covering her ears.

He hadn’t been allowed to see her, barred entry by Rhysand, who had all but commanded him to stay away.

It killed him, even more so when he started to see the bond blossoming between Feyre and Rhysand, and even more so when he saw Elain starting to let Lucien in.

She could hear the sound of her heart, the waves in the sea and the whispered words of Feyre and Rhysand outside her door.

She could hear everything, and though she had completely lost her hearing before, everything had gone form being faint and having to focus in order to listen, to sitting as far as she could and being bale to hear everything.

The door to the room she had been placed in opened, and Feyre slowly entered. Her face hopeful as she looked at Daphne.

“How are you today?” Feyre asked, her eyes begging her to speak.

But the want to speak had left her, she no longer wished for the ability to speak, or begged for her thoughts to be voiced. Instead, she simply stared having no will or want to voice her empty mind.

“have you eaten?” she questioned, clearly eyeing the tray still full of food.

She huffed at the lack of response, her hand reaching for Daphnes, only for her to flinch away.

“Please Daphne” she begged, for what neither knew wish.

They sat in silence for a time before Feyre finally left.

And Daphne let out a sigh of relief.

Another week passed, and Daphne, though still refused to speak to anyone, had started to talk to herself.

It had started by accident, with her looking in the mirror and analyse her new Fae form. She spoke her thoughts out loud, and though she had expected he usual nausea to emerge, but none came.

She began to eat, even if it was only a biscuit and tea, at least she was eating.

she hadn’t had any visitors in days, having been finally left alone and being given the chance to think and process.

At least that was until a knock sounded and Azriel entered the room.

Daphne looked at him curiously.

“Daphne?” he spoke carefully, looking around the room and taking in her half-eaten dinner.

His shadow’s whispering relief at the fact she had finally eaten.

“How are you?” he asked softly, taking a seat not to far from her.

She looked down, thinking thoroughly, as if unsure of how she felt.

She looked back out the window, her eyes distant, “I died” she whispered. She didn’t know why she said it, or where the confidence to talk to him came from.

His shadows seemed to circle her, wrapping around her arms, almost caressing her to comfort her.

“What?” Azriel questioned, his voice soft and careful. As if he would spook her and she wouldn’t talk to him again.

Her eyes jumped to the shadows, a soft smile on her face as they danced around her.

“I was dying…and that night my heart stopped” she continued, her face slowly turning to look at him, “the cauldron said so”

A tear dropped from his eye, his face one of devastation, “but your alive now.” He said whether it was to comfort himself of her he wasn’t sure.

“yes” she sighed, not in disappointment. “I can hear everything” she breathed, “I have to stuff my ears with cotton so I can sleep”

“i- fae hearing is rather different to human…I can ask Rhysand to put a sound barrier up for you, so that you can sleep”

She nodded, swallowing roughly.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes watching her closely, before he stood to leave.

“stay” she murmured, “please” and he did, for the next week he would come and visit her for hours on end, where she would eat and sometimes talk.

Her voice still rough and slow as speaking didn’t come easier to her, but something about Azriel’s presence seemed to comfort her, and made her feel safe.

“How is she?” Feyre asked Azriel, her voice dripping with concern for her youngest sister.

Elain and Nesta seemed to be doing better, making progress even if it was slow.

And with the recent high lords meeting, and the wall falling, Feyre mind had been occupied on the war. She was filled with guilt over neglecting her youngest sister, but Azriel the quiet shadow singer seemed to be spending all his time as of late with her.

“she’s doing better” he spoke, “she…she is eating and she’s been speaking”

Feyre shouldn’t of been jealous, shouldn’t envy her friend for the comfort her sister found in him. And yet she was.

“Really?” she tried to keep her voice even and not show her true feelings on the subject.

It had been a long day and though she was making some progress on flying it was stills sore and tiring.

“What do you speak about?”

“i- I don’t think she want me to tell you…sorry” he mumbled.

“But she’s, okay?”

“Okay as someone can be after what she went through” his tone was dismissing, “though…she does want to see you, and Nesta and elain” he said slowly, gagging for Feyre reaction, “but don’t expect her to say anything…she barley speaks and is very unsure of herself”

“of course,” Feyre nodded, her face lighting up with a smile.

It had started of slowly, whereas nest and elain had greatly improved over the last month and half, even if Elain was still stuck in her head half the time and still needed the company of Lucien to eat or sleep.

She started to venture outside of her room, joining the inner circle for meals.

She had yet to speak to anyone but Azriel, and even then, it was rare.

She was content to be silent but know knowing she had the option to speak if needed filled her with a confidence she hadn’t had before.

And even if she wasn’t using words to verbalise her thoughts, she could sign when she wanted to.

Feyre had evens tarted learning it, after spotting her using it to speak to Azriel and Mor, even Rhysand after she made it clear she wasn’t comfortable with him talking to her in her head unless absolutely necessary.

Then as a week went on, her and Elain started to garden, and she had even asked Azriel to take her into Velaris to shop for plants and seeds. An activity he was more than happy to do.

But all this process seemed to stop as the Archeron sisters found themselves in the midst of a war.

She had found herself chained and gagged. A voice soothing her as she was lured from bed into the enemy camp and tied bound and bed of the to the very person that had tormented her and her sisters so.

Elain too had been lured, though she was kept somewhere else. Having been instantly separated.

The king looked down at you with a taunting glare, his hand swiping at her face in a way she were sure was meant to be a caress.

Daphne shivered in disgust, her legs kicking at him, as his soldiers tried to bind them too.

“aren’t you pretty” he crooned, “and silent too…most would be screaming, but not you” his eyes gleamed as he spoke. “a shame I need you unharmed and untouched” he crooned, his eyes looking over her body, before he stood to leave, his eyes surveying over her form, his arousal clear, as he exited the tent.

The soldiers gave you a similar look as they tied her down and left to stand guard.

And she was left to shiver in the cold tent and pray your someone came to her rescue.

Her mind instantly went to Azriel, the male she had a hopeless crush on since their first meeting.

He had always been kind to her, looked at her with such care, talked to her so softly and never expected anything in return for his kindness.

She had felt a connection with him from the moment she met him, as if there was a string that tied her to him. She only hoped he felt the same.

But she also feared he did, she feared she wouldn’t be good enough, or not enough for a male such as him. Feared that he would rather rescue Elain and leave her in the hands of the enemy.

She didn’t know why she had these thoughts. But they chased her.

Elain had powers, she was useful.

She could talk.

She was everything Daphne wasn’t.

It was a thought she had had her whole life.

Surely, they would prioritize Elain, she was the useful one whereas Daphne was the burden.

Tears feel from her eyes, and feeling of panic overtook her.

She didn’t want to be left behind, she had scarcely even lived.

She felt a tugging in her chest.

Different from the usual tugging she felt whenever she would have an attack.

This one tugged at her heart and flooded it with comfort.

The tears in her eyes fading as she focused on it.

She had felt it before, whenever she was sad or nervous, often a shadow would appear shortly after, and wrap around her wrist.

And this time was no different.

The tugging felt stronger, as if whatever it was that was tugging her was getting closer, and as more shadows entered the tent, and the sound of guards dropping outside. She realised the source of the tug walked into the tent.

“Daphne” Azriel breathed, his blood-spattered face frowning as he took her in. “are you okay?” he questioned, approaching you slowly, “did they-“ he couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bare to say the words.

Daphne shook her head “no” she breathed “they needed me intact” she said, her tone angry as she recited the words.

Azriel slowly undid her binds, before lifting her into his arms. “ we need to leave now…Feyre has Elain” he mumbled, as if reading her mind and the question on the tip her tongue.

The journey back was long. From being chased and hunted out of Hyberns came, to the actual journey back to camp.

Azriel didn’t leave her side for the rest of the night. In fact, he refused to leave it all together, and the few moments he did, she found herself tugging on that string between them.

They didn’t talk about it, no one mentioned it as they saw her wrapped around his ar, refusing to leave his side.

It wasn’t what was important, at least right now.

For now, they had the war to think about.

She couldn’t remember much leading up to the moment, only the image of her grabbing truthteller, Azriel’s sword, and plunging it into the king of Hyberns neck. Of Nesta’s Scream. Of their father’s neck snapping.

And then there was a burst of golden light, something the heat of the sun flooded the field, taking the life of Hyberns troops.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

taglist

@bravo-delta-eccho @fuckingsimp4azriel @kingshitonly @galaxystern08 @willowpains @amortentiadrops @complete-randomness-2 @azysmate @6v6babycheese @anon1227 @sweetorangeblossom @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @quinnhugheslvr @mich731 @Sofietargaryen @thatbritishbookworm @celestialgilb @liahaslosthermind @romantasyreader28 @lportes-22 @pinksmellslikelove @mrsjna @anainkandpaper @fr0stf4ll @breemitch15 @kissesfromnovalie @fly-me-away @acotarbuffy @saphity @ryebread-3 @thoughtfulwizardphantom @swiftiethatlovesf1 @just-some-teenagerr-blog1 @vaylint @motheroffae @lifetobeareader @mariahoedt @siriuslystyle1989 @lavenderhotcoco @mangoreads @selpote @nebarious @Strangleycami @artemisfallsii

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askaalaska-vdeppressed · 2 months ago

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Black Antler Buck

This is absolute filth and I am not sorry.

Alastor X Doe! Reader. Rut fic. Word Count: 5K.

Absolutely no minors, Zero, zilch, na dah. I mean it, this is 18 + Adults only.

It always started as an itch.

Not in the metaphorical sense, it always started as a physical itch.

Alastor's skin would become hypersensitive to the point that any slight variation in cloth would cause his skin to itch. He had ripped out any tags present on his garments by the seams many many years ago. Yet every year his nerves always managed to find something. A raised stitch here. A pulled section of the weave there. A wayward thread.

Every year, without fail, he would find some ways to itch.

And that was only the beginning.

He hated the fall.

What was once one of his favorite times of the year became his season of torture. Memories of frightful masks and chilled air were replaced with hot skin and a boiling pot of lust read to spill over. Hell had two options, blistering heat or frozen wasteland. It was quickly on its way to the latter as Alastor made his way down the darkened street. The wind was cutting and cold would creep in to the bones of any uncovered fingertips. Yet Alastor was fine, the cold air felt rather pleasant on his heated skin.

