#and then he see's this shadow near the road

[honeyandruin]

Between the Shadows

Chapter Seven: Burn Slow

 “You don’t seem too bothered.”  “Maybe I’ve got better shit to worry about than who saw us dancing.”

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Emotional tension, jealousy, miscommunication, gossip POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

 “You’re not embarrassed of him. You’re embarrassed they only noticed you once you changed. But he didn’t need the dress. He saw you before.”

----

The firelight reaches the clouds before you ever see the flames.

It flickers against the low sky like the last breath of something ancient, turning the haze above Jackson to a warm, pulsing amber. You follow the sound of music threading through the trees—low strings and laughter, voices carried on the wind like smoke. Boots crunch against the snow-packed trail beneath you, the hem of your coat brushing against your legs with every step.

The dress moves differently. Not enough to be seen, not from a distance—but enough that you feel it. Soft where your usual clothes are stiff. Light where you’re used to weight. It sways when you walk, catching in the cold air like something that doesn’t quite belong to you.

You reach the edge of the square just as Ellie spots you.

She’s pacing near the road, scanning the path like she’s been waiting—half-bored, half-impatient—until her eyes land on you. Then her face shifts fast.

Her brows lift. Her jaw drops just enough to make you nervous.

She jogs the few steps it takes to meet you, her face shifting fast—first surprise, then something else. She skids a little on the packed snow and stops short, blinking like she’s not sure whether to tease you or just stand there and gawk.

“Holy shit,” she says finally, dragging the words out slow and stunned. “You look like… a person.”

You lift a brow. “Thanks?” You’re shaking your head with a grin, “but don’t get used to it.”

She ignores that completely, circling you once, boots crunching as she peers like she’s examining a rare species. “Wait—is that a dress? Did you seriously put on a dress?”

“I’m still armed,” you say, deadpan.

“Yeah, okay, but like—” She waves a hand at your hair, eyes wide with delight. “Did you do something? This is like… I don’t know–you look like someone who used to have a life. Like, a job and a coffee order and shit.”

You huff a laugh. “Well, I do have a job. And I love coffee.”

She rolls her eyes with a grin, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Ugh, yeah, okay. But you get what I mean.”

You tug your coat tighter out of habit, suddenly aware of every way the fabric beneath it clings too gently to your shape. “I didn’t feel like looking like a corpse tonight.”

Ellie grins. “Well, mission accomplished. You actually look kinda—” She falters, then shrugs. “—pretty.”

Your eyes narrow. “Kinda?”

“Okay, very,” she corrects, hands raised. “Don’t stab me.”

You sigh, but there’s something warm flickering behind your ribs that wasn’t there before.

Ellie links her arm through yours, tugging you along before you can say anything else. “Come on. You’ve gotta see the setup—it’s, like, aggressively wholesome. I’m talking fairy lights and cider and old people dancing. It’s weirdly festive.”

Her grip tightens just slightly. It’s almost grounding.

You let her guide you through the first few clusters of people, past the tables of food and the benches pulled close to the fire. Everything smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke and something fried. The lights overhead blink lazily, half-strung across the square like someone had given up halfway through decorating and no one cared enough to fix it.

You shrug off your coat and hang it over the side of a nearby bar table. The cold air brushes your skin through the dress, and you feel suddenly too seen—but it’s fleeting. You straighten your shoulders. Try not to fidget.

“I’ll grab us some cider,” Ellie says, already moving toward the makeshift drink station with mismatched mugs and a steaming kettle perched over a small stove.

You nod, scanning the crowd while she moves away.

Then you hear it—her voice, softer this time, like a prayer.

“Dina.”

You glance over just in time to see her freeze mid-step, eyes fixed ahead. Her expression melts from gleeful mischief into something quieter, warmer. She turns to you quickly, eyes still distant.

“Enjoy yourself,” she says, almost like an order. Her tone makes it clear she expects you to obey. Then she’s half-jogging off before you can even answer, weaving through the crowd toward a dark-haired girl near the edge of the dance space.

You’re left standing alone beside the table, hands empty, the hum of the celebration curling warm around your shoulders.

Then Jesse appears beside you, already holding two mugs of cider.

“Tried to beat Ellie to it,” he says, offering you one. “Think I succeeded by about three seconds.”

You accept it with a nod. The mug is warm, the smell sweet and spiced, laced with something stronger beneath it.

He glances around, then leans in slightly. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

You lift a brow. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. You don’t exactly scream ‘community bonfire.’”

You take a sip. “I like to keep people guessing.”

Just then, someone steps up beside Jesse—a young woman with a knit hat pulled down over her ears. He gestures between you.

“This is Hannah,” he says. “She helps out at the school sometimes.”

Hannah smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve seen you around. Clinic, right?”

You nod. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Well… it’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, and there’s something genuine in the way she says it—soft, not forced. “Hope you have fun tonight.”

She excuses herself a moment later, slipping back into the crowd, but the warmth lingers.

You’re not sure why. Maybe because you’re not used to being spoken to like that. Not in places like this.

You take another sip and glance toward the fire, where people are beginning to dance.

And across the square, half-hidden in shadow, Joel is watching.

You spot him just beyond the fire.

Joel stands near one of the benches, half in shadow, one shoulder tipped toward Tommy in a way that makes it look like they’re deep in conversation—but even from here, you can tell he’s not really listening.

His body’s angled toward the flames, but his eyes aren’t on the fire.

He’s wearing a dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled just past his wrists, the collar open beneath the edge of his coat. The fabric clings a little too well to the cut of his shoulders, like it shrunk slightly in the wash. His belt sits low at his hips, a hand wrapped around a dented metal flask, thumb tapping a slow rhythm against the side.

The coat he wears is open, lined with shearling at the collar. Familiar. Heavy. You've seen it slung over the back of a chair in the clinic more than once—but it looks different on him tonight. Softer. Or maybe it’s the way the light from the fire paints him in bronze and shadow, sharpening the lines of his face and hollowing the space beneath his cheekbones.

His lips move—something muttered to Tommy—but his eyes aren’t on his brother.

They’re on you.

Not directly. Not obviously. But his gaze keeps drifting your way like a needle pulled north, even when he tries to make it look incidental. Tommy says something, and Joel gives a faint grunt in reply, eyes already tracking back toward where you’re standing.

And when he sees Jesse still beside you—when he clocks the casual lean, the mug in your hands, the small curve of your smile—his jaw tightens. Just slightly. The muscle there ticks once, slow.

He takes a drink from the flask, but his mouth stays tight around it. His knuckles pale where they grip the metal.

He's not doing anything. Not saying anything.

But he's watching.

And it changes the way the air moves between you.

esse shifts his stance beside you, glancing sideways like he’s been trying to find the right moment to say something.

“That dress,” he says finally, voice lower now, meant only for you. “It, uh… suits you.”

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s half-regretting it. “I mean it. You look good. Different, but… good.”

It’s not a line. Not slick or practiced. Just a quiet thing handed over with soft eyes and the edge of a grin that makes you glance away before you can stop yourself.

Your fingers toy with the fabric at your side, smoothing the material even though it doesn’t need it.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “It’s not really me.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it is. You just don’t wear it often.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just look down, cheeks a little too warm for the cold night air, the cider suddenly sweeter than before.

And across the fire, Joel still hasn’t moved.

But the grip on his flask is tighter. His stance stiffer. The look in his eyes a little darker now—like Jesse’s compliment echoed straight through his chest and landed somewhere it wasn’t welcome.

Jesse doesn’t move away after the compliment. Instead, he shifts closer—just enough that your shoulders nearly touch. Not pressing. Not testing boundaries. Just… there. Solid and warm beside you as you both watch the firelight crackle and twist in the cold.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” He says after a beat. “All this.”

You glance at him. “The party?”

He nods, sipping from his mug. “I mean, yeah. The music, the lights, the dancing… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like we’re all pretending.”

Your brow lifts. “Pretending what?”

“That it’s not the end of the world. That this”—he gestures at the couples drifting into the firelight—“isn’t fragile.”

You hum low in your throat. “Maybe pretending’s part of surviving.”

He turns toward you a little, eyes softer now. “I used to hate these things. Before. Couldn’t stand crowds.”

You smile faintly. “So what changed?”

He shrugs. “World ended. Priorities shifted. Now it’s just nice seeing people smile, I guess. Hear music again. Drink something that doesn’t taste like gasoline.”

You huff a quiet laugh, the warmth curling again in your chest. There’s something easy about this—Jesse’s way of talking, the weight of his presence beside you. It doesn’t demand anything. Just fills the space.

For a moment, you forget how exposed you feel in this dress. You forget the stare burning a hole in your back from across the square.

Jesse gestures toward the firelight, tilting his head toward the loose circle of swaying couples gathered in the square.

“You want to walk around?” He asks, the mug still loose in his hand. “See the dance massacre happening over there?”

You follow his glance. There’s no real rhythm to the crowd—just groups of people moving in loose imitation of a beat, some stepping on feet, others spinning slowly in place. It’s charming, in a way. Clumsy. Human.

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Sure. Why not.”

The two of you walk toward the edge of the gathering, the crunch of snow beneath your boots softening under the warmth radiating from the bonfire. Jesse leads you to a spot just off the circle of dancers, and for a second, you think maybe that’s all he meant—to watch. But then he turns to face you, and there’s something expectant in his expression.

“Come on,” he says, one hand extended. “One dance won’t kill you.”

You arch a brow. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He laughs. “Live a little.”

You sigh, but your fingers slide into his anyway.

The first few steps are awkward—Jesse sways too wide, and your posture is stiff, your feet uncertain. But the music is forgiving, loose and slow, and after a few moments your movements begin to mirror his without effort. You settle into it. Let yourself feel the warmth of the fire, the gentle cadence of the melody, the way the cold brushes against your cheeks while the cider in your veins keeps your chest pleasantly warm.

Your fingers curl tighter around his as the two of you find a rhythm.

You even smile; the kind that slips in without permission, soft and full. The kind you didn’t think you’d have again, not in this kind of crowd, not in this kind of moment.

It feels easy.

And then the music shifts.

The notes stretch, slow. A softer tune picks up—lower, richer. The kind of song that lingers in the air like it’s meant to pull people closer, to make them feel something whether they want to or not.

The dancing around you changes. Couples ease into slower movements, bodies drawn together instinctively. The laughter quiets. The fire pops.

And then—

You feel him.

Before you see him, you feel him. A pull in the air, like the gravity around you has subtly shifted. Your spine straightens before you even turn.

Joel steps out of the shadows cast by the firelight. No rush to his steps. No words yet. Just the heavy weight of his gaze.

He doesn’t look at Jesse. Doesn’t even spare him a glance.

His eyes are locked on yours. “Mind if I cut in?”

His voice is low. Roughened. Measured—but there’s something deeper underneath it.

Your breath catches.

Jesse looks between you both, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Up to you.”

You hesitate.

Then—

You nod.

Jesse lets go of your hand gently. Steps back with an easygoing shrug, though you can feel the tension lingering in his retreat.

Joel takes your hand like it’s something he was always meant to do. Not rushed. Not tentative. Just solid. Familiar. His palm is rough, warm.

And suddenly, the music is quieter. The fire dimmer. The rest of the town—gone.

It’s just him and you.

You’re not sure what you expected—Joel’s hand too rough, his stance too stiff, the awkward beat of two people pretending to know what they’re doing.

But it isn’t that.

It starts a little clumsy. Your hand on his shoulder. His palm settling, hesitant, at your waist. But after a few beats, the rhythm evens out. You move together, slow and quiet, letting the sway of the music guide your feet more than any real skill.

Joel’s a solid presence. Warm beneath your hand. Steady in a way that makes everything else feel less exposed.

You’re aware of the dress more than ever now—how it shifts around your legs, how your skin feels too visible. Your fingers twitch slightly where they rest against the fabric.

And he notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t comment right away. Just studies you with that unreadable gaze of his, eyes tracing the lines of your hair, the collar of your dress, the tension in your shoulders.

Then, finally, in a voice that sounds quieter than usual, almost thoughtful:

“You look nice.”

You glance up, surprised by the gentleness in it. “Yeah?”

His eyes flick toward the firelight before returning to you. “Yeah. I mean it. You, uh…” He pauses. Clears his throat. “I can tell you put effort in.”

You raise a brow, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

Joel huffs. “Ain’t that. Just… most people wouldn’t bother. Not after everything.”

You go quiet at that.

Then, a beat later, he adds—carefully, like he’s choosing each word: “I think you look good like this. But I also think you looked good yesterday, back when you were fussin’ with that busted radio, smudged up and all. And the day before that.”

Your chest tightens.

He shrugs, a little awkward. “Dress or not, you’re still you. Don’t need to change that to make an impression.”

It’s not a line. Not a dismissal.

It’s something closer to truth.

Because tonight, for all its light and warmth, has made you feel… different. Like you’ve been playing dress-up in someone else’s softness. Like the smiles aimed at you only arrived once you smoothed out the parts of yourself that usually scare people off.

But not him.

Joel isn’t looking at the version you tried to build for tonight. He’s looking through it. Past it. And the way he says it—quiet and real—makes it harder to breathe.

You don’t know how to respond. So you just dance.

The silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full. Heavy with everything you’re not saying.

His hand shifts slightly at your waist. Not pulling. Just there. Steady.

And somehow, it’s enough.

----

The next morning, Jackson feels quieter, like the town is still half-asleep. Bits of the night before linger—mugs left on porches, ribbons of melted candle wax dried into wood, a half-strung banner drooping above the town square. Even the snow looks different—trodden flat, scattered with the remnants of celebration.

You pull your coat tighter as you walk through town, trying not to meet anyone’s eye.

But you can feel it.

The glances. The pauses in conversation when you pass. Your name, dropped soft like a pebble in water—small, but rippling.

Outside the bakery, two women lean close. One nudges the other, says something behind a half-raised hand. Their laughter follows you.

You keep walking.

The clinic’s officially closed today. Everyone’s nursing hangovers or dragging their feet through recovery mode. But the quiet calls to you—invites you to bury yourself in something tangible. So you show up anyway.

You sweep. You wipe down every counter. Reorganize the supply bins even though they don’t need it. Fold blankets in perfect thirds. You pretend not to hear the whispers still clinging to the corners of your mind.

You're half-crouched by the lower shelves in the back, hands deep in a box of gauze rolls, when the front door creaks.

A familiar voice calls out casually: “Didn’t peg you for an early riser after all that cider.”

You glance up. Jesse stands in the doorway with a paper bag in one hand, his other cradling two mugs. His cheeks are pink from the cold, breath curling in the air.

You straighten, dusting your hands on your pants. “Didn’t peg you for a gossip.”

He smirks. “Ouch. Way to greet a guy bringing fresh muffins.”

You arch a brow, stepping around the shelf. “Are they poisoned?”

He laughs, setting the bag down on the counter. “Only slightly.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. The smell of cinnamon and something yeasty seeps from the bag, softening your edges. “So you heard it too.”

Jesse shrugs, leaning against the cabinet. “You and Joel were kind of… the grand finale. I think someone said it was the most romantic thing to happen since the power came back on.”

You groan. “God.”

“Relax,” he says. “It was sweet. And people like sweet. Doesn’t happen much around here.”

You grab one of the muffins, peeling back the paper slowly, nails catching on the crinkled edge. “Still. I didn’t ask to be gossip fodder.”

Jesse takes a sip from his mug. “Maybe not. But I don’t think anyone’s talking shit. Just curious.”

“Curious about what?”

He gives you a look. “Come on. You, in a dress. Joel, asking to dance. It was kind of a moment.”

You glance down, cheeks warm. A sudden need to fidget rises—you smooth your thumb over the muffin’s crumbly top. “It wasn’t like that.”

He tilts his head. “Wasn’t it?”

Before you can answer, the door swings open again.

Joel steps into the room like a stormfront—boots heavy, shoulders tight, eyes scanning until they land squarely on Jesse. Then you.

You straighten instinctively, heart knocking once against your ribs.

Joel says nothing for a beat. Then, flatly: “Didn’t know we were holdin’ social hour in here.”

Jesse sets down his mug slowly. “Just dropping something off.”

Joel’s eyes flick to the muffin bag.

Jesse steps away from the counter. “I was on my way out.”

He claps your shoulder as he passes, giving Joel a polite nod. “See you both around.”

The door clicks shut.

Joel doesn’t move.

You sigh, crossing your arms. “You gonna say whatever it is, or just stand there glaring?”

He crosses his arms, too. A mirror. “Didn’t realize we were a town spectacle.”

You blink, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You and me. People talkin’. Watchin’. You don’t seem too bothered.”

You toss the muffin back in the bag a little harder than necessary. “Because I’ve got better shit to worry about than who saw us dancing.”

His jaw tightens. “Just figured maybe you didn’t want that kind of attention.”

“You mean you didn’t.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

The silence grows sharp. Thick.

He takes a step closer. There’s something cautious about it, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him stay. “I’m just sayin’—if I made it worse for you, I didn’t mean to.”

Your voice softens, confused. “Worse how?”

Joel’s gaze drops. His fingers flex at his sides, then curl into fists. “I saw the way you looked this morning. Like you’d rather disappear. Thought maybe that was because of me.”

The words land like a gut punch.

You move around the counter, heart in your throat. “I’m not embarrassed of you, Joel.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. Something cracks open behind them.

You continue, quieter now. “I��m embarrassed that people think I need to change to be seen. That I have to dress up or soften down to get a second glance. But you…”

Joel watches you, breath shallow. “…you saw me before that. Before the dress. Before the hair. And you’re the only one who didn’t make me feel like I had to be someone else.”

He exhales through his nose. Rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to come in here swingin’. Just didn’t like seein’ him with you.”

You tilt your head. “Jesse?”

Joel shrugs, eyes skimming the floor. “Didn’t matter who.”

Something in your chest loosens—slowly, painfully.

You nod, stepping back slightly to give the air between you room to settle. “Thanks for being honest.”

He hesitates near the door, fingers drumming once on the frame.

“You wanna come in or keep pacing around like you’re about to rob the place?”

Joel huffs a laugh, barely there. But he closes the door softly behind him.

And stays.

[ominoose]

I have so many silly things I wanna write and finally the motivation/time to use them but I only just got back on my meds yesterday so my brain is too scatty to concentrate grrrrahhhh

👊🏻 why cruel world

[laceyfaeryy]

FORGET ME NOTS

MDNI 18+

butcher! simon riley x florist! reader

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ retired! simon riley who is a butcher in a small town suddenly finds himself infatuated with the florist across the road who gave him flowers on national flower day.

note: context warnings apply to all parts, ones in bold apply to the current part - it will be updated consistently

cw: fem! reader . stalking . dom! simon riley x sub! reader

i. part 1 ii. part 2

it was unlike simon to keep something so… different to him in his dark shabby apartment.

the bouquet of forget me nots contrasting against the dark furniture and dimly lit room. it was the only source of colour in the sea of black and greys. simon was not a flower guy, never in his life has he held a bouquet of flowers until you. normally he would’ve thrown them out, but something about that felt almost blasphemous.

for the past few days he took care of the flowers like they were the most precious things.

placed in a glass vase near the windowsill where it bloomed under the sun. simon was never a fan of the sun, too bright so he kept his curtains closed at all times. but now he had them wide open, he couldn’t risk having the only gift from you wilting away. they seemed to be the only source of life in his bare bone apartment. a constant reminder of you.

his sudden interest took a darker turn into obsession.

he started to rethink about the interaction, remembering how you were giving our flowers in national flower day, which meant that he wasn’t the only one. the thought of that made him sick. just how many people did you give the flowers to? what if another man took an interest in you?

it’s been years, since someone gave simon attention. specifically one that was not superficial. you were too good for him, where the idea of his rough scarred hands that were responsible of the so many deaths on you felt like a sin.

you were so sweet, so innocent to the harsh realities of the world where he didn’t know if he wanted to hide and shelter you, or corrupt you beyond belief.

you didn’t know it, but he followed you home every night, closing his shop a little early just to match your routine. it was funny how oblivious you were, walking in the dark as if you were walking in a field of daisies.

simon was a fucked up man and he knew it.

after all, no man spends his whole life at the military and comes out sane.

simon treated it like a game, seeing just how close he could get to you without being caught. he felt like a predator stalking its prey, his large figure hidden in the shadows as his years of experience in the military was displayed through his stealth.

ghost, that’s what they called him back then. now instead of targeting those in the field, it was you. his sweet little thing that made flowers bloom wherever you walked,

you were just so clueless, he could just take you back to his house and have you be his pretty thing that he spoiled endlessly. the thought of that made his cock swell.

it was a fucked up fantasy and he knew it.

every night he would watch you disappear into your house, watching as the lights turned on as you continued with your usual routine.

kitchen to reheat dinner, living room to watch tv, then bathroom to shower.

simon didn’t know how how long he spent watching you, but he couldn’t get enough.

it was like a thirst he couldn’t quench, not by watching you in a distance anyways.

that was until friday night.

the sound of the bell ringing was a noise that simon was accustomed to, but the moment a sweet vanilla scent filled his nostrils he knew immediately.

“don’t know my cuts too well, but i liked whatever you gave me last week, could i have it again?” your voice soft as you looked up at him with those eyes. oh. those eyes he dreamt about, the eyes that made him feel like he was falling down in a rabbit hole.

those eyes.

“‘s called a rib eye birdie,” his accent thick as he tried to hide the fact that he already had the cut wrapped nicely just for you. the marbling perfect just for you.

“right, a rib eye,” you smiled softly as you reached for your wallet, simon shaking his head. “trust me, it’s on the house.”

to you simon seemed like a gentleman, not the man who fisted his cock to the thought of fucking you in the little flower shop of yours. you grinned, pearly whites on display that made simon’s cold heart flutter just a little more.

“thanks uh..” your head tilted as you read his name tag pinned to his black apron.

“simon.”

god, what he would do to hear you say that again.

“don’t worry about it birdie,” after all, what kind of man would he be if he left you hungry during these cold winter nights?

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666

[strangerexee]

ʟᴀᴛᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴇᴀʜ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ᴘᴛ.3 ᴏꜰ ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ)

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | Explicit sexual content | soft but rough Bo | possessive behavior | missionary position | chain kink (necklace watching) | moaning | smoking | slightly obsessive energy | post-sex vulnerability | reader being down bad | praise | 18+ only | domestic affection | morning kisses | reader so down bad for arms/hands )

ᴡᴄ: 2.9ᴋ A/N: spaced it out this time…sorry

Time Skip: Some Months Later

The store had changed.

Not in the way it looked, really — the wooden beams still groaned in the morning, the floors still creaked when the sun shifted, and the same old glass jars of penny candy still sparkled near the front register.

But you had changed.

And Bo had changed with you.

You’d been working there full-time for a few months now. Steady pay, cash in hand every Friday, and your name on the list of employees — right under his.

He let you do nearly everything now. Trusted you with the books. With the money box. With the spare key.

And with him — more than anything else.

Bo still looked like sin itself every time he rolled up his sleeves — forearms thick and dusted with hair, veins strong under that golden-tan skin — and he still touched you in ways that made your knees weak and your cheeks hot.

But now, he touched you like you belonged to him.

A hand on your back while you rang someone up.

A brush of his fingers under your chin when no one was looking.

And that little look he gave you, every time you passed too close —

like he was two seconds from hauling you into the storeroom again.

Everything was good.

Until she came in.

Two weeks after your birthday —

You were nineteen now —

Her name was Lisa.

She came through the front door one quiet Monday afternoon — silent as a shadow — with dark eyes and a book pressed to her chest.

She was younger than you — maybe sixteen? Seventeen? — and she looked up at Bo like she already knew him.

Which, as it turned out, she did.

“This is Lisa,” Bo said, like it was casual. “My daughter.”

You blinked.

You hadn’t even known he had a daughter.

Lisa didn’t say much — barely looked at you, actually — just nodded in that stiff way teenagers do and wandered off to stock shelves.

Bo hadn’t told you everything — but you didn’t press him.

You knew what you were.

You knew what you weren’t, too.

That night, though — when the store closed and Lisa had gone back to wherever she stayed — Bo kissed you like he was scared you’d walk away.

And you didn’t.

The ex-wife came two days later.

Grace.

She worked across the street — same store but for the whites — and when she crossed that dirt road and stepped into Bo Chow & Co., the sunlight caught her hair like a damn halo.

She was tall. Not that much taller than you, but enough.

Beautiful. Put-together. Nails done. Cheeks pinched with rouge.

And her mouth curled up when she looked at you, like she already knew she could ruin you.

“You’re cute,” Grace said, in a voice too smooth for the middle of the day. “Did Bo pick you out himself?”

You laughed it off.

Bo didn’t.

He came out from the back, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes narrowing.

“Grace,” he said flatly. “Don’t start.”