The building and general crowd of the city began to fade as he made his way further and further into the outskirts. As the sidewalk ended it gave way to endless desert, which would become tundra as the cold progressed. Nothing. No building, no road, no person ahead as far as the eye could see. Or so it appeared at least.

Alastor allowed himself to slip into the shadows. Transporting himself to his destination in a matter of minutes. While it wasn't the flashiest of his powers, it was the most useful. The journey to his destination was at least a four-hour drive by car, supposing you didn't run into any trouble along the way. It would have been a full day of travel if you decided to walk there. How anybody else got there he had no clue, and that was by design. Anonymity was a key part of its existence after all.

Alastor manifested out of the shadows near a small collection of rocks. Completely innocuous to most anyone. Alastor checked the time on his watch before fastening up a black jacket over his clothes. He then pulled up its black hood over his head. Allowing the black mesh attached to the front to fall in front of his face before securing it to the jacket with the attached buttons. The hood was irritating on his ears, and the mesh was hot and hard to see through but it was mandatory dress code.

Now properly dressed Alastor knelt down to the rock, pressing a small custom coin onto a discoloration in the stone. The quiet click of a latch reached his ears as he lifted up the rocks. The hinge of the trap door was well oiled and silent as Alastor made his was down the stone stairs.

He wasn’t sure what triggered it this year. Normally he could handle his season. Or at the very least keep himself cooped up for the worst of it. But something about this year- probably stress from the hotel- drove him to near madness. He was sure he had worn down the finish on the floor from how much he paced in the night.

The stairs led down to a solid wall of stone. Another defense mechanism. Alastor found the crack in the stone and slid his coin through. It was clear this place was designed for animal sinners, considering it expected its guests to find their way to it with no light whatsoever.

Alastor waited for a few breathes, double checking the time in his mind again. He was at his assigned window of entry he was sure of it. Just as panic started to swell, the stone slid to the side, the low light of the room welcoming him as he stepped in. The lobby was empty, save for a singular woman who sat at the front desk. “The Watering Hole” was craved into the stone above her, lit with low warm fluorescent lights.

An establishment that catered to animal sinners seeking partners for their season. Completely anonymous and secure. Nobody outside of it knew about it and nobody inside of it talked about it. Alastor himself wasn’t even sure how he’d been selected to join. The coin and instructions written in code were slid under his door one day. Once he figured out the code and went to investigate, he had been stopped at the wall at the end of the stairs. A force unlike anything he had seen or felt before or since came over him and he woke up in a small room. A voice prattled off his information, aspects of his life that he swore only he knew. After being thoroughly intimidated he was made aware of the rules.

Everything is anonymous, unless an individual wishes to disclose their identity, which they do so at their own risk.

Everything is consensual.

And once you step out of the facility everything you heard, said or saw becomes something you didn’t hear, say or see.

Follow these rules to the letter or else, no exceptions bar one. Should something you do in these walls follow you out of them, the facility will contact you and handle the issue on a case-by-case basis.

For the longest time this vague clause in the rules confounded him.

If the whole point is anonymity what would follow you out? At first, he thought this may be for a stalker situation. Only recently-- in part thanks to the hotel's resident porn star-- that it occurred to him this probably referred to STD’s.

Perhaps it was a catch all sort of thing, giving the facility and whoever ran it, grounds to meddle if they felt so inclined.

All could be true or none could be, Alastor wasn’t particularly worried about it at the moment.

Right now, all he wanted was the fog in his head to dissipate and the hard on in his pants to go away.

Alastor waited for the receptionist to wave him forward before placing the coin on the desk and stepping back. The woman grabbed it and placed it on a small square plate that glowed once it was placed. She then reached under her desk, the sound of a drawer pulling open and files being sorted through drifting up. She reemerged with a thin file, opening it and flipping to the second of the two pages that were in it.

She grabbed the page and placed it under the desk once more, a thunk sound could be heard, like the sound for punching in and out of a workplace. The page was then set back at home in the folder and put back in its drawer. Her movements were crisp and meticulous like this was all she did every day.

Maybe that is what she did all day.

The stone was placed toward him once more, the woman leaned forward, pointing to a hall off to the side.

“Down this way, turn right at the second hallway, third door on the right.”

Alastor retrieved the coin once more, beginning to make his way down when he heard the receptionist speak once more.

“So are you gonna...” She made a vague gesture to the top of her head with both her hands. Alastor was confused a moment before getting the hint.

Alastor closed his eyes a moment, feeling the top of his head shift as he allowed his antlers to extend out from there compact structure to the full spread. The bone slid through the top of the hood like butter, splaying out to the 8 points they currently were. 2 more were sprouting towards the ends, soon he’d be a proper 10 points. Internally Alastor chuckled, knowing in his life he would have loved to bag a 10-point buck. The thick bases, normally cumbersome felt comforting and natural in his rut addled state, focusing his mind back to the task at hand.

“Well well” the receptionist muttered under her breath as he passed her to head down the hall.

The room for the cervides was cool, ambient rustling and chirping noises being pumped out from some unknown source. It was a little too ‘on the nose’ for you personally. Just because you’re a deer doesn’t mean that the meeting room had to be a damn forest. You supposed however, that maybe some of your fellow deer demons, or deermons as you jokingly called them, needed that atmosphere.

In any case you appreciated the temperature control.

Your heat this year was killing you.

It was so bad that you’d finally took the time to rummage around your dresser to find that stupid coin that let you into this place.

It was clear you were the strongest in the room so far, by a large margin. The second you had stepped in your scent had overpowered everything. Most of the other females flocked toward you. As you settled atop a large stone structure against a far wall, they all settled near you, awaiting your judgement on any approaching males.

And approach they did.

Strutting, calling, posing, running into each other and locking antlers.

All of them perfectly serviceable, but none of them were what you needed. This heat felt different. Normally your heats consisted of a throbbing ache in your core, paired with a sensitivity and skittishness that was annoying as hell. This time it felt like a pain from the top of your throat to the tip of your hooves. Every time your walls convulsed, begging to be filled, your chest would follow suit causing spasms. You’d fucked yourself thoroughly with every toy you owned before coming here, just so you could keep a level head.

But that was only a short-term solution. You needed a buck, one that could properly chase you, pin you and mount you. Your heat craving power and protection, you needed someone as strong or stronger than you. To quell this heat, you’d need a near bombshell of a buck, and the only adequate spread before you simply wouldn’t do.

Leaning back on the stone you relaxed, allowing your mind to drift as you waited for something worthwhile to walk through the door.

An enclosed path greeted him as Alastor walked into the instructed room. Tight and narrow, foliage crowding either side. He’d always appreciated the attention to detail this place had. He moved swiftly following the sound of clanking antlers to find where others may be.

The path branched out to a ‘clearing’ in the room. A wall supported a large mound of rocks and before it bucks were showboating. As Alastor stepped out into the clearing, he walked into a wall of scent. It was addicting, sweet, salty and rich like some combination of sweat drying on perfumed skin and old leather. Distinctly feminine, it made his palms sweat and his dick twitch. His spine now stick straight, his head swiveled to find the doe that was emitting such a rich aroma.

Paying closer attention to the center of the action, Alastor noticed that it was only bucks on the ground before him. All of them trying to win over females that weren’t there.

That was until he paid even closer attention. Following his nose, he moved closer, at first what he thought were shadows of the rock pile were actually the cloaked figures of does. Heads all turned to the action in front of them.

Yet strangely none of them moved.

Not a wave or sound, not a single inch of acknowledgment.

None of them were as great as him, but these bucks couldn’t be that bad, could they?

As he pondered the peculiar scene a nasty little scrap finished. A slightly smaller buck with blue antlers having successfully pushed his opponent aside, the other conceding defeat.

The head of the victor, and the heads of the does all lifted up to the top of the rock formation. Following their line-of-sight Alastor noticed a singular doe perched at the top. Casually reclined, her head tilted back to drive home the point that scene in front of here was completely uninteresting to her.

Ah, now Alastor saw what was going on here.

A pecking order had been established, and the lesser does were waiting for their leader at the top to pick her mate before they pursued theirs.

Their leader at the top who was most likely pumping out that devilishly pleasant perfume.

Well if it was a show she wanted.

The heat was cooking you from the inside out you were sure of it. You’re only comfort the cool stone beneath you, cutting through the fabric of your anonymous attire to provide its soothing chill to your heated skin.

Gods above why did this lot have to be so average.

All of the struts and battles were barely worth a passing glance.

Perhaps it would be better to go home at this point so at least the rest of your fellow does could get some.

A crack, like a strike of lightning rang out, sitting up you tried to locate the source. A buck with a thick sprawling black rack had just used said antlers to rip a limb, the width of your torso, off a tree.

You were glad you didn’t leave earlier.

He turned his head expectantly, waiting for one of the other bucks to challenge him. The previous victor began to charge, but he didn’t even get to lock onto him. All it took was one swipe of his head and the black antlered buck had thrown the other to the ground. He raised his head and squared his shoulder preparing for another challenger.

Two bucks, one on either side of him charged, apparently going for a team attack. The black antlered buck was too fast and clever for it though. He ran quickly toward one of them, locking antlers. Then with a mighty swipe he lifted one challenger and swung him into the other. The two crashing into a heap.

You’d seen all you needed to see. Your heat wouldn’t hold out much longer, and things were turning just a bit too violent for your tastes.

Perhaps he had been wrong about his earlier assessment.

Maybe these bucks truly were that bad. The second Alastor made his presence known, a majority of them stepped back, conceding then and there. And the three that had tried to fight him were pathetic. One with a blind charge and the other two with a cheap double team tactic.

No wonder the doe at the top was bored.

Peering up to see her reaction, only an empty spot at the top of the rocks greeted him instead.

Alastor felt his rage begin to stir. He took a deep breath in just before it could rise through and he was hit with that scent, infinitely stronger now. It made him want to buckle his knees and jump into the sky simultaneously. Sensing someone behind him, he turned quickly, expecting to face another challenger.

The doe from the top of the rocks greeted him instead. He had been correct before, that salacious scent was coming from her. It caused his heart to skip and his breath to hitch. Every instinct in his body begging him to grab her, puller her down and mount her right on the spot, but he quelled it just barely.

Her hand raised, and Alastor swore he almost heard the does behind him gasp in anticipation.

Her hand hovered just next to his face; in almost any other context Alastor would have assumed he was about to be slapped.

Maybe he was.