Grace just smiled, walked over to you, and brushed a speck of lint off your apron.

“Just saying hi, Bo,” she said sweetly, eyes flicking down your body.

“Your new hire’s a little snack, is all.”

Bo didn’t say anything. Just stood there — jaw tight, arms crossed — watching as Grace winked at you and then strolled out of the store like she owned the whole damn town.

It kept happening.

Every couple of days, Grace would stop by —

Always with something to say.

Always lingering by your side too long.

Always close enough for Bo to hear.

Sometimes, she’d whisper things when she knew he couldn’t see —

“You really like it here, huh?”

“Bo treatin’ you sweet?”

“You know I had him first, right?”

It should’ve made you mad.

But the way Bo looked at you after?

The way he grabbed your hips at the register and pulled you into the backroom…

The way he told you, smirking, “She don’t know how good I be fuckin’ you…”

The way his hands were all over you when he kissed you…

It made something in you burn.

Lisa never said much.

She came in, she worked, she read.

She didn’t talk about her mom.

She didn’t ask about you and Bo.

She didn’t flinch when Grace flirted or when Bo ignored her completely.

But sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she’d glance at the two of you —

Bo with his hand on your back, you laughing into his chest —

and you swore you saw something soft in her eyes.

Just for a second.

And you?

You were still working.

Still flirting.

Still keeping Bo’s bed warm and his books straight and his hands full.

But there was a new tension in the air now.

Not bad —

Just heavy

You wiped your hands on your apron and leaned against the counter, watching Bo scribble something in the inventory log with that same pencil he always used.

Lisa left a few hours ago.

You should’ve gone ten minutes ago.

But you hadn’t told him yet.

Bo didn’t look up when he said it:

“You stayin’ tonight?”

You shifted, biting your lip.

He finally did glance up — those honey-dark eyes still soft from a long day of stealing touches and grazing your waist every time he passed you in the store.

“Can’t,” you murmured. “I gotta go home. My neighbor’s letting me borrow her washer before sundown. It’s the only time she ain’t using it.”

Bo didn’t say anything for a beat — just tapped the pencil twice on the page and nodded, jaw flexing like he didn’t want to be annoyed but was anyway.

Then he got up — walked over — real slow, like always.

His arms slipped around your waist.

And then his lips — warm, smelling faintly like tobacco and soap — pressed against the side of your neck.

“You comin’ back after?” he asked, voice rough from smoke and restraint.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

“Late,” you whispered, “but yeah.”

His breath ghosted down the back of your neck.

And he didn’t say anything else.

Just let you go.

It was damn near midnight by the time you let yourself into his house.

Bo was already in bed, propped up on one elbow — shirtless, chain glinting against his chest — and a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled around him in thin silver trails, glowing orange when he brought it back to his lips.

The whole room smelled like him.

Like firewood.

Like skin.

Like home.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back,” he said, smoke trailing from his mouth.

You didn’t answer.

You just walked right over — boots off, dress loose — and climbed straight into his lap like you belonged there.

And you did.

Bo handed you the cigarette — eyes never leaving yours — and you took a slow drag, blowing the smoke out past his ear as you leaned in.

“Missed me?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Bo’s hand slid up the back of your thighs, grabbed your ass — hard — and then flipped you under him like you weighed nothing, plucking the cigarette from your fingers and putting it in the ashtray on the nightstand before coming back to you.

And then he kissed you.

Not quick.

Not polite.

It was hot and wet and slow, his hands everywhere — sliding your dress up, pulling your panties down, spreading you open under him like he couldn’t wait another second.

He only groaned.

And then he was inside you — deep, slow, hard — and all you could do was moan.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, tight.

Bo braced one arm beside your head and grabbed your jaw with the other — forcing you to look at him while he fucked you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

The chain around his neck swung gently above you — catching in the light every time he thrust deeper — hypnotizing.

“You feel that?” he grunted, voice ragged against your cheek. “That’s mine, baby. This body. This fuckin’ pussy. Mine.”

You nodded. Because of course you did.

You couldn’t talk — only moan.

Again and again — choked and high and needy — until it was all that filled the room.

“Bo—”

“Bo, oh god—”

“Don’t stop—”

Your nails raked down his back.

He hissed.

And then he smiled.

“Ain’t stoppin’,” he said darkly. “Not ‘til I’m done.”

And he wasn’t.

He kept going — slow, full strokes that had you shaking, eyes rolling — until the only thing you could think, hear, or feel was him.

He kissed you when you came.

Hard. Deep.

Like he wanted to swallow the sound of it.

You moaned into his mouth.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until you were crying out his name like a prayer.

He collapsed on top of you after — sweat-soaked, panting — and nuzzled his face into your neck— had you chuckling lazily, still holding you like he couldn’t stand to let go.

You laid there for a long moment — skin stuck together, chests rising and falling in rhythm — until your fingers wandered up to his chain.

You toyed with it.

He watched.

And then you whispered, low:

“Bo…what are we?”

The silence hit heavy.

Thick.

But not cold.

Bo pulled back just enough to look down at you — his eyes all sleepy heat and dark promise.

“You askin’ if you’re mine?” he murmured.

You swallowed.

“Yeah.”

His mouth curled.

“You been mine,” he said simply. “Been mine since you walked into that store and didn’t look away when I stared.”

He leaned down.

Kissed your mouth, soft and possessive.

“But if you need me to say it out loud, I will.”

“You’re my girl, sugar.”

“Ain’t nobody else touchin’ you.”

Your breath caught.

Bo smiled against your mouth.

“Now go to sleep,” he whispered. “Gotta be up early for work.”

It was early.

The kind of early where the light coming through the windows was still a soft gold — not full sun yet, just the glow before it. The town outside hadn’t quite woken up, but Bo’s house was already warm, filled with the smell of coffee and fresh bread that someone must’ve left cooling next door.

You stretched slow, like a cat, body still sore in all the right places.

Bo wasn’t in bed anymore.

But he wasn’t far.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in nothing but his trousers — suspenders hanging loose at his sides, his chest bare and golden in the soft light. His hair was a little messy, like he hadn’t done it yet. There was a mug in his hand, and a newspaper tucked under his arm, though he wasn’t reading it. Just watching the window.

When he heard your bare feet on the floor, he turned.

“Mornin’, sugar.”

His voice was low. Raspy. Still waking up.

You padded across the floor and stepped into his space, and he didn’t hesitate — set the mug down and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you in against his chest like you were the thing he needed most in the world.

“You sleep okay?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded, pressing your cheek to his collarbone.

“Sore,” you whispered. “Good sore.”

Bo huffed a warm laugh. You could feel the smile on his lips when he kissed your temple.

“Told you I wasn’t done with you. Still not.”

You tilted your head back just enough to look at him.

The chain around his neck was still there — glinting softly — and your fingers reached up to toy with it.

“You always up this early?”

“Only on days that end in Y,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over your back. “Got a lotta work to do today. Truck’s comin’ with the new sacks of rice and coffee. Gotta clear space in the storeroom.”

“I can help,” you offered.

He gave you a long look.

“You sure you don’t need a few more hours in bed?” He asked. “You were walkin’ like a baby deer just now.”

You flushed and lightly smacked his chest, and he caught your wrist, grinning — pulled your hand up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles one by one.

“I’m serious,” he said more softly. “You help me too much. Spoilin’ me.”

“That’s the point, I work for you.”

“Eh.”

He smiled again — wider this time — and leaned down to kiss you properly. Slow. Lazy. Sweet.

His fingers slipped under the hem of the old shirt you’d thrown on — one of his, of course — and rested on the curve of your waist like he just needed the touch.

“You make me feel like a damn husband again,” he said, voice rough.

“Like I got a real home.”

You blinked up at him.

That was…

A big thing to say…

Bo must’ve felt you stiffen a little, because he gently cupped your cheek and pulled your face back to his, brushing your nose with his.

“Don’t panic,” he murmured. “Ain’t askin’ for a ring. Just like havin’ you here. That’s all.”

You didn’t panic.

Not really.

You just…leaned into it.

Let him kiss you again.

Let him pour you some coffee with that crooked grin of his.

Let him stand behind you while you sipped.

The coffee was hot in your hand, but his body was hotter.

You leaned your back against the counter, holding the chipped ceramic mug with both hands like it was anchoring you, while Bo turned to the old gas stove and twisted the knob with a quiet hiss. Flame gone. Just like that.

Then he reached up to open the window slightly — bare chest catching the pale early morning light, muscles shifting beneath smooth skin and the slope of his shoulders stretching under his warm tan skin like God took his time.

You watched the whole thing like a film reel slowed down just for you.

The way his forearm flexed, veins visible but not harsh — his fingers long, thick at the base, a little rough, strong like they knew what to do with every part of you. His hands looked like they were made to build and fix and lift you with one arm.

And God help you, you’d let him.

He turned, caught you staring. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat.

Just gave you this sleepy little smile that said I know what you’re looking at.

And then he crossed the room with that walk — you knew the one — like every part of him was just slightly too powerful to be casual but too smooth to show it off.

And then he was in front of you.

Warm. Big. Bare.

Smelling like skin and fire and smoke.

“You like lookin’ at me?” he asked, voice low, scratchy — soft with affection, not teasing.

“Mmm-hmm,” you hummed into your coffee, not looking away. “I like the show. Think it’s why I spend the night.”

“Not my charm?”

“No, sir.”

Bo huffed — and then leaned down, kissed your forehead real quick, then your cheek, then lower — mouth brushing the hinge of your jaw.

Your fingers found the waist of his trousers. Just rested there. Nothing more.

He didn’t stop kissing.

Didn’t rush it either.

Just pressed his lips against your skin, trailing them down the side of your neck like he needed to taste you before the world turned the lights on outside. It wasn’t sex. Wasn’t leading there either. Just a mouth. And a moment.

And his hands — god, his hands — one on your hip, the other sliding up your back slowly. His thumb caught the hem of the big shirt you wore, and pushed it up just enough to touch the skin of your lower back.

It was soft. Subtle.

But it burned like it mattered.

“You smell good,” he mumbled against your skin. “That my soap again?”

“Maybe,” you murmured. “Maybe I like smellin’ like you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You dangerous,” he whispered.“Don’t even got to touch me to drive me crazy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Your free hand trailed up his chest — slow — fingertips dancing along his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, until they found the chain he never took off. You loved that thing. Loved the way it caught the light, the way it swung when he was above you.

You kissed him there.

Right on the center of his chest.

Then again.

A little lower.

Right over his heart.

Bo stilled — body tensing for a breath — then sighed and slid both arms around you, holding you tight against him like he needed it more than his morning smoke.

“You soft this morning,” you whispered into his skin.

“I always been soft for you.”

You looked up.

That was not a line. He meant it.

You blinked, touched his jaw with your fingertips.

“You tryna wife me up already, Mr. Chow?”

He arched a brow.

“Ain’t gotta try.”

The air between you felt golden.

Like honey melting into warm bread.

Bo reached past you to take your mug and finished the rest of your coffee — like he always did — then set it down and kissed your temple again. His hands stayed at your waist for a long moment, thumbs stroking soft circles, like maybe he’d forgotten there was a store to open at all.

“We got fifteen minutes ‘til Lisa shows up,” he said eventually.

“That’s enough time,” you said.

“For what?”

You smiled.

“Nothin’. Just wanna look at you more.”

And so you did.

A/N: raw, next CHAPTER…get it? Because the…I’ll shut up now.

[cami040405]

Just saw that one gif of the couple in a haunted house where the guy pushes the girl in front of the “killer” and runs away, so said killer gives the girl his knife and she chases after her man. Could you write a similar scenario. Whether the killer hands reader their weapon, reader asks for it or just takes it, I just think it’s kinda funny. Reader’s boyfriend shoves her in front of the killer and books it so reader ends up with the slasher’s weapon and goes after her boyfriend herself. I’d like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees please but if you wanna add anyone I certainly won’t stop you.

Slashers' Reaction when they See the Reader being Offered as Bait by Her Own Boyfriend.

Summary: When your cowardly boyfriend shoves you into the path of infamous slashers to save himself, you don’t scream—you get even. Each killer watches you take their weapon and chase down your backstabbing boyfriend with rage, sarcasm and style. Turns out, the real horror isn’t the killer... it’s dating a man with no spine.

Includes: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhes, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

A/N: I found this request very interesting, I certainly wouldn't let it go if it were me. Thank you for sending the request, I loved writing it and imagining the scene.