Mercy was on his side however as the doe’s hand moved down, tracing the outline of his arm without touching him. Diving down, down till it finally moved and grabbed his hand. Lifting it up, the doe then splayed her palm against his, seemingly comparing the size difference. Then she held his hand in her own once more and began to lead him along. Walking backwards for a few paces, slowly, giving him time to retreat if he so wished.

Fat chance.

Once it was clear he had made his choice, the doe turned forward, continuing to lead him to the path leading toward the exit.

The hall with the suites could only be described as plush. All red and brown and dark lacquered wood. Once they reached a room that was free, each deer moved to their respective door. Each suite at facility came with private rooms for either partners, each containing a small living area and bathroom. The room proper would have the bed, a fridge and other necessities both for living and for pleasure.

“So, how do we want to do this?” Alastor spoke before you could open your door, his voice was low and deep, hoarse from heavy breathing. He’d stopped himself from producing the radio static just before speaking. Reminding himself that this was all anonymous after all

“Heh” you let out a small laugh. “Normally I’d just advocate for dropping trou and getting down to it, but...” you walked over to the tall buck. Getting into his personal space, basking in the raw musk and power that was rippling off of him. He dwarfed you, and your pussy couldn’t help but clench at that fact.

“After that little display, I think i need every piece of you I can get. So, I say we turn off the lights, take off our clothes and you show me exactly what your made of.” The laugh he gave in response sank into your ribcage, bouncing around causing your heart to flutter.

“I couldn’t agree more” he replied.

You sauntered back to your door, hazarding on final glance at the thick antlered buck’s cloaked figure.

“I’ll meet you on the other side then.”

The bottom of the bed was rimmed in red lights. Far too dim to be of any use outside of marking where the bed was. Still, you were able to make out the faint silhouette of your buck’s sprawling rack in the dark. As your door closed, the silhouette turned to face where you were. Hooves met hardwood as he made his way toward you.

Your palms were splayed out in front of your naked torso so you could stop him before he bumped into you. The sudden shock of warm skin caused your shoulders to jitter. His hands met yours giving himself a reference point as he then moved higher and higher. Cradling your neck with one massive palm he squeezed slightly in warning before pulling you into him. His lips were plush, pillowy and soft as they crashed into yours. His other arm snaked around you, hand against your back so he could pull you even closer to him.

The kiss was a mess of passionate chaos, the two of you pushing into one another in a fervor. Your hands began to wander, mapping out his torso as his tongue pushed forward to map out your mouth.

He was thinner than you’d expected, his figure being helped greatly by his massive shoulders. As your hands wandered up to his head, mirroring him by splaying your hands on his neck he began to dip you backwards. The pleasant feeling of your thighs meeting his causing a small gasp to escape you.

He returned the noise with a pleased hum before moving his head down. Sharp canines bit at your neck before those plush lips attached themselves to the thin skin just under the base of your ear. Sucking and nibbling, your toes curled and chest convulsed at the sensation. Getting to hear in high definition the delicious noises he was making as he devoured your skin. The vibrations from the noise causing a shiver to run up your spine. Digging your nails into his shoulders, you desperately tried to ground yourself as he chuckled. Releasing your skin, he licked his way across your jawline before diving tongue first once again into your mouth.

You couldn’t help the moan that left you, the way his lips crashed into yours once more. You could taste the salt from your skin on his lips. He relented a moment, allowing you to breath before attacking the skin underneath your other ear.

Becoming jittery once more at the sensation you began moving a hand along his side. His ribs were prominent. You let your fingers ghost over them, feather light touches on the little hills and valleys. You swore you heard him laugh slightly before a sharp bite to your jaw caused you to grab his hip.

Your fingers found the divot there, allowing it to guide you lower and lower to your prize. Just as you began to feel curls of hair he spoke up.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” He asked, his voice somehow lower than before.

“This” you replied moving before he could stop you to grip the base of his cock. Just like his antlers, it was thick. A vein bulging out at the bottom. You followed it with the tip of a finger, reaching his uncut tip before following it back down. You could hear how ragged his breathing was becoming, his rut surely making him sensitive. You leaned your head into his neck, allowing him to feel the smirk on your face before you moved lower.

His balls were hot in your hands, heavy with seed as you began to squeeze and massage. Experimenting till you’d found just the right pressure, knowing you’d found it by the moan he let out, quickly followed by a growl.

“Watch it little doe” he warned.

“Or what? You gonna stop me? Buck?” you taunted. You knew challenging him, riling him up was a bad idea, but it was the only way you were going to get what you wanted.

What you needed.

The tension was palpable as neither of you moved. If you were going to back down now was your opportunity.

Fat chance.

To prove your point, you squeezed his sack once more at that exact pressure again, lips finding purchase on his chest as you sucked, surely leaving a deep hickey on him.

The growl he let out shot through you as in one swift motion he grabbed your ass and hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

Marching over to the bed he threw you down onto it, a hand reaching out and grabbing an ankle before you could get your bearings. The dim lights underneath allowed you to see more of his silhouette, though no real distinguishing features. Gripping your ankle tightly he wretched your leg out of the way, pushing it as far as it would comfortably go.

Then a swift sharp slap smacked against your pussy lips. An audible wet sound could be heard as he growled and smacked you again.

You hadn’t even realized how wet you were. The sting from his palm causing you to spill even more. In this moment you very appreciate that this wasn’t your own bed you were ruining.

As his massive palm gave your lips one last love tap, he kept his hand still. Using his outer two fingers to splay you out, your walls pulsed at the sensation of open air. Before it could become uncomfortable, he sank his two middle fingers into your pussy without warning. A sharp gasp ghosted out of your mouth. After feeling so empty, finally, finally warm thick skin was coming to fill you.

He wasted no time as he began to drive his digits in and out of your hole. The sounds in the room now a mix of wet, gasps from you and creaking as he leaned forward above you on the bed. An overture of sin, lust passion and desire. He began biting at your chest, pain blooming as he played with skin of your breasts in his mouth. Your clit switched in irritation, his hand angled away from it, and his torso blocking your arms so you could not take care of it yourself. The rhythmic pumping of his digits, in and out, forward back, filled and empty was driving you swiftly toward the edge.

You became restless underneath him, trying to wiggle and adjust yourself in such a way that you could get some friction on your poor neglected clit.

By the grace of the gods he got the message, a smug and amused chuckle spilling from him as he adjusted his thumb to press against your bud. Your heat addled brain turning to mush, making you convulse and jolt under him. Anything to get him closer, faster, deeper, all you wanted was just more of him. Finally, you reached your crescendo, walls clamping down on his digits in a vice like grip, that you knew would only get tighter with the heat. As pleasure surged through your body your back arched off the bed. A high pitched whine rattling out of your skull.

As you came down from your high, his hand did not stop. Overstimulation now poking at you, scratching the raw parts of your freshly orgasmed brain. You huffed at him to stop, kicked your legs out but he kept going.

Finally, you’d had enough, lunging forward you grabbed the black antlered buck by his shoulders and pulled him on top of you. Removing his hand from your depths to steady himself on the bed. Your grip shifted as you dragged clawlike nails, or nail like claws down his back, while you lifted up and began biting on his neck.

You need him to mount you and you needed him to do it now.

Locking your legs around him your rubbed yourself against him, wet arousal coating his hard on. He made no movements for a moment, small whimpers and moans leaving his lips as he took in the sensation. They almost sounded... staticky?

Your lips moved up to bite at his jaw and he seemed to snap out of his trance. Dipping down he lined himself up with your hole he pushed forward. Your previous orgasm and heat allowing him to enter with minimal resistance. His head neck to your, large antlers keeping you down, unless you wanted to lose an eye, he began shallow thrusts. Sighs let the both of you as your instincts were being satiated.

You felt hot and cold running up your back, dancing between your shoulder blades. Hands itching to roam you moved toward his ribs again. As you made contact, he stiffened, back rod straight. A low growl rumbled through his chest, he removed himself from your walls and lifted you. Pivoting so the pair of you were lengthwise on the bed.

On his knees between your legs once more, your felt hands grip your claves, lifting them out and up so eventually your ankles rested on his shoulders. As he entered you once more, he took a sharp breath in. Those massive hands grabbed your arms, his grip sturdy and sure. A warm comfort as your chosen mate for the season began brutally pounding into you.

Those strong muscled legs thrusting him forward, burying his cock deep into your core. While those lithe arms simultaneously pulled you back, impaling you on him, forcing his length to go even further into your channel.

The pace was constant and quick, the head of his member pushing over and over against the entrance of your womb.

You were redeemed and gone to heaven, or at least that’s what your heat was telling you. Bliss coursed through you as he grunted above you, cockhead bullying your cervix. HIs body rubbing against your button with each thrust. Long loud gasps and moans left you involuntarily. The room filled with moans from the pair of you, wet slapping and thrusting. The symphony grandiose and full.

You were much, much to far past the point of common decency to mute yourselves. If the people running this place didn’t think to soundproof the rooms, then that was on them.

You could feel your pleasure scaling once more, calling out to your mate.

“Fuck i.... Buck please...” You had no idea what you were crying out for.

“Doe” he gasped out to the air “let me fill you with fawns”

“Yes, Yes” You cried out, finally losing yourself to pleasure once more. A whine, bordering on a scream left you and your walls clamped down, milking the buck still thrusting into you.

“Ah, ah, fuck doe, take it take it.” He moaned above you, thrusts stuttering as a final choked moan left him and you could feel the hot release of his seed filling you. He let go of your arms, dropping forward and caging you under him as your both caught your breath.

As your breath steadied, sleep began tugging on the edge of your brain. Normally the idea of sleeping like this, sweaty, smelling of lust, covered in spit with seed dripping out of you would be gag inducing. But right now? Right now, you were a heat heavy deer, content for the time being, freshly mated, with your chosen buck next to you.

Right now, sleep seemed ideal.

The black antlered buck seemed to agree as covers moved under you, arms searching you out to drag you next to him.

Your heat would still be a few more days, as would his rut. But now that prospect didn’t seem as daunting.

Small breaths against your neck told you and your inner doe that now you were safe and now could sleep.

#alaska writes #alastor x reader #alastor x doe!reader #I'm slowly trying to get better at spicy writing #This fic is titled “One shot cuz brain no workie” on my laptop #I know too much about deer hunting to write Alastor fics #That being said this thing is not accurate at all regarding mating practices #I just liked the plot point better.