Michael Myers

You should’ve known something was off the second your boyfriend suggested the two of you “go for a walk through Haddonfield” at night.

“It’s Halloween,” you said.

“Exactly,” he replied, smug. “Let’s live a little.”

So you ended up strolling near Lampkin Lane, where the houses were quiet, the wind was sharp, and something was watching you. You turn the corner near the old, abandoned Myers house—the one that’s still cordoned off with faded “No Trespassing” signs and urban legends as thick as fog. The porch creaks in the distance. Somewhere, a swing sways on rusted chains, though there’s no breeze.

Your boyfriend chuckles nervously beside you.

“This is kinda spooky, huh?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, eyeing the dark windows. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”

Suddenly, something shifts in the shadows. A figure steps into the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp at the end of the block.

Tall. Silent. White mask. Mechanic’s suit. Michael. Myers.

You freeze.

He’s far away—but not far enough.

Then your boyfriend, in a move so quick and selfish it would impress Olympic sprinters, screams like a banshee and SHOVES you toward the street—toward him.

“OH MY GOD! TAKE HER!” he shrieks. “TAKE HER, NOT ME!”

You stumble into the road, landing on your hands and knees.

“Are you KIDDING ME?!” you shout, spinning around to watch him full-on sprint in the opposite direction.

You can’t believe it. Your boyfriend just offered you to Michael freaking Myers like a sacrifice in sneakers.

You turn back.

Michael is still there. Watching. Still as a statue. His head tilts.

You meet his dark, unreadable eyes behind the mask.

“…I’m not with him anymore,” you mutter.

He slowly approaches. No words. Just the rhythmic sound of his boots crunching on leaves. He stops in front of you, towering and ominous, the chef’s knife in his gloved hand glinting under the moonlight.

You brace for the worst.

Then… Michael raises the knife—slowly—and flips it.

He holds it out to you. Handle first.

You blink. “Wait—are you… giving this to me?”

The silence is deafening.

You glance over your shoulder. You can still hear your ex-boyfriend screaming in the distance, fumbling with a chain-link fence and tripping like he’s in a bad horror movie.

You look back at Michael. His hand doesn’t waver.

“…Hell yes,” you mutter, and take the knife.

You get up. Your shoulders square. You’re no longer the girl who got shoved into danger.

You’re the danger.

“Thanks, Mikey,” you say, not expecting a response. But you swear—swear—his head tilts just a bit more. Like amusement. Then you take off, knife in hand, stalking your way through Haddonfield.

“HEY, JAMES!” you yell into the night. “I’M GONNA CARVE OUT THE WORD ‘COWARD’ ON YOUR BACK!”

From down the road, your ex screams. “WHY ARE YOU SIDING WITH THE KILLER?!”

You shout, “BECAUSE THE KILLER HAS MORE INTEGRITY THAN YOU!”

Michael watches from the shadows, the slightest movement betraying what might almost be a nod of approval.

For tonight, Haddonfield’s boogeyman takes a break.

You’ve got vengeance covered.

.

Jason Voorhees

You weren’t thrilled about this trip to Camp Crystal Lake in the first place. Your boyfriend had sold it as a “fun, spooky weekend getaway”—just you two, nature, and some “light ghost hunting” for his vlog.

You hadn’t signed up to get eaten alive by mosquitoes, much less the thought of possibly running into Jason freaking Voorhees. Still, you tried to enjoy it. The lake was beautiful in that eerie, mist-covered way. You even held his hand while walking the trails after sundown, lantern swinging in your grip, nerves humming with unease.

That’s when you heard it—a twig snapping, somewhere off the trail.

Your boyfriend froze, eyes wide. “D-did you hear that?”

You sighed, half-annoyed. “It’s probably a deer or—”

Crunch.

Another step. Heavy. Deliberate. Slow.

You both turned.

And there he was.

Jason Voorhees.

Towering. Silent. Mask glinting pale in the moonlight. A blood-stained machete gripped in his hand like an extension of his soul. You took a shocked step back. You weren’t even sure if you screamed. But your boyfriend?

He screamed louder than you’ve ever heard a grown man scream. Full panic mode. Then, without warning—

HE SHOVES YOU FORWARD.

“TAKE HER!” he shrieks, dead serious, and takes off running like a cartoon character on fast-forward.

You stumble, barely catching yourself before hitting the forest floor. Heart racing, hands trembling—you look up, expecting death.

Jason hasn’t moved.

He just stares at you. 

You look back in the direction your boyfriend fled, the underbrush still shaking from his cowardice.

Then you turn back to Jason. And it clicks.

“...Did he seriously throw me to you like I’m a Scooby-Doo extra?”

Jason doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. But somehow, you know he gets it. The way his mask tilts slightly, just enough to read like confusion and maybe even a little pity—it’s almost comical.

You wipe some dirt off your pants. “You know what? Screw it. You’re not the scariest guy out here tonight.”

Jason just stands there. Then, slowly, he flips the machete in his hand and holds it out to you.

Handle first. No sound. No words. Just… an offer.

You stare at it.

Then, slowly, grin.

“Oh... Oh, you’re my new best friend.”

You take it. It’s heavy—really heavy—but you’re running on pure adrenaline and RAGE now.

“Thank you, Mr. Voorhees,” you say, sincerely. “I’ll bring it back with blood on it.”

You spin around and stalk into the woods, machete dragging across the dirt, screaming your boyfriend’s name into the trees:

“YOU THREW ME TO JASON VORHEES, YOU SPINELESS TOAD?! YOU’D BETTER HOPE HE KILLS YOU FIRST!”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear a terrified voice yell, “OH GOD SHE HAS A MACHETE—JASON, STOP HER!”

Jason doesn’t move. He watches you vanish into the trees, his massive shoulders rising and falling once with what might—might—have been the ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t need to lift a finger tonight.

You’ve got it covered.

.

Bo Sinclair

Ambrose wasn’t even supposed to be on the way. You’d both taken the detour after your boyfriend swore up and down it would be a "fun, spooky, abandoned town Instagram thing." Classic him. Anything for the views, right?

But now?

You’re standing in the middle of Main Street—surrounded by wax figures, everything dead silent—and you’re glaring at your boyfriend, who’s just realized the garage isn’t as empty as it looks.

Bo Sinclair steps out of the shadows, wiping his hands with a rag, eyes landing on you both like a lion sighting fresh meat.

"Well, well," he says, slow Southern drawl curling around his smirk. "Y’all lost or just dumb?"

You don’t even get a chance to answer.

Your boyfriend screams—like, actual scream—and grabs you by the shoulders.

“TAKE HER!” he shouts, shoving you toward Bo with both hands. You stumble, trip, and land at Bo’s feet.

Then the bastard runs. Full sprint. Down the road. No looking back.

You lie there for a second, stunned, blinking up at the sky.

Bo just blinks down at you, his expression blank for a beat.

Then his lips twitch.

Then he bursts out laughing.

“Oh, goddamn," he wheezes, clutching his stomach. "You see that? He tossed you like a sack o' potatoes!”

“Yeah,” you mutter, standing up and brushing off your clothes. “Believe me, I felt it.”

Bo whistles, still grinning. “Girl, he didn’t just throw you under the bus, he started the engine and reversed over you twice.”

You’re still glaring after your fleeing boyfriend’s back. The rage is setting in. Humiliation burning behind your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “He really left me to die.”

Bo wipes his eyes, watching you with interest now. “So what’re you gonna do, sweetheart? Scream? Cry? Run after ‘im?”

You inhale sharply, glance over at the tool bench behind Bo… and then look at the wrench in his hand. Your eyes narrow. Bo watches you eye it. Then, with the ease of someone offering a gift, he flips it around and holds it out handle-first.

“Tell ya what," he says with a grin. "You wanna clock him one? I won’t stop ya. Hell, I’ll even give you a five-minute head start before I come collect what’s left.”

You take the wrench.

It's heavy. Cold. Satisfying.

You grin wickedly. “I’m not gonna kill him.”

Bo lifts a brow. “No?”

“Just gonna remind him that if he’s gonna throw me to the wolves, he better hope they’re hungrier than I am.”

Bo gives a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, girl.”

You start marching in the direction your boyfriend ran, full murder in your stride.

As you pass a wax figure of a man mid-scream, you mutter, “Better start running faster, Jason. I’ve got a wrench and no sense of mercy right now.”

Bo watches you go, still smiling, his arms folded.

“Gotta admit,” he says under his breath, “I kinda wanna see how that turns out.”

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

“Babe, this is not funny anymore,” you hiss, clutching your coat tighter against the biting wind. “We were supposed to be in Little Italy. Where the hell are we?”

Your boyfriend glances over his shoulder, jumping at every shadow. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he mutters. “Let’s just keep walking. There’s gotta be a main street nearby.”

A garbage can rattles.

You both freeze.

Then comes the sound of tiny footsteps… fast. Too fast.

And then you see it.

A doll. A little red-haired Good Guy doll. Just standing at the end of the alley.

“What the f—” you begin.

And then it moves. Fast, like a blur, and suddenly that high-pitched, gravelly voice cuts through the silence.

“Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna die?”

The doll leaps toward you both.

Your boyfriend screams like a child at Chuck E. Cheese and, without a moment’s hesitation, grabs you by the arm and throws you in front of him like a ragdoll.

“TAKE HER!” he yells, already bolting down the alley like his soul’s on fire.

You land hard on your hip, scraping your palm against the concrete. “You son of a—!”

Chucky skids to a stop, blinking down at you as you sit there on the ground, stunned and seething.

“…Damn,” Chucky mutters, cocking his plastic head. “That guy really tossed you like yesterday’s trash. That’s cold.”

You slowly push yourself up, wiping blood off your palm. “You think?”

Chucky shrugs, then straightens up, switching the bloody knife in his tiny hand to a reverse grip. “Normally, this is the part where I stab you and laugh about it, but…”

He glances down the alley, where your boyfriend’s distant scream echoes into the night. “I think I just found someone I’d rather gut.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

There’s a pause. Then you step forward.

“…Let me see that.”

Chucky eyes you. “You wanna borrow my knife?”

“I insist.”

He grins wide, teeth sharp behind the plastic sheen of his face. “You’ve got style, sweetheart.”

He hands it over, hilt first. You feel the weight of it—smaller than you expected, but razor sharp and warm. You give it a test twirl, then glance down the alley where your dear boyfriend disappeared.

You take a deep breath, grit your teeth, and start walking.

“YOU CHOSE ME TO DIE, YOU LITTLE COWARD?” you bellow into the dark. “YOU USED ME AS A HUMAN SHIELD FOR A DOLL?!”

You break into a sprint, blade gleaming.

Behind you, Chucky watches with absolute delight.

“Y’know,” he says to no one in particular, lighting a cigarette, “I think I’m in love.”

Then he casually strolls after you, whistling.

.

Billy Loomis (Ghostface)

The old Macher house had been abandoned since Stu's party. Of course it had—the murders, the blood, the urban legends whispered through Woodsboro’s halls made sure of that. But your boyfriend had dared you to break in with him anyway.

"It’s just an old house," he said. "Nothing’s gonna happen."

You should’ve known something was off the moment the door creaked open by itself.

You wandered the trashed kitchen, cobwebs stringing across cabinets like decaying tinsel. Somewhere down the hallway, something thumped. You froze. He grabbed your arm.

Then the phone rang.

Not a cell phone. A landline. On the counter. Plugged into nothing.

You blinked. Your boyfriend picked it up, smirking like a frat boy on Halloween.

“Hello?” A pause. Then a voice, low, amused, just slightly familiar.

“Do you like scary movies?”

His face went white. “Wh—What? Who is this?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Nope,” he said, slamming the receiver down. “Nope nope nope nope—”

But it was too late. From the hallway, Ghostface stepped out.

Not a replica. Not a costume.

The Ghostface.

He held the knife low, that signature gliding gait stalking slowly forward.

Your boyfriend’s survival instincts kicked in—and unfortunately for you, those instincts said sacrifice your girlfriend.

“TAKE HER!” he shrieked, physically shoving you forward into Ghostface’s path, then booking it full-speed out the back door, limbs flailing like a Scooby-Doo reject.

You hit the ground with a grunt. Time froze. The killer stared down at you. His knife gleamed. But then—he tilted his head, like you were more interesting than expected.

The mask came off.

You gasped.

“Billy?”

Billy Loomis smirked down at you, all smugness and shadowed cheekbones.

"Hi, sweetheart."

You scrambled to your feet. “Are you KIDDING ME?!”

He nodded toward the door your boyfriend had just sprinted through like the coward he was.