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caninepoetry · 5 months ago

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i'm yearning for a feeling that i just can't place.

#: ̗̀➛ mutt writes #๋ ⭑ pawsteps #therian #nonhuman #canine therian #caninekin #canine poetry #wolf #canine #theriotype #therianthropy #therian things #wolves #canids #deer

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minkdelovely · 9 months ago

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I CAME HOME TO THE PRETTIEST SURPRISE TODAY!! 😭A big thank you to my darling @hazelfoureyes for making me this gif so I can show y’all our favorite old men in all their glory! 🥹💖

I can’t even lie, when I saw NOTHERPUPPET on the label of my package I fully gasped and tore into it IMMEDIATELY and did my very best not to cry (a task I barely succeeded in, but still).

@notherpuppet the boys came out soooo beautifully. Not that you ever miss — it felt blasphemous to type that — but you really fucking killed it with this. They are my pride and joy and I don’t know how I’m supposed to get anything done now or ever again because I can’t stop staring at them… but honestly what’s new?? 🥺💖

#THIS WOULD BE ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS I GRAB IF I HAD TO EVACTUATE FOR FIRE #notherpuppet #my deer nanny #radioapple #radioapple fanart #mink writes

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casuallyanidiot · 8 months ago

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Yandere deer Hybrid with a hunter darling.

Tw.Nsfw themes! Dead dove do not eat!

Kidnapping, death, Yandere, MDNI

He's so regal and princely, with auburn colored curls framing his face like ribbon would a doll. Ciervus is a proud one, and he doesn't shy away from it. He stands taller than his peers, and his winding horns only add to his already imposing stature. He's a catch by all means: strong and intimidating to the point where no predator would mess with him and his future doe.

No one except you at least.

Ciervus is absolutely fascinated. He knows you're not something he should trust, but you've got so many things about you that he just can't tear his eyes from. Your hands are rough from handling your rifle all day, everyday, and you've got this permanent frown on your grimed streaked face. How odd. He thinks you'd be a cute doe, if you weren't fully human that is. He can't blame you for that, but it is a bit frustrating. He has his pick of potential mates, and if you just had little fuzzy ears or shiny black hooves, then he's sure he could've had you squealing and under him a long time ago.

He stamps his feet in frustration as he watches you. There's something thrilling about watching you settled in the underbrush, pointing your weapon at those he would consider his people. Every few days or so, someone he grew up with, frolicking in the spring once long ago, would disappear with only a loud bang and a streak of blood to signal their fate.

He knows it's bad to even seek you out. He could die. You would have no reservations about killing him after all. But Ciervus can't help the way his loins grow warm when he catches your scent through the trees. Even when you've dragged off the body of another poor deer, he's crouched, pressing his nose into the earth where you had sat in wait only hours before. There's something primal in the way he huffs your lingering smell off of the scattered leaves and smushed grass.

He wishes that you would know he was here, so that he could woo you properly.

Ciervus approaches you one day, and in his hands are his shed horns.

You're apprehensive, to be certain, but you let him come close. He feels shivers run up his spine. He can feel your body heat as he leans in close and presses his gift into your hands. He doesn't know why for sure you hunt those like him, but he thinks the antlers might have to do with it. He doesn't care all that much. You can't shoot him from this angle, pressed up against your back with his teeth grazing over your skin. He can feel you freeze up, and he grins at the though that this might be the first time you've ever felt like prey out here in these woods.

He lets his hands wander, dipping down the curve of your waist. You smell like death, iron, and sulfur, like you're a devil haunting this place. He relishes your pounding heart, and his lips press into the thrumming pulse point. It's then he reaches back and presses his fallen antlers to you. He figures you should have them. They take a year to grow and fall off, and he's spent that time yearning for you. It's only fair that the human tangled in greenery is the one who gets it.

"You deserve these," He whispers and finally pulls back. You're too shocked to do anything but sit there with eyes almost as wide as his and watch as he disappears.

After that day Ciervus becomes more brazen. He starts to stalk after you. He knows that to you, he's just some weird fawn with a death wish. Maybe he is, but that doesn't mean he'll let you kill him so easily. He gives you so many reasons not to.

He knows that other deer trust him. He knows that to the other woodland critter, he's just an innocent face that is not to be messed with. In that sense, he knows he can be of use to you. For as much as he follows you, you now also follow him. It sends a thrill down his spine, knowing that the barrel of your rifle is trailed after him. If he was going to lose his life to anyone, he'd want it to be you and not some drooling, snarling creature that would tear his beautiful face into a bloody mess. But he wants more time with you, so he leads you to other hybrids.

A fox, a goose, a wolf, other deer, it doesn't matter. You learn quickly, and you know that where he goes, there's an easy catch.

You vanish into the dark tree line, a body dragged behind you, and each night he lets you leave. You always return for some reason or another, and he doesn't fear the lack of you. At least he doesn't until you're gone for over two weeks.

Ciervus is beside himself. It's the first time that he's been without you for this long, and he begins to wonder if you'll ever come back. He's especially volatile during then. He fights any other young buck that come near, his nostrils flaring and his little tail wagging in utter annoyance. He expands his territory in an attempt to see if you went anywhere else, if you finally decided you were done with him.

When you appear once more, face blank and unchanged, he decided he can no longer take it. You must think nothing of him. Truly what a little fool you are. You must learn. You have to understand how he feels, and that he will have you even if it kills him.

He doesn't lead you to another hybrid this time, and he feels his cock twitch when he sees the frustration on your face. Oh...you were looking for him. It's a gratifying notion, and he bites his plump lip in excitement. He lets you go about your normal routine, but this time when you start to take your hunt for the day and leave the woods, he follows.

He's never left the sanctity of the woods. Not once in his entire life. There's this twisted sort of pride that fills him knowing that he's doing this for you. And as he peers inside your little cabin nestled along the roadside, he knows that the only reason why he would be doing any of this is because you're going to be his mate.

Your home is filled with the smell of iron and chemicals that burn his nose, but he watches from your window as you wrap a stiffening body (A rabbit hybrid this time) in a tarp and wait for a rumbling truck to come and take it away. He can see you be vulnerable in a way you'd never been before. Your bulky hunting gear is off, and he can finally see just how little you are compared to him in all his hulking glory. His ears twitch. You really are just a little doe.

He waits for you to relax, sitting on your bed and yawning as you prepare to rest for the day. He strikes then, breaking your window and yanking you out with little regard for how the glass cuts into you on the way out. His lithe and bulging arms wrap tightly around your midriff and knock the air out of you. He smiled at the way you try to fight despite struggling to breathe. He croons and presses a kiss to your cheek. He suspected as much when he gave you his antlers, but you really aren't all that strong, are you? At least not enough to fight him off.

He shushes you and shoves two thick fingers into your mouth when you try to scream, and a wide, unnatural smile crosses his lovely face.

"Shhh, shh its okay- ow! Hnh, haha, I guess I deserved that. No more biting, okay little doe?" He murmurs as he pets your hair and drags you further into the forest. It's so dark, and he knows that your human eyes won't be able to see where he's taking you. He takes you to a little cave decorated all pretty with soft furs, flowers, and moss. He sets you down, thrashing and screeching, into a little nest he's made.

He knows you think you're strong, but he's going to make sure you know your place. You were never really meant to be a hunter, you were always meant to be the strong mate he deserved.

His large hand reaches down and finds your ankle, catching it from where you tried to kick his sides. His wide, dark eyes peer down at you, and he smiles. Oh he how he loves you, but you're far too stubborn. Even now you're clawing at his arms, and his face crinkles apologetically.

"Little doe, this is for your own good," He says with a firm tone. You part your lips to argue, but a sickening crunch reverberates throughout the cold, stone walls of the cave. You let out a bloodcurdling scream as your leg twitches in pain. He releases your now broken ankle, and he wipes away your tears as he puts extra padding around your wounded foot.

"There there, don't cry. Shhh, shhh you're okay. I'll take care of you," He soothes and presses you down. You're a little heap of sobs, and his heart squeezes painfully. "Don't worry, little doe. I'll be a good mate. I'll wait until you're allllllll better before I start trying to get you used to me down here," He says softly as he presses his hand to your clothed crotch. He feels you flinch away, and Cervius can only chuckle.

"I know, I know, we won't do that until you feel better," He assures you and presses his palm over your mouth to muffle the insults and screams that were trying to escape that pretty mouth of yours. He waits until you pass you before he finally relaxes and snuggles up against you.

He's finally caught you. His little doe. His prey.

Continuation here

#my writing #yandere #yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere male #yandere x you #x reader #stalker yandere #yandere hybrid #yandere deer #deer hybrid

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uncertain-tay · 10 months ago

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The hunter brought his rifle to rest on the edge of the deer blind's window. Two young does stood frozen in the floodlight's beam, framed by tangled oak and kudzu... Wait, was it two, or three? There were three pairs of eyes. But what was... Was he seeing things?

#Horror art #deer #deer art #not deer #Painterly #art #cryptid art #digital painting #digital illustration #taydraws #if you see this I love you <3 ty for stopping by :)#monster #that’s whatcha get for spotlight hunting ig #short writing

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jesuistrestriste · 1 month ago

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death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word.

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about.

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate.

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that.

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway.

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier?

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life?

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends.

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford.

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them.

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own.

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is.

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end.

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!”

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center.

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he?

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws @oncefaist ♡

#was suddenly inspired by a nighttime drive on my way back from a friend's place in which a deer nearly walked in front of my car #oh patrick how i understand you #queer childhood crushes are not for the weak #i know that he did NOT handle that breakup well #bear with me while i crawl out of my writing slump #and to my mutuals who wanted to be tagged: ily guys #patrick zweig fic #challengers fic #patrick zweig #divider by omi resources

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cervidaecorpse · 1 year ago

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Abyssal Zone

Night had washed over this side of planet earth. Dimly glowing lines marked your path through the building towering over the town. Colourless on the outside. Members rushing like blood cells through the system, creating swarms like fish. Avoiding you as if you were a predator ready to tear into them like fresh meat. Their numbers dwindling the higher you moved up the floors. One after the other. Voices quieting down. Faint steps in the distance vanished.

The higher you came, the further the pressure increased. Artificial rays of light began failing around you, avoiding your sight. The former colours drained from the walls and floor. Movement of the elevator stagnated. Doors opened, leaving you to exit. With a soft call they closed behind you, before another beckoned you through a second pair. Shutting you in.

Usually lit, the absents of any source of brightness inside the office left the moon in control of your vision. Falling through the vizor shaped window, reflecting off the polished desk. The person expecting you turned to greet you in his chair. Calm and neutral expression receiving cracks in its façade, once he raised his eyes from your hands to meet your own.

“I see your persistence was rewarded with success. Not that I expected anything less.” He commented. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Digits cladded in black cloth reached out your way. Obliging to his wordless request, you gave him the three cards he had ordered to be retrieved. His gaze raked over the rectangular shapes. Spreading them out on his desk, he propped his arm up.

“You did well.” He congratulated you, icy blues gleaming in the moonlight. “This family could have been difficult to deal with in the future, but thanks to you they will have no chance of becoming a thorn in our sides.” Tilting his head, he took note of the other cards trapped in the vice grip of yours. The side of his jaw came to rest on the back of his pointer finger.

“After cleansing the town, you decided to keep them.” Something akin to amusement flared up in his eyes. “You don’t have a Maximum as of yet, do you?” For just a moment, thoughts clouded his mind. “But I don’t think either of them will be a good fit for you. Leave them with me. I will find them fitting owners.”

Taking them from you, he instead pushed the three you had brought him toward you. Resuming his former position, weighing your response, his smile returned. “You have rightfully earned yourself the biggest threats of the MIK and my goal. I’m certain you will take good care of them.”

Accept the cards?

Yes

#yugioh go rush #ryugu phaser #a deer draws #a deer writes #despite drawing him so much this (insert curse word) was difficult #i mid way even started the rough outline of the sixth which i finished in a minute????#don't do this to me!#i can't have two certain people play fight in my head now too #go rush villain dating sim!au #go rush vds!au

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shrimsour · 5 months ago

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[ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE.]

[DIAGNOSTIC SCAN COMPLETE.]

Always wanted to draw Bio in the style of ULTRAKILL since I think him and V1 have many connections.

I love robot characters and divine machinery gimme all that shi I'm so feral abt machines and computers man they're so cool

This post is doing well everywhere I posted it (even on Instagram to my shock, where I've been shadowbanned for like 2 years now) so I'm gonna drop it here aswell

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willowser · 29 days ago

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decode—

geto suguru x f!reader wc: 6.4k+ tags: sci-fi au—tbh i leaned into the cyberpunk futurism thing again i can't help myself 💀, suguru's job is never explicitly mentioned but hopefully you get the gist, he's also a bit scary but i think that's normal ?? idk hehe thank you thank you thank you to dear @rabbbitseason for allowing me to write this ! it's my first time with him 🥹 i hope it's okay ! very grateful for all your support 🥹

ONE

On the night you meet Suguru, an outage swallows the bar in one gulp.

No flicker, just a snap and everything cuts. The holosign outside dies in a whine of static, fans grind to a halt, light collapses, and you're left standing in the dark, holding a tray of warm glasses in hands that suddenly feel too small.

It's disappointing, but nothing new. You’re used to this. Your part of town doesn’t scream when the power goes out—it just sighs.

There’s a rustle near the door. Not the scrambling kind, not like the usual patrons stumbling out to smoke and curse the grid; it’s measured, heavy boots on concrete, too slow to be familiar.

This part of town isn't kind, even to someone it's grown. You step behind the counter in preparation for something—anything.

The figure comes into view in pieces—at first, just a tall silhouette framed by the dim spill of emergency glow leaking in from the street, but then he steps closer, and you see him: all in black, lean and broad-shouldered, his coat trailing like a shadow that's grown too long. The emergency light catches in his eyes, plum; dark and sharp and sweet.

You try not to stare. He probably notices anyway.

"Power out everywhere, or just here?" His voice is low, silk wrapped around steel. Calm in the way that makes you wary.

You shrug, but aren't sure he sees it. "Whole block, I think."

He hums, like that tells him something, and you reach below the counter to fumble for the old lantern. It flickers to life, casting amber light across the counter and his face. He’s handsome—suddenly so—but there’s something else. Something in the way he stands, relaxed but alert, like a man used to being watched.

You clear your throat. "Can still serve you something, if you're not picky. Got a few bottles that don't need cooling."

He smiles, slow and deliberate. One strand of his long black hair has come loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and it swings slightly as he leans closer.

"Something warm, then," he says, not looking at the bottles. He’s looking at you.

You nod and turn, shoulders rising as you reach for the chipped ceramic pot. The movement’s an excuse to hide, give you a moment to settle the uneven flutter in your chest. You’re not used to being looked at like that. Not with focus. Not with intention.

The power’s out, but the pot’s still warm from before the lights went. You kept it wrapped in a thermal sleeve—old habit from long nights, colder ones. You pour the tea slow, steady, hoping your hands don’t shake as much as they feel they might. The silence thickens around you, too many shadows in too little space.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and steady, curling around edges in the dark. “City’s quieter with the lights out.”

You don’t answer right away, letting the sound of tea against ceramic fill the gap. Letting the heat of the cup chase back the chill climbing your fingers. “It’s always loud,” you say finally. “Just changes the kind.”

He makes a soft sound—agreement, maybe. Or understanding. Or neither. “No neon, no noise,” he says, more to the air than to you. “Funny how much the city depends on its own distractions.”

You slide the cup across the bar. He doesn’t reach for it right away, just watches the steam coil upward, like he’s waiting for something to reveal itself.

“I like it better this way, feels…cleaner, I guess.” You say, and it's true; this part of town isn't kind, no, but without the automated glitz and glamour, there's no need to pretend.

You hear the soft shift of fabric as he leans in—not close enough to touch, but closer than before. His presence hums against the edges of your awareness.

“You’re not scared of the dark?” he asks, voice smooth, teasing. His smile is wide, charming, disarms you in a way that it shouldn't.

You hesitate, trying to bite back your growing timidness. “Only when it’s creepy,” you say, "when it creaks or breathes back at me.”

That makes him huff, amused. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “So, no ghosts in here?”

“Well, yeah, we have those,” you shrug, “They just mind their business.”

That pulls something out of him, something real and small that feels like a reward. “Interesting bar,” he continues, finally reaching for the tea. “Do you see much traffic here?”

You keep your face still. “Some.”

“Travelers?”

You nod, wary of where this is going, though nothing in his tone gives anything away. Not pushy, not prying. Just drifting. “People passing through,” you say. “They come. They leave. Same as anywhere.”

He sips. There’s something practiced in the way he does it. Measured, like he’s used to watching, used to waiting. “This part of the district,” he says after a beat, “doesn’t get much patrol. No official presence. Doesn’t that bother you?”

You shrug. “They never helped much anyway.”

Another pause. Another small pull of his attention. You realize too late how much you're giving away, when you see the thought behind his eyes, whatever he's cataloging for whatever reason, but he doesn't press it.

“Sometimes the places with the least oversight are the ones that know best how to take care of their own,” he says, almost like a proverb.

You nod. You’ve learned to let silences hold the things you don’t want to voice.

He drinks again, not watching you now, not exactly, but still aware of you. His presence wraps around the room like heat—delicate, thick, hard to ignore. You wonder if he’s just a traveler; surely not, with how handsome he is, how subtly elegant, the way he speaks. You wonder what he’s really looking for.

The thought doesn't go farther than that before a stool screeches from the back of the bar. Not the clean scrape of someone careful, but the lazy sprawl of someone who thinks the world owes him the space and time.

Jogo has been here since before the outage, hunched in the far corner like he’s part of the decor—one of the peeling posters or half-lit neon strips that doesn’t work right anymore. You should’ve made him leave with the others. You didn’t. You never do.

“Still no power?” His voice lurches into the dim, louder than necessary, too smug. “Place like this, surprised it had any to begin with.”

You press your palm flat to the bar. Not in fear—just to keep still. Shame flickers inside of you at the insult, a small flame, ever-burning; no pretending in the dark, no pretending you and your handsome stranger could be from the same world.

Jogo gets up, boots thudding against the composite floor. “Surprised you’re still running this place at all. Must get real lonely in here, huh?”

The sound of his approach stretches the silence thin. You don’t answer. Words feed men like him; it's always best to let them starve.

He stops at the bar, leans in with that breath like rot and synth-spice. “What’s wrong? Cat got your—”

He sees Suguru—who you don't know is Suguru, not yet—still half-sitting, one elbow resting on the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Jogo must not have noticed him in the shadows before, but now he has, after the air has changed around him, gone colder, thinner. Like the room is holding its breath, too.

Suguru lifts his gaze to Jogo, calm as still water. "She’s busy," he says, voice smooth enough to be polite, but not a bit friendly. "Maybe try saying what you need without spitting."

The smile he wears is soft. Mannered, almost pleasant, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jogo blinks, tries to laugh. It dies somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters, suddenly smaller. “Gonna smoke.”

He turns on his heel and stumbles out, too fast to be casual, too slow to be brave, and the door hisses shut behind him. The silence returns, heavier than before—but gentle, too. You breathe, slow, and let your hand drift from the counter. Suguru hasn’t moved.

When you risk a glance, he's watching you, eyes like dusk, plum-dark and unreadable, but not cruel, not smug; observant. Like he's measuring the weight of the moment and choosing not to tip it.

“Didn’t mean to bring any problems with me,” he says, voice low, dry with something like an apology.

You shake your head, smiling reflexively. “No problems, just finicky ghosts.”

He smiles, enough to show his teeth, and something sour in you eases, recedes. “That so?”

You nod once. It feels like the right answer.

He leans back again, and the moment should pass, but it doesn’t. Not really. The bar settles around you both like the world has exhaled, but there’s still something coiled in the space between you, waiting. Watching. Becoming.

TWO

Suguru comes and goes like a rumor—whispers first, then footsteps, then silence.

You don’t know what Suguru does, or what he has to do to come back. He doesn’t tell you, and you don’t ask—not because you don’t care, but because some part of you already knows it’s nothing soft. Whatever world he disappears into when he’s not here, it stains his silence, lingers in the way his eyes avoid yours when he’s too tired to pretend he’s fine. It sits between you like something alive and untouchable, a quiet, clawed thing neither of you dare disturb.

Sometimes he brings strange gifts—tokens you don’t understand, bought in currencies you’re sure you never want to learn. Once or twice, he shows up with that white-haired menace in tow, loud and too tall for your doorway, trying too hard to be funny and laughing like he owns the air.