“He really just did that,” Billy mused. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just… ‘here, kill my girlfriend, I gotta run.’” He mimicked your boyfriend’s scream with a chuckle. “Classic.”

You glared, chest heaving. “I’m going to kill him.”

Billy raised a brow. “You sure you need me to do it?”

There was a pause. A tense, burning one.

Then you lifted your hand, palm open.

Billy blinked.

“…Can I borrow the knife?”

Billy looked down at the weapon in his hand. Then at you. Then back to the hallway.

“You know what?” he said, almost tenderly. “You’ve earned this.”

He flipped the knife and offered it to you, handle-first. Your fingers curled around it. It was still warm from his grip.

“Thanks,” you growled, eyes blazing. “I’ll bring it back with blood.”

“You better,” he replied, stepping back and watching like a proud director. “Make it messy.”

You threw open the back door and stormed into the night, yelling after your now-regretful boyfriend:

“YOU LEFT ME TO DIE, YOU CHEAP-SHOE-WEARING, NO-LOYALTY-HAVING DOLLAR STORE SCREAM QUEEN!”

Somewhere in the trees, your boyfriend screamed again.

Billy leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms as he watched the carnage unfold in the distance.

He gave a small, satisfied smile.

“Damn,” he murmured. “I think I’m in love.”

.

Stu Macher (Ghostface)

It was supposed to be a fun night.

The local horror maze downtown had been canceled last minute, so your boyfriend had the brilliant idea to “break into the old abandoned farmhouse on the edge of Woodsboro,” which in hindsight was like asking to die in the first ten minutes of a horror movie.

“C’mon, babe,” he’d said, “It’s totally safe. We’ll be in and out. No psycho killers, promise.”

You’d rolled your eyes but agreed—because hey, what could go wrong?

The house creaked like it wanted to collapse on you. Dust curled off the stairs. Every door groaned like a warning. You were maybe two steps inside when a TV flickered to life in the corner of the room, showing a grainy VHS of old horror movie clips—then cut suddenly to live footage of you two standing right there in the house.

“What the hell—” you whispered.

That's when you heard it. The low, distorted voice from behind:

“Wanna play a game?”

You turned just in time to see Ghostface—tall, lanky, and looming—emerge from the hallway with a gleaming knife in hand.

And your boyfriend?

Your loving, caring, chivalrous boyfriend?

He screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear, shoved you toward the killer like a sandbag, and ran.

Not a glance back. Not a “run!” Just: “YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, BABE!”

You hit the floor hard, wind knocked out of you, staring after him.

Ghostface froze. There was a pause… and then a very familiar wheezy laugh behind the mask.

“Oh my god,” the killer wheezed, pulling the mask off with a flourish. “Did that dude just yeet you at me?!”

You blinked.

“Stu?!”

“Sup!” he said, waving with the knife still in hand. “Didn’t know it was you, swear. Thought I was doing the old ‘boo and stab’ tonight. But wow, your man just offered you up like a Happy Meal.”

You sat up, groaning. “He shoved me so hard I almost blacked out.”

Stu held his stomach, doubled over in laughter. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—he was like ‘TAKE HER, OH MIGHTY KNIFE DEMON, SHE’S THE SACRIFICE.’”

You rubbed your temple. “I should stab him.”

He froze, then lit up. “Wait. Wait. You should! Here—” he spun the knife in his hand and offered it, handle-first. “Go get him, tiger.”

You hesitated.

Stu leaned in, grinning. “You know you want to.”

“…You know what? Screw it.”

You snatched the knife, stood, and dusted yourself off.

“I’m gonna murder him. With my words. Maybe the knife. TBD.”

Stu made an exaggerated swoon motion. “Oh my god. You’re so hot right now.”

You stormed out the front door with purpose, knife in hand. “I SEE YOU HIDING BEHIND THE TRASHCAN, JEREMY! DON’T THINK I WON’T DUMP YOU WITH A KNIFE IN MY HAND!”

From behind, Stu followed casually with the Ghostface mask hanging off one hand and a big grin on his face.

“If you stab him, I’m definitely taking you to prom.”

.

[jxwl4k]

Hii I think your writings are rlly nice!! Can I get a lil writing where Bakugo always kinda liked reader as more than friends during UA but fell in love even more as he meets her again from the timeskip cuz she’s only gotten more beautiful and all? So during the class reunion they catch up w/ each other and after, he offers to drive her home and ends up confessing there which she accepts

Thought it’d be a cute idea haha thank uu :)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ More than before .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. soft romance, friends to lovers, reunion

☘︎ . . . pairings. Bakugou x fem!reader

☘︎ . . . requested? yes by anon

⤿bakugou reunites with yn whose a close friend he secretly likes back in high school.

The last time Bakugou saw you, you were waving goodbye in the golden light of your graduation day laughing with Mina, your hair caught in the wind, your smile bright despite the ache of everyone going their separate ways.

He’d never said anything back then. Not when he thought you looked the prettiest during sparring training with dirt smudged on your cheek. Not when he’d find excuses to walk with you after class, calling it coincidence. Not even when you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during a late-night strategy session, his heart pounding like he was in battle.

Because back then, he thought… maybe you didn’t see him that way.

The reunion was held in the same training facility UA had gifted the Class of 1-A, now a sleek event space lined with photos from their school years. Bakugou hadn’t wanted to come at first “what’s the damn point?” but Kirishima insisted, and deep down, he was curious.

Then he saw you.

You stepped in wearing a simple outfit, nothing flashy, but it didn’t matter. You looked like you, just… more. More confident. More radiant. Like you’d grown into every ounce of the potential he always knew you had.

“Bakugou?” you called, your eyes lighting up like they used to.

He felt heat crawl up his neck. “Tch. Didn’t think you’d show up.”

You grinned. “Still the same, huh?”

But no he wasn’t. Because when you laughed, it felt different now. It hit deeper.

The reunion buzzed with memories and laughter, but somehow, he kept ending up near you talking, teasing, catching up. You told him about your current agency, about your solo patrols, and the tiny coffee shop you visited every morning. He listened more than he spoke, watching the way your lips curved when you got excited about something.

When the night wrapped up, Bakugou spotted you pulling your jacket tighter as the wind picked up.

“Oi. I’ll drive you home,” he said, almost gruffly.

You blinked, surprised. “Oh? Are you sure?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m not offerin’ again.”

You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the ride.”

The drive was quiet at first, soft music playing in the background, the city lights casting shadows across your face.

“You really changed,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Hm? In a bad way?”

“Nah,” he said, a little too fast. “In a… damn good way.”

You turned to him, surprised. “You think so?”

“Tch. ‘Course I do.” His grip on the wheel tightened. “I always thought you were somethin’ else. Back in UA, I just never” He exhaled sharply. “never said it. Should’ve, maybe.”

Your heart skipped.

He finally stopped the car in front of your apartment building, engine idling.

“…So I’m sayin’ it now,” he said, still not looking at you. “I liked you back then. Probably more than I should’ve. But now?” His jaw clenched. “Now I’m screwed, ‘cause I think I’m falling all over again worse than before.”

The silence hung for a second.

Then you reached over, your hand resting gently over his.

“You’re not screwed,” you whispered, smiling. “Because I was waiting for you to say that.”

He finally looked at you and there it was. That explosive feeling in his chest, the one he only ever got when he was around you.

“…Guess I should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered.

You leaned in closer, your smile soft. “Guess we’ve got time to make up for it.”

And just like that, Bakugou Katsuki let himself fall — this time, with you right there to catch him.

[xxsteveharringtonxx]

Adjustments

Eddie Munson x Reader

It hadn’t taken you long to adjust to having Eddie around.

Steve, Robin and yourself had formed a comfortable friendship, it was easy, peaceful and despite everything you all went through you melded back into reality once again.

Except this time, Eddie Munson melded too.

Right as if he’d been there the entire time.

For the last two years his loud and unapologetic presence had become a normality in your life, and the two of you couldn’t be more different.

He had the same cautious prejudgments of you from High School, and having ran in the same crowd as Steve for a while, you couldn’t exactly blame him for his weariness around you at the start.

But High School was a long time ago.

Well it felt like a long time ago.

While Eddie was all leather jackets, heavy boots and loud music, you were somewhat shyer than when you were younger and more reserved now. Not wanting the attention anywhere near you, a quiet life in the shadows was exactly what you preferred now.

And it took Eddie a while to get used to you too.

He wasn’t sure why you were so quiet around him to begin with, it put him on edge but as time went on he realised actually that’s just how you are, and he’s more than happy to speak for the both of you, often spending time together in the group you would rarely get a word in between him and Robin.

It was a nice balance and having him around to be the loud outspoken one was a comfort.

And you grew to love it.

And him.

It was funny because you weren’t even aware of your feelings until Robin pointed them out, Steve catching on to her words too.

“Oh shit honey, I actually see it.” He had informed, realisation dawning on you.

While that was about a year ago now and while Steve and Robin loved to tease you about it, you obviously weren’t going to actually do or say anything about it.

He probably still thought you were preppy and stuck up like back at school.

Which bought you to now, present time and currently stuck on the side of the road just outside of Hawkins and glaring at your car.

It was smoking a little and you tilted your head in thought as to whether it was a real issue or if you could just wait it out, but considering it had broken down, and was literally smoking you concluded it probably was a real problem.

Looking around you spotted a phone booth just down the hill so with a huff and eye roll you headed over. This really wasn’t what you needed after the day you had just had. All you wanted to do was go home and watch some movies, maybe hang out with Steve or the whole gang.

Sighing heavily at your evening plans dwindling away you dialled the number you knew by heart.

And it only rang twice before you heard him.

“Yeah hello?” He barked down the line and despite the gruffness in his tone his voice made you smile.

Actually it made you grin.

“Hey Eddie it’s me.” You announced and there a bit of a scuffle on the line before you heard him more clearly.

“Hey Pretty, what’s up?” Blushing at the nickname he had called you which he’d given you years back, having probably forgotten your actual name at the time, but for some reason it stuck.

“I kind of broke down, well my car definitely did.” You told him cringing at your own sad tone.

“Broke down? Where?” He asked worry woven into his tone and the burst of excitement you felt seemed odd at a time of crisis like this.

But he really sounded like he was worried, biting down on your bottom lip to stop the smile you hummed trying to think of where you were.

“Just on the way into Hawkins I guess, as if you’re heading to Hoppers cabin before town.” You heard him clutch some keys on the other end of the line before barking orders at you.

“Don’t move and stay in your car.” He instructed.

“Eddie! No it’s smoking I don’t want-“ he cut you off with an impatient sigh and a firmer tone.

“Get your pretty ass in the car Y/N and stay there until I find you. I’m on my way.” And then the dial tone.

Following his instructions you did as you were told trudging back to your car. Sighing heavily as you say patiently in the drivers seat.

You could be home by now.

Out of your stupid dress and makeup wiped off.

But then maybe ten or fifteen minutes later you saw Eddie, he was in Wayne’s tow truck and you could make out his navy overalls were a little smudged with oil but he gave you a grin and sarcastic wave through the windshield.

He jumped out and you rolled your window down to pout up at him.

“Need a hand?” He asked teasingly poking his head through.

With a playful eye roll you turned to him with pursed lips to really show your sadness at the situation, but instead goosebumps prickled at your arms at the closeness of the two of you. The freckle on his nose visible to you he was so close, but he cleared his throat before standing up and opening your door.

He about melted at the sight of you pushing your bottom lip out, yours eyes looking up at him for saving.

And saving he could do for you.

“I think she’s dead.” You told him and he gave you a sad smile.

“I can fix her, come on go get in the truck there’s AC in there.” He told you helping you out the car and up the step to the truck.

He licked his lips as he took you in, bare tanned legs in front of him as you climbed up, a baby blue summer dress and white little heeled shoes. Not your usual attire these days and it reminded him of High School.

Remembering only then that you had mentioned a lunch at your grandmas house a few towns over.

He made a mental note to ask you about it.

Seeing your patents wasn’t something you usually ever wanted to do.

You watched as he popped open the hood of your car took a look around, tried a few things and then tried to start her up but nothing came of it. But no matter what he tried within 30 minutes he had latched her up to the tow and joined you in the truck.

“I’ll take her to the shop, Wayne can have a look. He usually figures out what’s wrong pretty quick.” His tone was easy and you nodded at him suddenly aware that the two of you would be spending time together alone.

There was rarely an occasion you’d hung out without Steve or Robin also present. And even if you weren’t used to it there was still a comfortable warmth around you. You felt safe and it was easy being in his presence.