But most of the time, it’s just Suguru, and the rain.

He comes when he wants to, leaves without warning, watches you too long sometimes, like he’s memorizing the shape of your silence. Like there’s something he wants from you but doesn’t know how to hold without breaking. And still, he never says why he comes, and, still, you never ask him to stay.

But the space between those two things—what you don’t say and what he won’t admit—is shrinking.

In the morning, you stir—bones stiff, muscles whispering their usual complaints—and the city mutters back outside your window, indifferent. Your apartment is still, small, the kind of place that remembers everything you’ve ever done in it, that won't let you forget.

You don’t want to wake up, but your body doesn’t care what you want. You shift, stretch, dreams still clinging to your lashes like cobwebs—and then you hear it: soft, wrong, from the kitchen.

And that easily, you’re no longer alone.

It only takes a breath for your nerves to remember themselves. You already know who it is. No need to ask.

The air has changed. Sweet, smoky, with something metallic curling at the edge; sharp, familiar, a memory you didn't have to invite back in. He’s here, Suguru, and of course he’s made himself at home again, like this place was carved to fit him and not the other way around.

The clock says six. Early, but time doesn’t mean anything to Suguru; he isn’t ruled by it, doesn’t bend to it. He arrives when he wants, leaves when he’s done, and you—you just let him.

The floor is cold beneath your feet. Not just icy—artificial, indifferent, the kind of chill that comes from old synth-tiling, worn thin by time and use. In the corner, your heater clicks to life with a tired hum, flickers once, then settles into its usual half-hearted wheeze. It’s trying, and failing, just like every other morning.

Suguru’s already steeped in the hush of the kitchen, the shadows wrapped around him like old friends. He doesn’t turn, just moves, slow and precise and controlled, the way he always does—tea, window, silence—and your exhaustion finds you again, soft and sudden. You should be used to this—used to him—but surprise has a way of wearing new faces; even the expected can weigh heavy.

His voice cuts through the morning, low and smooth. “Good morning.”

You rub at your eyes, suddenly too aware of yourself. Of the old pajamas clinging to your skin, the sleep still dragging at your limbs, the way your hair’s decided it has a mind of its own. Bare, vulnerable things.

Your words are dry, meant to sound casual. “Back so soon?”

He glances back, just enough. Eyes finding you like they were made to—slow, deliberate, full of something unreadable that still manages to see too much. You catch the shape of his smile in them before it ever touches his mouth.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

His ease scratches at something inside you. Not longing, not quite, something worse, maybe, that doesn’t have a clean name. The kind that slips into your throat and settles there. Every time he comes like this, unannounced, unbothered, it’s like he leaves part of his shadow stitched into your space when he's gone.

You sigh, slow and shallow, trying to collect your thoughts before they show on your face. “No Gojo this time?”

His name lands heavy in the room: Gojo—noisy, untouchable, always dragging storms in behind him. You already know the answer; if he’d come, it would have been obvious, because the walls would still be vibrating. He’s never hidden the disgust in his mouth when he talks about this place, your dirty little corner of the star-system, as if it's a smudge on Suguru’s reputation. Shame and relief crawl into your chest together and sit there, when Suguru shakes his head.

“He can handle things on his own every now and then.” A pause. A glance. “Don’t tell me you miss him.”

Your laugh breaks out too fast, too sharp. It’s loud and uglier than you want it to be, but real, the way everything Suguru drags out of you is.

He turns fully at the sound and steam curls from the mug in his hand, held like an offering. He doesn’t speak, just smiles—that Suguru smile. The kind that knows too much. The kind that doesn’t need words to press against you. His presence settles like warmth between you—just enough heat to stay. Just enough to forget it will burn when it leaves. You take the mug, fingers brushing his, barely, and he steps aside.

And then you see it.

A package on the counter no larger than your hand, plain brown paper folded with precision, sharp corners and clean edges and neatly tied with a band of thin copper wire.

You eye it warily. It looks expensive. More than that—it looks deliberate. That kind of care—small, quiet, meticulous—is more him than any signature. You feel it in your chest before your brain can catch up. No one else wraps things like that. Not in this city. Not for you.

“What's this?” you ask, already knowing he won’t answer the question directly.

Suguru just slides it toward you quietly.

You pick it up slowly, running your fingers along the cool surface. The band slips off with a soft click, revealing beneath the paper a slim e-journal—compact, beautifully made. The kind sold by back-alley specialists who don’t advertise but somehow always have a waiting list. The kind you’ve lingered near before, just to stare. A soft hum rises from it as the display lights up with a warm, golden pulse. Your name flickers in the top corner, small and elegant.

You blink. “These aren’t easy to get.”

Suguru doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “You said your old one was glitching.”

You can’t even remember when you said that. Weeks ago, maybe, in passing. You doubt you even meant for him to hear it.

Your chest tightens, that odd pull of gratitude and disbelief tangling behind your ribs. You press your thumb against the screen, watching it open to a clean interface—blank pages, empty folders, but one tab already labeled: Home.

"Suguru…" you start, voice shaky, barely pushing past your throat.

He just tilts his head slightly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t mention it.”

The journal hums gently in your hands, in response. It’s light, sleek, and somehow heavier than it should be. A gift like that isn’t about what it is, not with him, it’s about the way he remembers. The way he’s been gone for weeks, and yet, when he returns, he still knows exactly what you need.

You keep your eyes on the journal even after the screen fades to black, the glow slowly dimming beneath your fingertips. It feels like the only thing anchoring you, like if you let go too quickly, the quiet swell of feeling might show on your face.

He’s here. He brought you something. He thought of you.

And you like the way that feels. You don’t hate it—not at all. You’re just shy about the way it wants to spill over. You’re not sure what he’d do if it showed too obviously, but from the way he’s watching you, eyes half-lidded and amused, maybe he already knows.

You squish your lips together, trying to tide back your smile. “You know, I was managing just fine with my ancient, barely-functioning piece of junk.”

Suguru hums, warm and buttery. “Mm. I noticed.”

“I was!”

“You say that, but I watched you slap the screen four times just to open the calendar.”

“It still worked.”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug, like the act of teasing you is something luxurious, a taste he wants to savor. “Barely.”

The air feels lighter already. You’re still holding the journal—still feeling the warmth of its casing, still tracing its smooth edge with your thumb like it might disappear if you let go.

You move to the kettle to keep yourself from lingering too long in your thoughts. The tea’s already ready, still warm in its ceramic pot. You pour him a cup without asking—it’s second nature by now—and the motion steadies you.

When you pass it to him, your fingers brush again. This time, the contact lingers just a little longer than it should, and you pretend not to notice how your breath catches in your throat. You don't dare meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, voice softer now. How many times will you have to say it back before you're even?

You nod once, keeping your arms folded loosely across your chest. “You didn’t have to bring anything, you know that, right?”

“I know.” He blows gently across the rim of the cup before adding, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The steam from his tea curls upward, catching the low light spilling through the window behind him. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between patient and quietly pleased. And it settles deeper than you expect it to.

“Well,” you say, small this time, “it’s nice. You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

Suguru leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. His presence is always heavy, but now it feels warm, grounding. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

You let out a breathy scoff. “Liar.”

His mouth curves, a small, knowing smile. “Maybe.”

The silence that follows stretches—not tense this time, but gentle. Lived-in. The kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. Just... a moment shared. A stillness made from something softer than what this world usually offers.

When you finally look over again, he’s already watching you—eyes dark, but not distant.

This time, you don’t look away so quickly.

And for a second, everything feels suspended: his hand cradling the tea, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the soft click of the journal as it powers down completely. The hush of the kitchen wraps around you like a secret, and you let yourself stay there just a little longer than you should.

THREE

Something eats away at him.

You don’t notice it at first—he’s always been distant, unreadable in ways that feel deliberate—but something shifts. Subtle at first, then sharp as a crack beneath ice.

Whenever the mask slips, Suguru speaks in riddles. About rot. About weakness. About the way curses cling to people like smoke in their lungs. Suguru never says what he means outright, but you start to understand that what he hunts is no longer just out there: it's in him now, settling deep. You’ve always been afraid to ask where he goes, what he does in the stretch between his visits—but one day, something starts ticking inside you, soft and slow, like a countdown. And you know you have to ask, soon, before the poison spreads.

He comes in just after midnight; a whisper of the stairwell, the slow press of the door, the scent of cold air and blood and rain. The room bends with his presence, drawn to him like gravity to a star, but tonight he is no source of light. Now he swallows it whole.

For a long, terrible moment, he simply stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, soaked through the folds of his coat. Hair down, black and heavy, falling like a curtain, hiding more than it shows. You don't speak. You don't want to fill up any more of the space than you have to.

Suguru crosses the room like a man half-remembering the shape of it, as though he’s not really here, not yet. His eyes skim the walls, the ceiling, the half-empty cup on the counter like it’s all unfamiliar, like he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming.

He finds the edge of your bed—an altar he has never bowed to—and sits slow, deliberate. The same way someone eases into the bath after a long battle.

The silence feels brittle, glass under pressure. His hands are braced on his knees, fingers twitching, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold something he can’t quite name.

“Did you eat?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

His gaze flicks to you. Something unreadable in the dark plum of his eyes, bruised purple, shadowed and strange.

“No,” he says. Then adds, almost like an afterthought: “I'm not hungry.”

You don't care if that's true or not. You have to do something with your hands, offer comfort made just for him, even if it's instant and simple and comes from a packet—but before you can leave the room, he asks:

"Do you think people are born evil?"

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor, at the space between his boots, like the question fell out of him without permission.

“I don’t know,” you say softly, and it's true—you don't.

You never had time to wonder about things like good and evil, never had the luxury. Your choices were simpler, narrower. How to keep the lights on. How to make enough for the next meal. How to stay whole in a place that’s always trying to carve pieces from you.

But this—this is a crack in his armor, and through it you see the shape of his world. A world built on consequences, on lines drawn and crossed again. You wonder who you’d be if your life asked those kinds of questions, if every choice you made had to hold up under the weight of whether it was right or simply necessary.

Suguru looks up—and in that moment, he’s someone else. A snake in the grass, coiled so tight you hadn’t noticed his presence until too late. He remains seated on the edge of the bed, and you’re still standing, but the distance between you feels like a black hole, sucking you in; it doesn’t give you control, doesn’t make you feel safe.