“Thanks Eddie.” You told him with a sweet smile, head lolling to the side to look at him, tugging your dress down when you noticed it had crumpled higher than usual.

Eddie’s eyes flicking down at your movement before focusing back on the road.

“It’s my job.” He fobbed off with a chuckle and you frowned.

“I didn’t call you because you’re a mechanic or anything, I called you because well you’re you and I knew you could help me.” Your words made his cheeks go a little pink, he huffed out some air from his nose before beaming over at you.

A proud glimmer in his eye.

“Well aren’t you a little charmer today.” And it was your turn to blush because as he said he reached his hand over from the stick to squeeze your knee.

But after driving back to the shop in peaceful silence, Eddie’s music playing from the radio keeping a comfort, you finally pulled up outside the garage and followed Eddie to the office where Wayne was sat.

“Uncle Wayne, we got a case of an over heated cooling unit and low battery.” Eddie diagnosed as Wayne looked up giving you a friendly smile.

“We’ll get her fixed right up girly.” Wayne reassured making you roll your lips into your mouth at the expensive sounding issues. “Don’t you worry about nothing.” He barked in a tone sounding familiar to his nephew’s and you saw where Eddie got his kindness from.

“Thanks Wayne but I can talk to my dad-“ you started to try and offer but he gave you a stern look. Probably knowing first hand what an asshole your father is.

“Take her home Eddie.” Were his next words as Eddie began ushering you out to his van, one hand on your lower back and the other grabbing his keys off the hook at the door.

“Wanna go grab some burgers?” He asked as you put your seatbelt on.

“From Benny’s?” You perked up in excitement making him chuckle with a sideways glance at you.

“Yeah from Benny’s, what they didn’t feed you at your grandmothers lunch?” He teased trying to broach the subject and still be a little light hearted but you groaned and closed your eyes.

“It’s not polite to over fill your plate or eat more than two quarters of a sandwich.” You informed him and then looked over. “Apparently it’s not lady like.” You added.

Your parents were from the same cut as the Harringtons, it’s how you and Steve became friends. Forced to sit in boring itchy outfits at the country club every Saturday and Sunday as your parents paraded you around like trophies.

It’s also why you live in a studio above the coffee shop on the high street and why Steve lives in a one bed two buildings down. Neither of you having much of a relationship left with your parents.

“It’s not polite to go hungry either, besides that little dress makes you plenty lady like.” His tone was flirtatious and you knew he was trying to cheer you up while making fun of you.

“And don’t worry I’ll even get you a milkshake so I know you’ve been fed through the night.” Grinning at his words you looked over at him excited for the evening again.

“I love Benny’s.” Was all you managed to say.

“I know Pretty, that’s why I’m taking you to Benny’s.” He assured as if it was obvious but you didn’t think he paid that much attention to you, until now. And pulling into the parking lot he was happy to be with you.

Just you.

Not that he was brave enough to say that out loud.

Once you had both eaten and you were picking at his left over fries you hummed content. The conversation about Robin’s new love interest, or Steve’s latest dating disaster had died down and you had just been laughing at a story he was telling from his gig last weekend, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face.

“We should do this more often.” You told him bravely, dropping the fry and leaning closer by resting your chin on your hand.

“We practically live in Benny’s.” Was his blazè response as he watched you gulp and nod slowly, realising maybe you had meant more than just the diner.

“Sure but I mean just me and you. We should hang out more often, without Steve or Robin.” You said it so quickly he barely had time to recover but he’d caught your every word.

And he knew he had to think quickly before you took it back or changed your mind.

“Just me and you?” He echoed as if seeing what it sounded like on his tongue as well as getting confirmation before he got too nervous to bring it up again himself later.

“Yes Eddie, just me and you. I had fun with you this afternoon. It’s nice.” You looked away from him and down at the fries, your confidence fading. He took in how your cheeks were reddening and the tip of your ears were on fire.

“Steve and Robin are pretty annoying.” You laughed out loud at his response, and his way of making you laugh even in moments like this made your chest hurt.

You almost thought that was him rejecting you, softly and kindly.

But rejection nonetheless.

But when your hand reached over for the last fry he grabbed it gently with his own, placing the softest of kisses on the top.

You watched intently, lips rolled into your mouth trying to suppress a relieved grin.

“Just me and you huh?” He teased harmlessly and grinning at you like he’d just won the lottery.

“I like the sound of that.” He hummed happily.

[vampiilure]

beneath the surface

Summary: when going alone after the potential unsub doesn't end up too well on readers behalf. Spencer is a worried wreck.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: angst, comfort

Warnings: near death experience

WC: 2377

The fluorescent lighting in the briefing room cast a pale-yellow hue over the case files, giving the photographs and evidence a sickly glow. You leaned over the table, fingers smudged with ink from your notes, brows furrowed in thought. The unsub was meticulous, brilliant, even. His kills were cold and calculated, each more daring than the last. He left behind riddles, like breadcrumbs scattered for whoever was clever enough to follow.

Spencer stood across from you, arms crossed tight, eyes flicking between the crime scene photos and the string of coded notes the unsub had left behind. You caught him watching you once, a second too long, and he quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the board.

“He's getting bolder,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the silence. “Every kill is a step closer to..something. Like he's building toward something final.”

He nodded, his voice quiet but sharp. “He's escalating because he wants us to see him. Not just catch him, understand him. He's daring us to keep up.”

You glanced back at the board. “Then let's catch up.”

A soft chime broke the moment. Garcia's voice came through the speakerphone, brisk and focused. “Sweethearts, I've got a blip for you. One of the attendants just called in a guy matching our unsub, paranoid, jumpy, drove off fast. Matches the car type from the last scene.”

Hotch pointed at the map. “That's well outside our current radius.”

You stepped forward, already grabbing your jacket. “I'll go check it out.”

Spencer's head snapped toward you. “You shouldn't go alone.”

You gave him a tight smile. “I'll radio in every five minutes. It's probably nothing.”

Morgan was already shrugging on his vest. “I'll head out with-”

Hotch cut in. “No, Morgan, I need you here in case he circles back. Y/N, take a vest. We’ll stay in touch.”

Spencer didn't speak, he looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. You just gave him a quick, confident smile, your heart beating just a little faster. You had not been able to shake the tension of this case, it had gotten under your skin. And now, with a potential lead, the chance to move, to act, was too tempting to ignore.

You felt the weight of his stare as you walked out the door. You didn't see the way his jaw clenched when you turned away, you didn't know that he stood frozen for a moment after, torn between duty and something he didn't yet know how to name. You didn't hear him whisper under his breath, “Be careful.”

The road out to creek ridge was long and winding, bordered on both sides by towering pines and brush so dense It swallowed sound. Your phone rested in the passenger seat, screen glowing softly with the GPS map. The gas station blip had disappeared, but the road was still fresh with tire marks, and your gut told you this was right.

A sliver of pink burned across the horizon as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the pavement, you clicked the radio mic.

“Unit 12, heading east on creek road. Still no visual, but the road looks recently traveled. Will report back in five.”

Emilys voice crackled back. “Copy that. Stay alert.” 

Your fingers tapped the wheel as you drove, trying to calm the jittery feeling climbing up your spine. Something about this guy.. It wasn't just that he was smart. He was strategic. Precise. And worse, he was watching them. Every move you made felt like it was being shadowed.

You slowed your vehicle as the road narrowed, curving alongside a wooded ravine, the creek was visible to your left, water glinting in the fading light. Itt was quiet, eerily so. No birds. No wind. Just the crunch of gravel under your tires.

A flicker in the rearview mirror caught your attention.

Headlights.

Far too close.

You frowned, adjusting the mirror. The car had come out of nowhere. No sign of it before. No sound.

You reached for your radio. “Possible tail. One vehicle, dark sedan, no plates visible. Keeping distance for now.”

You waited for a response, but the radio buzzed with static.

You tried again.

Nothing.

The hairs on your arms stood up.

Then the headlights surged forward, and slammed into your bumper with a sickening jolt.

You screamed, jerking the wheel, tires skidding as the sudden impact sent you veering toward the shoulder. The gravel gave way beneath the weight of your car. You tried to correct, but another impact sent you sideways. Your body snapped forward, hitting the seatbelt hard.

The world tilted.

The metal guardrail shattered with a shriek of bending steel, and the front of your vehicle pitched over the edge. The sensation of falling, weightless, breathless, gripped your chest.

Then, again.

Crash 

Water erupted around you like shattered glass, slamming into the undercarriage with a bone-jarring crash. The world spun in a dizzying spiral as the front of your car smashed through the surface and plunged beneath. The initial shock of the cold was so violent it stole the air from your lungs. The scream died in your throat as your seat belt snapped you back against the seat. Your head whipped forward, Crack. Pain lanced through your skull. Everything blurred.

You blinked slowly. Lights flickered on the dash, dim and failing. Water hissed in though the floorboards, ice-cold and fast. Within seconds, it was up to your ankles. The cabin creaked under the pressure, metal groaning as the car settled deeper into the riverbed, rocked gently by the current like a cradle.

You tried to breathe. Your chest was tight. Too tight. 

You reached for the seat belt but your arm trembled uncontrollably, numb fingers slick with blood from the gash on your forehead. Your vision tunneled, black creeping in at the corners. The radio beside you sparked, then died.

You weren't sure how long it had been. A minute? Less?

You were tilted at an angle, the care nose first in the water. The back remained just barely above the surface, you were lucky- or unlucky. You weren't fully submerged. Not yet.

The water climbed to your knees.

Your breath caught. A shiver racked your body.

You didn't feel brave. You didn't feel like an agent.

You felt small. Helpless.

Cold.

Alone.

Then everything slowed.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, dull and distant. You slumped to the side, your temple resting against the driver's side window. Your eyes fluttered. Blood trickled down your cheek, mixing with the rising water. You could hear it now, lapping gently, like a lullaby.

And then-

Darkness.

Reid had never run so fast in his life.

By the time the SUV skidded to a stop near the broken guardrail, his hands were already fumbling with the door. Gravel flew under his boots as he sprinted forward. Trees whipped past him. Morgan was close behind, calling something, but Spencer barely heard him over the pounding in his chest.

Then he saw it.

Your car, sunk halfway into the river, roof just visible, back end barely afloat. A silver glint beneath the trees.

He nearly tripped down the embankment, heart in his throat.

“Y/N!” he shouted, splashing into the frigid water without hesitation. “She's in there! She's in the car!”

Morgan caught up, eyes wide with horror. “We need extraction- fast!”

But Reid was already at the window.

You were inside.

Slumped. Still.

Your head tilted against the glass, lips slightly parted, face ghost- pale beneath a smear of blood.

“No,” he breathed, the word ripped from somewhere deep. “No, no, no- Y/N!”

He slammed his hands against the window, fists thudding against the glass so hard his knuckles burned. The cold didn't register, only the sight of you inside the car, motionless, your face half-submerged in the rising, frigid water.

“Y/N-” his voice broke.

Your head looked slightly to the side, the cut on your temple still bleeding into the flood inside the car. The water had risen past your chest. Your mouth was just above the line, barely breathing space left.

Panic surged like fire in his throat.

“Reid, we've gotta move, this things going under,” Morgan barked behind him, already grabbing a rock from the shoreline.

The river snarled around them, cold and black, lapping against the windows as the car shifted, creaked, tilted.

His heart slammed against his ribs. The windshield was already glazed with fog. He dropped to his knees in the water, hands clawing at the driver's side door, yanking the handle with all the strength he had. Locked.

“Come on, come on- please,” he whispered, as if begging for the car itself.

Morgan appeared beside him again, raising the rock high. “Back up!”

Reid flinched as the window exploded inward in a shower of glass. A wave of water crashed into the cabin.

And then he was moving, reaching in, hands plunging into the freezing dark. It hit his chest like a wall of ice. He ignored it.

He found your shoulder first. Then your face. Cold. still.

“No-no, no come on,” he muttered, fumbling blindly for the seatbelt. The current inside the car was swirling violently now, yanking at his arms, dragging you deeper. His fingers slipped, twice, then finally latched onto the buckled.

It clicked free.

You collapsed into his arms.

He pulled you from the wreckage with a choked breath, wrapping both arms around your torso, cradling your head against his chest. Your limbs were heavy. No resistance.

Morgan was there, hauling the two of you back with sheer force, dragging you up the muddy bank as the car groaned one last time and slid fully beneath the surface.

Spencer laid you down on the gravel, dropping beside you on his knees.

“Y/N?” he gasped.

Nothing.

Your lips were blue. Chest still. Water clung to your lashes like frost.

“No, no- don't-” he pressed his ear to your chest. No rhythm. Just silence.

He started compression without thinking.

“One, two, three, four…” he counted under his breath, voice raw and breaking. “Don't do this..don't-”

Your body jerked under his hands.

Still nothing.

“Come on, you stubborn- please.” he begged, titling your head back and forcing a breath into your lungs.

The second time,

You gasped.

Water burst from your lips as you turned your head and coughed violently, choking on air and river water and pain. Spencer caught you before you could slump again, his hand behind your neck, the other grasping your shoulder like he was afraid you’d slip away.

“I've got you,” he breathed, voice hoarse and shaking. “You're okay. You're safe now.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “S’cold…” 

“I know. I know. Just hold on.”

The sirens grew louder in the distance. Flashing red cut through the trees. But he didn't look up.

All he saw was you.

Alive.

And still in his arms.

Two hours later- St. Joseph’s Trauma Unit

The fluorescent lights hummed quietly above your bed, casting everything in a pale, washed out glow. You lay beneath a tangle of warm hospital blankets, an oxygen cannula thread gently under your nose, a heart monitor beeping steadily to your right.

You weren’t awake yet. Not fully. But your fingers twitched now and then, just enough to keep Spencer from falling apart.

He sat beside you in the narrow chair, soaked clothes long replaced with scrubs someone had handed him without asking. His hands still shook faintly. They were clasped in his lap now, his finger interlocked so tightly the joints ached, but he didn't loosen them.

He hasn't moved since they brought you in.

The doctors said you'd be okay. A concussion. Mild hypothermia. Laceration to your temple. You were lucky, they said.

But Spencer didn't feel lucky.

He kept replaying the moment your lungs stutterd back to life in his arms, the way your head lolled before you gasped, the second where you'd stopped being a person and started to feel like a memory. He hadn't known terror like that. Not even close.

He reached out now, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers hovered over your skin for a moment longer than they should've .He dropped his hand before he could think too hard about it.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, voice too low for anyone but you to hear. “You always run toward danger. You never stop to think if anyone would care.”

His throat tightened.

“Well, I would.”

There was a long silence.

Then,

A soft inhale. Shallow, but steady.

Your lashes twitched. Brows furrowed. You blinked slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused as the world came back to you in pieces. The sterile air. The beep of machines. The dull ache pulsing at your temple.

And then,

Spencer. 

Sitting beside you, soaked to the bone in memory, but still here.

Your mouth moved dry. “Spence..?”

He leaned in immediately, eyes wide with relief. “Hey. Hey, you're okay. You're at the hospital. You're safe.” 

You tried to sit up, winced, and sank back with a quiet groan. “What happened..?”

“You were run off the road. Into the river.” his voice dipped, rough at the edges. “We got you out. You.. you stopped breathing for a minute. But you came back.”

You stared at him, confused. “You were there?”

“I never left.” his voice broke slightly. “I couldn't.”

You were silent for a moment. And then, barely audible-

“You saved my life.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “You don't need to thank me.”

“I do.” your hand shifted weekly beneath the blanket, reaching toward him.

He took it.

Your fingers were still cool, but they curled around his like they belonged there.

“I thought I was going to die in that car,” you whispered.

His grip tightened. “Not on my watch.”

And for a long time, neither of you spoke. The beeping filled the space between words that didn't need to be said yet, but hung there, quietly, waiting.

[babyjinsu]

sanctified

a sinner sister and a demonic boy

pairing ; possessed!anton x nun fem!reader || wc ; 8.6k

warning ; religious themes, dubcon, demonic sex (??), cheating, coercion, anton is possessed, you are a sister/nun, pussy eating, makeout, loss of virginity, tongue-fucking, breast play

“so you’re telling me that… your fiance first proposed to you with a candy ring, and then, an actual one three months later?” 

you giggle softly—the sound whispers and echoes between the stone walls—and nods. “mmhm, he did,” you admit, smoothing the folds of your habit as sister aeri stares at you in disbelief. your dazzling diamond ring glistens beneath the fire torch. 

the two of you sit near the worn wooden table, candlelight pooling between your clasped hands. the dusk air is thick with the scent of burning wax, parchment, and dust, the quiet hum of evening prayers drifting from the chapel. 

aeri shakes her head as she puts her elbow on the table and propping up her chin. a glint of amusement crinkling her eyes. “but look at you now,” she teases, nudging playfully her index finger on your wrist. “a bride of christ instead.”

you smile, flustered—you raise your shoulders and tilt your head down. “yes,” you reply softly, your mind wandering back to your fiance at home. “now i belong to him.” 

before aeri can respond, a presence looms at the doorway, its weight bringing a sudden shift in the air. you turn your body just slightly—and there stands the priest, his face carved from shadow and candlelights. his expression is unreadable under the dim light, but there is something heavy and urgent in his gaze.

“sister,” he calls, his voice firm yet measured as he stands by the doorway. 

you and aeri rise instinctively, smoothing your habit once more as he steps forward. your eyes lowering mechanically in respect, seeing his robes sweeping the floor in solemn grace. 

“you must accompany me,” he says at last, his voice does not waver—but there is an urgency beneath the surface. like a quiet warning buried between the syllables. “there is… a matter, and i would like for you to accompany me. an afflicted soul is in need of guidance.” 

afflicted.

the word lodges in your chest like a splinter and seeps into your bones. glancing at aeri who looks at you in concern, a wrinkle appears slightly between her lowered eyebrows—you nod back at the priest, uncertainty coils around your ribs, and tighten with every heartbeat.

“...yes, father,” your murmur, stepping forward. your hands clasp in front of you. 

the candle beside you flickers once, twice—then dies.

——

the night only continues to stretch endlessly beyond the car windows like an ink spill swallowing the horizon. you press your hands together in your lap, the soft fabric of your habit pooling over your knees. you rest your head on the car window, stealing glances at the priest beside you.

father cha’s hands are steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. you don’t know if he’s purposely ignoring your glances, or otherwise. the headlights carve a path through the empty countryside, illuminating the bare trees and peeled road signs. he has not spoken much since you guys left the church, and although you know better than to question a man of his wisdom…

you’re just a young girl with curiosity prickling on your sleeves.

“...father cha,” you begin hesitantly, the words slipping off your tongue. you watch as he lets out a soft hum in response for you to proceed. “where are we going?” 

he exhales, long and slow, and you see his fingers shift on the steering wheel. “to the manor of lord lee,” he says at last, his fingertips tapping handwheel. “his son is… unwell.” his eyes flicker back and forth to the side mirror.

you frown slightly, sitting straight as you watch his profile from the corner of your eye. an unwell man can only mean one thing at this hour. “unwell?” you press.

the priest’s grip tightens, and his adam’s apple bobs. “possessed.”

you blink once, twice, staring at his solemn expression as the word and meaning settles into your chest. the word seems to land heavily between the two of you. 

possessed. possession.

even the word alone sends a cold shiver down your spine. what about exorcising? or… being the one possessed? you can’t imagine what it feels like.

no sisters are strangers to those kinds of things. you have read the texts, sat through sermons warning of the adversary’s cunning, the unseen war waged against the faithful and unfaithful. they’ve whispered in your ears of affiliations in distant villages, of holy men called to drive demons from unwilling flesh. 

but this is the first time for you. something you never expected to stand before yourself. 

“oh,” you murmur after a long stretch of silence. 

father cha only hums in agreement, eyes never waver from the road. “the boy is young,” he continues, “maybe a little bit older than you. his father is a pious man, a generous patron of the church. but his—” he pauses, letting out a soft sigh. “his son was meant to inherit his position.” a muscle in his jaw tenses. “and yet, the devil has claimed him.”

your swallow. is it that bad? how? you want to ask. but you don’t. your fingers twisting and fiddling with the sleeves of your blouse. exorcisms are not unheard of, but they are rare. only ever spoken in hushed tones and often reserved for whispered confessions and cautionary tales.  

“there were signs,” he continues, voice a lot quieter like he doesn’t want the branches and crumbling relics to hear—”he grew withdrawn from his family, stopped attending mass, confessed to hearing voices… at first, they thought it was grief. his mother died last spring—but then…” he exhales. “came the blasphemies.”

your stomach churns. cold sweat dripping from your temples.

“he carved profanities into the altar with his own nails and wraith in tongues. his father locked him away. he even brought healers and monks,” a pause. “but none of them lasted.” father cha’s voice is heavy with sorrow and… almost fear—if you listen attentively.

you swallow, crumpling your habit underneath your fingers. “...and now the church has sent you.” you don’t look at him. if they don’t last, what difference would the church be…? 

he simply nods. “and i have brought you.”

you frown to yourself, briefly, fingers tighten in your lap. you don’t ask, as much as you want to. “i will do what is asked of me,” you reply instead.

father cha finally looks at you, his gaze softened with something like fondness. then, the silence settles, but it’s not as heavy this time. until—

“how’s jay?” 

the questions startles you enough—taken you back—that you blink, head snapping toward him confusedly. “i-—what?”

he lets out a warm chuckle, more like a dad than a priest. “before you took your vows,” he muses. “you were to be married, were you not?”

heat creeps up your neck so fast, embarrassment blooming in your chest. father cha—the priest—is practically like your…leader, mentor… and for him to know of your intimate, innermost matters… “i—... yeah, i suppose…” you murmur, wanting to sink into the car seat behind you.

“hm. so? indulge me. what is he like?” 

for a moment, you hesitate. it feels almost strange to think of your fiance now, when you’re literally on your way to death. but when you close your eyes, you can picture his smile, the way he tucks loose strands of your hair behind your ear, and the warmth of his hand that closes over yours. 

“mm… he’s kind,” you say at last, glancing at father cha at the corner of your eyes. “he’s very patient with me… and he makes me laugh,” your voice softer now and warmth quickly finds its way into your chest. 

father cha hums thoughtfully. “you must love him very much,” 

you nod and press your palms against your warm, fluttered cheeks—suppressing a smile. “i really do,” you murmur. your mind wanders again to jay—his plans on moving to another town, where it’s safer and calmer. closer to your parents and sisters, even though that means he’d have to be apart from his family. 

that’s just the kind of person your fiance is. 

but when you look outside the window, the road twists through the countryside like a serpent, a gust of wind rattles the trees outside. the thought of standing before something so unholy writhing within the body of an innocent man sends a shiver up your spine.

will god protect you?

——

by the time you know it, the manor—grand yet grotesque—looms ahead, its silhouette jagged against the dark sky. the sound from the silence is not human.

before father cha properly parked his car just in front of the looming manor, you had asked why had he chosen and brought you along for something as… frightful as this. his only response was that—you are pure of heart. 

the words settle over you like a shroud. yes… this is what you signed up for when you took your vows and devoted yourself to god. a life of service. a life of faith. maybe because this is your first time—so you are unsure of what to expect, but something in his tone feels different.

you can’t doubt god. no, never in him. 

“are you ready?”

father cha’s voice breaks into the eerie silence. you part your lips, a soft breath escaping before you can form an answer. are you? you don’t reply verbally, simply nodding your head as you carry out a small leather bag containing vials of holy water, salt, and anointing oil. a rosary wraps around your wrist, and a crucifix hangs from your neck. you’re not trained to exorcist—the ritual would be even more intense for a sister like you. father cha insisted you come prepared. 

the manor looms ahead with its presence so unnatural and vast. there are some windows on the third floor that flicker with dim candlelight, and if you squint your eyes, you can see shadows shifting behind heavy curtains. 

you follow behind your leader—each step toward the manor heavier than the last. you had to drag your feet. the iron gates creak on their rusted hinges as the wind picks up. father cha reaches for the iron door knocker—only for it to groan open on its own.

for a moment, you and father cha stand still. looking at each other with an almost hesitation to continue walking. but then, a figure steps forward, the indistinct street light illuminates deep-set wrinkles, his hollowed cheeks, and the severe gaze of a man who has spent too many sleepless nights.

oh, lord lee.

you recognise him from portraits, paintings, and news cover pages of the righteous nobleman who always donates to the church. his generosity and contributions spoken of in sermons. this is the first time you’ve seen lord lee up-close—but he looks nothing now like those depictions. 

instead, he is gaunt and weary. like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have and it’s siphoning life from him cruelly. his tired eyes only sweep over you before they land on father cha.