“What if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and unsettling. You don’t like the way he asks—don’t like any part of it, truthfully, but this, especially, settles under your skin like a stain that won’t wash out. It makes you wonder if he’s lied to you. If he’s been playing you all along, smiling just long enough to hide the knife in his hand, to keep you from seeing the truth.

Suguru has always unnerved you, in ways you never quite could face. From when he stepped into your bar, drifting in from the dark street outside, bathed in the emergency lighting. Like a warning you were blind to.

Since he walked into your apartment tonight, his attention has been scattered, drifting through the room like smoke, but now it’s all on you. You thought you wanted it, thought you could handle it, but now, under the weight of his gaze, you feel like prey. His focus presses on you, slow and deliberate, until every breath feels too shallow. When he rises from the edge of your bed, you step back, head bumping into the wall of your cramped room. The space between you disappears with one swift motion, and suddenly, he’s right there—close, too close.

"Would you kill them if I told you to?"

The question hits you before you’ve even had a chance to form an answer. You shake your head, words bubbling out in a rush, helpless. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were born wrong, would you kill them?"

You don’t know. The answer drips out, thick and slow, but it's the truth. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were little demons, twisted and demented, brought nothing but death and ruin—would you kill them? Even if they were young?"

You can’t answer anymore. The question feels unceasing, endless, like it’s reaching beyond you. His eyes, once dark and intense, have gone empty—hollow like a well. You don’t know if he’s even still looking at you, if he sees you at all.

Then, you notice it—blood. Slowly seeping through the chest of his white shirt, dark and damp, spreading like ink across the fabric. The realization hits you harder than anything he’s said, because there’s truth in it: something has collapsed inside him, something broken that you couldn’t stop.

“Y—you’re bleeding.” The words sound too small, too stupid, leaving your mouth like an afterthought, but he's still so close, close enough that you could count the long, dark lashes of his closed eyes when he blinks—and something flickers across his face. A snap, and then everything cuts.

His expression barely changes from that haunted look, but his voice is steady when he says, “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” The words leave you with more force than you expect, anger flickering beneath the surface of your worry. You latch onto it, grounding yourself with it, needing something to steady you against the unease crawling up your spine. “You’re hurt and you didn’t tell me.”

Suguru straightens, settling back onto his feet, back into his bones. It should be terrifying, how familiar he seems in that moment, how quickly he slips back into himself, but you're so desperate to get him away from that horror that you don't care.

His voice is sharper now, edged with something close to irritation. “Was I meant to?”

“You could’ve said you were bleeding.”

“It’s not new.”

“It’s new to me.”

That stops him. The space between now and the last time you saw him flickers behind his eyes—not like before, not like a wound he couldn’t name, but something else. A fact. A shared recognition: That was then. This is now. He is not whoever he was then. Not here. Not with you.

He closes his eyes, eventually. Breathes out a quiet sound, almost a hum. “It is,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you the space to go. There’s no hand on your wrist, no body blocking your path—but you know, with a kind of terrible clarity, that you couldn’t pull away from him right now, even if you tried.

It can’t be life-threatening, you realize, now that your heart isn’t pounding so loudly in your ears. Not a picked scab, but not a torn stitch either; the blood looks worse than it is, startling against the clean white of his shirt, thin and vibrant where it crosses in straight, resolute lines. In better lighting, you might have been able to see through the soaked fabric. You’re not sure that would do either of you any good.

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, something so profoundly unlike him it feels like a slip in character, and the pale glimpse of his collarbones is distracting, delicate in a way you hadn't expected. You shouldn't be looking, but it's hard not to. Enticing in a way that pulls gently at your attention, makes your breath catch for reasons you don't want to examine, not with him so close. You almost can’t stop staring, can’t help but wonder what else you’re missing—until the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely, but enough.

You clear your throat and press your spine against the wall, like it might make more space between you. It doesn't. "How recent is ‘not new’?”

“Weeks,” Suguru says, casually—so easily it startles you. You’ve never talked about his work before, and you’re still not, not really, but you’re closer now than you’ve ever been, in too many ways. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine now,” you say, not quite believing it. His smile tightens, enough that it reaches the corners of his eyes, though you wouldn't call it warm.

And then his hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. His fingers rise until they hover beside your face, and when they finally make contact—just the backs of his knuckles brushing your cheek—it’s featherlight. Reverent. It’s not possessive, not even asking; it’s a question in the shape of a touch, and somehow you already know the answer is yes. The air between you grows impossibly still, as if the world stopped turning just to see what you'll do next.

Your heart stumbles. You’ve never seen him like this—not the version that walks in shadows, not the one who smiles like a blade—but something else. Something stripped down and aching. It terrifies you how badly you want him to stay.

His eyes don’t leave yours. They could lie, but they don’t. "Yes," he says, "I'm fine now."

FOUR

Not much time passes, surprisingly.

Days, maybe a week or two, though time stretches differently when you're waiting for something—or someone—you’re afraid won’t come back.

Outside, the neon gutters spit their color against the wet pavement. The air smells like ozone, like the sky’s about to split open again. Maybe it will. You wouldn’t mind. Rain makes everything seem farther away. The night is nearly over; you’ve wiped the counters twice, swept the floor even though no one spilled anything, stacked the chairs with a little more force than necessary. You move slower than you need to, hands lingering on small tasks just to stay busy, just to keep from looking at the door.

The place is quiet—finally—and you welcome it.

Suguru left as he always has: without reason. Something has changed, yes, but still, he left you in the same shape he always does—like the world has flipped itself inside out. He never leaves without unmaking something. Every return, every departure, carves a new gap into you. They don’t heal. You don’t even notice they’re there until you're trying to stand still and find you can't—until gravity presses in wrong, sideways, like it's trying to fold you in half.

You've never seen him that way, so unraveled. It's been replaying in your head on repeat, unending: what if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me? Sometimes you think you should’ve said yes. Not because you would believe it, but because maybe—just maybe—he would’ve stayed, but that thought brushes up against something inside of you that’s cold and rotten and not meant to be touched. It makes your stomach twist. You don't like who you are in that version of the story.

You tell yourself, maybe it's for the best that he's done, that he doesn't come back—but the thought feels distant, like it doesn't belong to you. Like it doesn't belong to him, either.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel it, a shift in pressure, like the world exhaling. You turn just as he steps inside, though it's not quite the same as before; his hair is down again, though only half-way, not the wild ink-spill it was before, and his shoulders seem more relaxed, like he’s shed whatever that unseen weight was. He’s not walking with that same tight, controlled confidence; this is different, lighter, somehow, but there’s still something about him, something sharp behind the soft way he moves.

And he's not alone.

Two little girls are with him, though they haven't moved from the door, haven't commanded the space as he has. They're just watching. One of them has her arms crossed tight like a shield, the other clutches something—maybe a toy, maybe a scrap of cloth—pressed to her chest like it might anchor her. Both of their eyes seem too old for their small, round faces.

It's been playing in your head on repeat, unending: would you kill them? Even if they were young?

You stand there, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until his voice cuts through it.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he says, lightly. Too lightly. Like he’s trying to smooth the air between you, pretend nothing’s changed. Maybe it’s for the girls’ sake. Maybe it’s for yours.

You open your mouth. Close it again. A question rises and flattens against your tongue. You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. But that’s always been your dance, hasn’t it? The space between what’s said and what’s not.

He follows your gaze, then crosses the bar to stand in front of you. In front of them. “I’m tired,” he says, quiet and sharp. “Of that world, of the filth it feeds on. Of fools who think hurting someone small makes them strong.”

That word—small—lands like a dropped glass; the question you never asked answers itself, shattering quietly between you.

Suguru lifts his hand to your face, like he did the last time—but now the gesture is different. Looser. No tremble at the edges, no hesitation, as if he’s no longer afraid he might break whatever he touches.

His thumb grazes the arch of your brow, traces down to the soft skin beneath your eye. You think—maybe—he’s counting your lashes.

“I want them to live in a world that’s better than ours,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. “Safer.”

You've always thought Suguru was built from something other. Something finer, sharper, less breakable. A different species from whatever you are, clinging to the bottom rungs in your corner of the world, but now, up close, that divide feels thinner. Imagined.

You don’t know where he came from, not really, but you know where he is now. You’ve seen the edges of it, the pieces he hasn’t named and maybe never will, and they’re ugly. Embedded like grit beneath his fingernails, worn into the quiet lines of his face. Ghosts clinging to the hem of his voice.

You’re not the same. But there’s something unkind that lives in you both. Something heavy, and tired, and human. Something he wants to cut out—for their sake.

You glance back at the girls. They’re clinging to each other now, as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment, and the only thing they trust to hold is each other. Their small hands are tangled in fabric, sleeves bunched in fists, pressed so close they breathe as one. The sight turns something in your gut—sharp, instinctive, like a wire pulled too tight.

The thought that someone, anyone, had wanted to hurt them—had tried—makes your throat close. Your body moves before your mind does and you lean into Suguru’s touch. Maybe it’s deliberate, maybe it’s not, but his hand doesn’t hesitate. His fingers drift into your hair, curling there like a root finding soil, like he belongs.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You don’t have to. The quiet stretches, warm and fragile.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—you say, “I don’t know where you’re going to find a place like that.”

Because you don’t. You’ve lived your whole life in the dirt of this city, in the cracks of what people like to pretend is order. You’ve never been offworld, never even dreamed of it, but you’ve heard enough to know there’s no such place waiting out there, not one untouched, not one that won’t eat girls like those alive the moment you look away.

Suguru hums, low in his chest. The sound rumbles through his fingers where they rest against your scalp.

“I’m not going to find it,” he says, quiet but certain. “I’m going to make it.”

And when he says it, you believe him. Maybe not in the way of miracles, but in the way storms believe in rain. His hand lingers in your hair a moment longer, then slides down, slow, catching at your jaw, your cheek. He doesn’t move away. You don’t either.

Behind you, one of the girls makes a soft noise on the tile, barely a scuff of her feet, but it tethers everything back to the moment. The realness of it. This isn’t a story. It’s a turning point.

Suguru glances toward them, then back at you. You're not used to seeing him like this, less worn, less closed off. Like the jagged edge he’s always carried has been tucked away for a moment of stillness.

“It's not going to be easy, and I’ll need someone who knows how to build things that last. Someone steady.”

He’s not smiling, but his eyes hold the weight of something close to it. Hopeful, uncertain, wanting. A line cast into a dark sea.

You could laugh, if it didn’t feel like your whole chest was shaking. There’s no question what he means. Not really.

The silence sits between you again, but it’s different now—waiting, watching. Becoming.

And when you speak, your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. “Someone like me,” you say.

Suguru's thumb brushes your cheek again, soft as a promise. “Exactly like you.”

#please don't judge my ugly banner i made it in 10 minutes just to have something up there WAH #also yeah it's decode like from the twilight soundtrack yeah it is #i hope i did this man justice he's so !! slippery !!#✿ willow writes #realizing i haven't written fic of this length in probably two years bc i drabble too much LOL #i feel like. a baby lamb. little deer. hello new world please be nice to me afhafhakfhafa

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myladysapphire · 4 months ago

Text

A doe a Deer - A name i call myself

being the youngest archeron sister often meant that you were the forgotten one, no one ever saw you, until he did.

Azriel x Archeron!OC

Word count: 2,180

CW: mdi 18+, selective mutism, ableims?, death? self-hate, self-doubt, sad boy Azriel, angst, Daphne goes on a jounrey of self discovery in this one. not beta read!

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

Shock resounded across the field as they took in the state of the once war-torn field. The hight lords had all left the tent where the cauldron had been broken and then re-made, where a high lord had died and been reborn. They had thought that would be the most shocking thing that would have happened. That nothing could beat the very destruction of the very object that created the universe.

And yet as they left the tent, expecting the battle to be in full swing still, they ere left with the sight of Daphne Archeron. On her knees her hands outstretched and holding what seemed to be that of a thousand suns in the palm of her hand.

They heard the screams, the begs and the cries of Hyberns men. How the army that outmatched the combined power of seven courts, was eviscerated into nothing but dust.

And then the light changed from a golden blinding ray to a soft sliver glow. The power expanding to where their soldiers stood or flew, having stooped in shocked as their weapons pointed at nothing but piles of dust. As they all turned their eyes to her.

Fear claimed there faces, only to be meet with nothing but a soothing feeling. As their wounds were healed, and their dead reborn.

Their fear morphed into more shock, then into cries of joy, of celebration and victory.

Her name became a cheer, and the name “the saviour of Prythian” quickly found purchase in Daphne Archeron.

The sky had kept a golden hue to it, as if the sun refused to leave and the moon had simply made space in the sky for it. with the sheer strength of her power lingering even hours after, with no focus or thought, as made apparent by Daphne’s blank face.

The question of how she did it still lingered in the air, though she was cauldron made it seemed she had embodied the very might of the cauldron. Even when it had been broken, her power so strong inside her that even as the universe began to shatter, she could still harness the remnants of it.

And because of it, some had even called her a god.

Though if Daphne hadn’t dissociated completely, she would have scoffed at the word. She wasn’t a god, she was just a girl given powers beyond imaginable thought and magic she didn’t need and never wanted.

Hours later, after being coaxed from the battlefield and taken to her tent, she was still sat staring at her hands shocked and confused.

She only remembered parts of what happened, but not why. She had felt the hopelessness of her new family, the defeat she felt from falling soldiers and rage had built with in her, the grief from loosing her father. And as a result, she had become a unbreakable force, wiping out a large army by herself.

She remembered the looks on everyone’s faces. The shock. The horror.

Nesta and Elain had looked at her in disbelief, almost as if they had started fearing her, despite Nesta holding the decapitated head of the king of Hybern in her hand.

It scared her. Scared her that she was capable of doing something like that and what she even could do that and what else she could possibly do.

What if she hurt someone she loved?

But what scared he the most was the fact that’s she could still feel it bubbling inside her. Surely its should all be gone. Surely, she had used every last drop of her magic and she needed to rebuild it.

But as sun danced on her fingers I her pitch-black tent she feared she would be seen as a weapon, as something to fear. And she hated it.

Feyre had told her how proud she was of her, a smile on her lips as her the inner circle all gathered, following the meetings to discuss the war and a possible new treaty.

She had said nothing. And though that was nothing new.

She made no effort to communicate, not with her eyes or facial expression. Not with her hands. Nothing.

Azriel shadows hugged themselves around her skin, oddly drawn to her light.

They traced over her skin as if to offer comfort. But she didn’t even react to them, causing a frown to tug at Azriel’s lips.

She usually lit up when his shadows surrounded her. A smile always tugging at her lips, a happy glint in her eye.

But now there was nothing.

Nothing as the inner circle cheered and celebrated.

But Daphne simply sat and watched.

Nesta had vanished. Though no one seemed to be notice, expect Cassian of course. whose eyes darted around the tent searching for her.

Later that night, she still sat in the same spot as before, her eyes focused on her hands.

Everyone had left for bed, and only daphne and azriel remained.

“daphne” he spoke, moving to sit beside her.

She didn’t look up, her gaze fixated on her hands, drops of sunlight dancing around her fingers.

“daphne” he spoke again, his voice soft but concerned. “What is it?” he asked, the bond between them thrumming in his chest.

She had cut him off, the little connection they had from their bond, a bond neither of them had yet to acknowledge to the other but both knew they over knew of it.

His hand reached for hers, his eyes drawn to the drops of sunlight that his shadows seemed to play with.

A hot seeing pain pierced his skin as his already scarred and brunt flesh was met with the heat of the sun.

She startled back as he hissed in pain.

Her eyes widening in horror.

Standing up quickly, she ran from the rent. Her eyes swelling with sorrow and the bond filling with pleas of forgiveness.

Days passed and no one had seen Daphne. Not even Azriel’s shadows had found her.

And though she wasn’t the only Archeron sister to leave after the war, at least the inner circle knew where she was, where she lived and could find her when needed.

But Daphne? She was simply gone.

Her room in the townhouse was locked, a barrier in place that know one could breach. And yet Azriel knew she wasn’t in there.

He had tugged and tugged on the bond, but found no purchase, but at least it was there, and she was alive, that was enough, right?

It wasn’t for Daphne, not as she had returned to the sight of the war. The place she became a monster.

At least that was the name she had given herself.

She had ignored the praise, the songs that were sung in her honour. And named herself a monster. It was how she saw herself, because she was. She had heart Azriel without even thinking, had reduced thousands to nothing.

She ignored the good she had done, the healing and allowing solders to return home to their families.

Ignored the long feeling she felt every second of every day, the urge to respond to Azriel’s incessant tugs.

And had simple sat and started to think.

In the dust filled field, the remnants of swords, and arrows. Shields and helmets all left and abandoned; she had reflected on herself.

The burden she had been her how life, the illness that had nearly taken her. And how she was gifted with immortality and an ability to irradicate armies.

She had become everything she ever wanted, in truth.

Her whole life she had wished to be okay, to not be plagued with a constant illness. To not hear the tolls of death every winter season. To be able to speak with out fear or her body rebelling. To not be a burden, to be useful. And she had been. She had ended a war and saved the lives of the entire world. And yet, though she no longer felt as if she was a disappointment, she felt as if she was a monster.

She had abandoned her family, the people who had been nothing but proud, to wallow in self-pity, when she had gotten everything, she had ever wanted, or almost.

She had wanted to be loved and seen, and the whole of Prythian had seen her that day. Had started to worship her even.

Love though? She had received bounds of it from her sisters, even if it was veiled behind their poverty, and their struggles. They had showered her in it as she had them, even if not openly she had always felt it.

And now she felt it more so than ever, it was thrumming in her chest, pulling her to where the mountains meet the stars.

But she feared what she would do, she couldn’t control it, she had hurt him. She had hurt him.

The words played on repeat in her mind.

After everything he had told her, of his story, his youth. She had done the very thing; his half-brothers had done to him.

Though she had done it without malice, without thought. It was an accident, and Azriel didn’t hate her for it.

But she hated herself.

And hated that she couldn’t rely on his, on her family’s love, in order to love herself.

If there was one thing Daphen remembered about herself before her family was poor, was the desire to travel the world.

Her mother had long told her of her tales of traveling the continent, of even visiting fae courts. How she had danced with a fae prince who had won her hurt but had forced her to leave shortly after.

It was all she thought of when she was younger. Of what the world looked like, what it would show her, and the love she might find within it.

Of course, for a small child of four or five, this was very little. The world to her was an unimaginable thing. She had never seen the see or what the world outside their family’s estate looked like. And even when she grew up, she rarely saw outside of their small village.

She had still never seen the see, felt the brush of waves against her ankles, or the annoying caw of seagulls circling her as she feasted on her food.

She had never seen the courts her mother spoke of the cities of the mortal realm.

But now she decided she would. Even if she would spend a day doing each, she wanted to travel, to something for herself.

She felt as if her whole life, she had only ever acted to please. To do things that made her sister happy, whether it was find seeds for elain, sewing her sisters clothes, helping Feyre make her traps, or skin her kills. She had always helped, doing whatever they asked when she could, just to hear them say thank you. Just to feel less of a burden.

She had done it so much that she had started to burden them even more. Working herself to the core, getting sicker every year until it killed you, literally.

And though a part of her still whished to return, a part of her nagged at her that her family must be worried, and she so desperately didn’t wish for them to be, that she had to force herself to think of only herself.

And so, she found herself traveling to Gallia. The mortal kingdom her mother hailed from.

It was strange to her that she knew so much about her mother, when her sisters did not. That she only had happy memories of her and they only negative.

And yet she found herself not caring as she walked to the beaches along the shores of the continent.

She had travelled across the entirety of the mortal realms, seen cities and libraries and experienced human life for the first time, even though she was now fae.

But she had savoured the beach till last. Until she felt ready to go back to Velaris and to make it her home.

Peace settled upon her, as the see kissed at her ankles, and sand covered her feet.

She felt peace here, with the sun on her back. Her magic flared within her, and though she still feared it, the calm of the beach and soft sounds of waves crashing into rocks soothed the magic that bubbled with in her.

The sun had never stopped dancing around her fingers or lingering in the dark. The sun always seemed brighter wherever she went, and a warm always filled her chest.

It was comforting, though she dared not admit it. as the fear of what she could still do lingered with in her.

But for once she allowed herself not to think about the future, simply focused on the want to leave and find home.

So for the first time in a year, she found herself responding to the bond.

she just hoped to much hadn’t changed since she left.

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