“father,” he breathes, his voice brittle parchment. “thank god, you’ve come.”

your father nods once, extending his hand, his fingers meeting lord lee’s in a firm handshake. the lord steps aside and motions for the two of you to enter. you hesitate shortly, but follow behind father cha as he moves forward—crossing the threshold into the manor.

the house carries the scent of melted wax, old wood, and something sour—rotten, or fermented fruit left too long to rot. the grand foyer is opulent, but hollow. the chandeliers above remain unlit with cobwebs and the corridors only stretch into nothing. 

the lord doesn’t waste time with pleasantries as he gets to right away explaining the condition of his only son. 

“he’s upstairs,” he says, voice low and strained. “we locked him in his room.” 

you glance at father cha, unsure of what to react but his expression remains unreadable. 

the lord presses a hand over his face as if to wipe away his exhaustion and sadness. “he speaks in a tongue and language i’ve never heard of,” his voice trembles as he guides the two of you upstairs. “we have tried everything,” lord lee continues. “holy water burns him only slightly, and prayers make him writhe. when he looks at me—” he swallows hard. 

“it is not my son looking back.”

a chill prickles at your skin. you feel bad for both the son and the parents. the son for having to go through this by himself, trapped in his body that probably doesn’t feel like his. and the parents who have to bear the witness of their son being succumbed to the devil—and having to take painful measures to reconstruct their boy.

father cha says something in response but you don’t hear him. the lord turns to him, eyes dark with something desperate. “my son is gone,” he whispers and you almost don’t catch it. “something else is wearing his skin.”

your head snaps upstairs towards the spiraling ascent. 

“i can smell you,” 

it whispers—seeping into the air around you like the damp rot clinging to the house’s walls.

your breath catches and you whip your head to look at father cha, but it doesn’t seem like he hears it. his attention fixed on lord lee. the realisation settles uneasily in your chest, you tell yourself it’s just an imagination. your fiance told you that if the stress hormones build too much, the ability to separate imagination from reality can be blurred. 

it’s not true… it’s just another voice in the back of your head.

the three of you eventually stand in front of his room. before you, the wooden door stands tall and unyielding, its heavy oak surface marred with deep scratches like claws, but from the inside. the handle is tarnished by years of use. 

lord lee’s fingers tremble as they reach for the key hanging from his belt. “he… he hasn’t eaten for days,” he murmurs, breath shuddering. “hasn’t slept. he won’t allow anyone inside,” his grip tightens around the key. “not without something in return.” his voice barely above a whisper. 

father cha remains composed but you see the way his jaw tenses slightly. he reaches into his robes as lord lee inserts the key into its keyhole—fingers brushing against his rosary. you swallow, there’s a tightness in your stomach. 

you hadn’t spoken a word since entering the manor. as lord lee fits the key into the lock, father cha turns to look at you and leans in slightly to whisper, “don’t be afraid,” his voice is low and reassuring. you nod but father cha needs something more than just an action. wetting your lips, you force your mouth to speak. “i’m not afraid.”

the key turns in the lock with a heavy click. 

“liar,” a voice whispers in your ear. 

——

the door creaks open. the room inside is dark, the air is so thick and heavy with something cloying—like an incense. there is no movement inside as lord lee places his candle holder on the unlit fireplace by the door. that’s when you see it—

a figure barely visible, sits crouched in the farther corner of his room. his knees drawn to his chest, arms draped loosely and lazily over them. his head lolls slightly, back and forth, his brown locks damp and matted, strands clinging to his forehead. 

even in the dim light, you can see the way his skin stretches too tightly over his frame. whatever resides within him is hollowing and sucking him out from the inside. 

his lips part—and then slowly, anton lee lifts his head.

he doesn’t look at his father nor the priest, his eyes black and endless find yours almost instantly. your grip on your leather bag tightens, breath hitches. 

anton smiles like a wolf baring its teeth at something claimed. 

“...anton,” his father calls out, very soft and careful as if an octave higher will put the boy into the wild. his name hangs in the air, a plea rather than a greeting. he doesn’t move, like the name doesn’t belong to him. anton remains curled in the shadows, his bare feet ghostly pale against the wooden floor. his breath is slow and deliberate, tasting the weight of his own name on his father’s tongue.

then slowly, he blinks. “father,” he says. his voice low and deep, guttural and throaty. the word is drawn out like it’s sweet. from the corner of your eyes, lord lee stiffens, his throat bob as he swallows hard, but he does not step back. it’s his son, afterall. 

“it’s time to come back to us,” he murmurs. anton exhales a shaky breath. his hands, long-fingered and knuckles bleeding, his cuticles peeled, press flat against the floor as he unfurls himself. grinning, “back?” his voice lilts playfully. his lips curl, revealing teeth too sharp for man. “back is so far away.”

he leans forward slightly, his mere shifting lets you see the ink-dark veins webbing beneath his grey skin—it trails up his throat and disappears beneath his collar. 

you remain quiet, as you should really. glancing back and forth between father cha, and anton. your leader is the first to move, stepping into the unsettling room. his presence is unwavering as he wraps his hand lightly around his rosary hanging around his neck. “tell us your name,” he commands, voice firm as if a slight hint of fear will become mockery. “who speaks through this body?”

anton’s gaze flickers to the priest. 

for a moment, he says nothing. just watching with his soulless eyes. then anton grins, “you already know my name.” a breathless chuckle spills from his lips. father cha shakes his head, he doesn’t turn his head towards lord lee, but tells him to leave the room and let the two of you settle with anton. 

anton’s father hesitates. his fingers twitch at his sides to insist, knuckles white from where he grips the folds of his shirt. he doesn’t want to leave, that much is clear—but if he wants his son to come back, it’s best he obey.

begrudgingly, he exhales. the breath rattles in his chest. “don’t let him fool you,” he mutters, his gaze does not lift from his son. the hair on the back of your neck rises—was lord lee saying that to you or—?

neither you nor father cha respond as lord lee turns on his heel and steps into the hall. the door closes behind you with a final thud. then, silence fills the room. it clings to the air, heavy and thick.

you watch as father cha retrieves the holy water from his case almost immediately. he does not sit, rest, nor ask questions to anton. he unscrews the cap and dips his thumb into it and steps toward anton, murmuring a prayer under his breath. 

“may the lord bless and protect you—may he cast away all lingering darkness and restore your soul to the light…”

father cha presses his wet thumb to anton’s forehead, marking him with the sign of the cross. the holy water glistens against his skin and trails down between his eyebrows—down to the slope of his nose. 

you watch as anton remains still on the wooden floor—not recoiling. he does not tense nor thrash—merely blinking up to father cha. his dark eyes tracking the movement without any resistance.

sometimes his eyes land on you.

you frown, narrowing your eyes slightly as you cock your head to the side. your fingers gripping tightly your crucifix necklace because—you had expected more… you expected a fight, struggle, echoing of the devil and demon clawing for purchase in the room. you had expected things flying across the room, door suddenly locking—or anton lunging forward and killing both you and father cha. 

but there is nothing.

just the rise and fall of anton’s breathing, the warmth of the candlelight, the residual weight of the unholy within anton fading… 

father cha reaches for the small vial of consecrated oil next, uncorking it carefully. then it repeats. another prayer, another mark of the cross—this time, just above anton’s heart. he lets out a high-pitched scream, distorted with a mix of animalistic and human elements—along with guttural groans. his fingers twitching and gripping into the wooden floor, his joints pressed against the floor as it bent.

you swallow, feet stuck and glued to the floor beneath you as you watch in amusement. so, this is how it works… 

“be sealed in the grace of god. no shadow may linger within you, no evil may return,” father cha prays—the curtains flutter as if stirred by an unseen breath. the candlelight wavers again, stretching its glow long and thin against the walls.

anton does not move—he arches his back and throws his head in various directions. father cha’s voice remains steady in its conviction. he smooths the consecrated oil over anton’s chest once again in the shape of the cross. the low murmuring of his prayers filled the room like absolute.

your eyes widens and your breath hitches as the oil glistens faintly against anton’s skin—catching the light and sealing the ritual. 

the finality of the words hang in the air—”no evil may return,”

a final blessing, and then—nothing.

with a choked sob, anton exhales, long and slow as his eyes rolled back into his head. his hands and body twitch, lips part slightly as if he wants to speak, but no words come.

nobody in the room speaks. you stand still, feeling useless momentarily but knows better than to interfere. father cha studies anton for a moment longer before very slowly, stepping back—the boy leaning against his bed frame. 

“it’s finished.” father cha’s voice is firm as he stands next to you, brushing off the dust from his white robe. 

just like that…? you want to ask. that was easy? almost too easy for what and how lord lee described the state of his son to be. by the look on father cha’s face, he is thinking the same too. 

still, the rites have been performed. the steps followed, the sacraments upheld. there is nothing left to do but leave the boy on his own, and see how he does for the upcoming few days. father cha nods once. “rest, anton,” he says, and anton’s head drops on his mattress. 

the silence settles once more. the candlelight steadies and the curtains still. the weight in your chest however, remains heavy.

father cha rolls his shoulders, capping the vial of oil and tucks it back into his case. he turns to look at you, “i will have to inform the father but,—stay with him for a moment.” there is hesitation in his voice. 

he glances at anton one last time before he steps away, his robes brushing against the dusty floor as he moves toward the door. his hand lingers on the handle. “father i—” you want to protest. tell him that you’re not comfortable being in the same space where… a demon used to be in. you want to follow him, tell him that you’re afraid.

“you will be fine,” he reassures, but it sounds more like a reminder to himself than to you…

you close your mouth and with a final glance toward anton—who now looks every bit like a fragile, recovering man—the door shuts with a soft thud, then follows the suffocating silence. 

your stomach tightens, a slow, creeping unease settling in your bones. the room that felt heavy is now accompanied with emptiness. you tell yourself it’s nothing. that the exorcism was a success. and that father cha would not have left you by yourself if he believed otherwise. he will not take long… 

and yet,

your hands twitch against the folds of your habit, fingers curling into the fabric and your bag. you don’t turn around, your back still facing anton. 

no, no, you shouldn’t have your back to face him—what if he lunges towards you…?

so slowly, you swallow and cautiously turn your body, glancing at anton. he’s barely moved since father cha left. one arm draped over the mattress and the other rests limply at his side. his chest rising and falling in steady motions. there’s something about him now, something that wasn’t there before. something off. 

your breath hitches as he lifts his head. he does it so slow, almost lazy, like a cat purring from its slumber. a shiver runs down your spine, your feet angled away just slightly in taken back. anton’s gaze meets your—deep, brown, unreadable. you almost regretted not going with father cha.

his lips finally part and his voice is soft, different than how it used to sound. “...you stayed.” 

you freeze, breath caught in your throat. you can only focus on his voice. it’s anton’s, but at the same time, it isn’t. there’s a softness to it, yes, but it’s stretched thin, like an echo whisper, like a voice imitating his own. 

you don’t move, but he doesn’t either. he simply watches. 

his brown eyes gleam, half-lidded and his lips remain parted—no longer sharp—like he’s savouring the words he spoke to see how they settle in the air between you.

you should say something. anything…

but instead, you feel yourself sinking—body growing cold and pulse hammering dully beneath your skin. you can’t move either, as if something is holding you back. you wet your lips, “i…” your voice comes out quieter than you intend. “...i was asked to.” 

a beat of silence. then—

anton smiles. it’s small and almost imperceptible. “why do you obey?” he murmurs in the same soft, unfamiliar voice. why?

you blink, fingers fiddling with your crucifix. “...because it is right,” you whisper. what other reason is there to not obey…? the words feel fragile the moment they leave your lips. then, anton tilts his head ever so slightly, the way he’s watching you—like you’re being examined. not with curiosity nor amusement, but something darker lurking within his eyes.

anton nods, and then there’s a small crease of frown between his brows before he gasps—his body jerking as his fingers clutch at the sheets to anchor himself. a sharp, guttural sound spills from his lips—raw and pained—and he curls forward, his shoulders trembling. 

“it—” anton’s breath shudders, face twisting contorted in agony as he presses his forehead against the floor—so hard, it reddens. “it hurts—oh my god—please,”

instinct overtakes hesitation.

you step forward without thinking, dropping to your knees in front of him, your hands hovering uncertainty over his. “anton?” your voice is breathless, worried. “what’s hurting?” your eyes avert everywhere—the way his shirt sticks onto his sweaty body, his shoulders shaking, and joints twitching. 

“everything.” his voice cracks. his head bows on your knees, his fingers clenching so tightly on his shirt like he’s trying to tear something out of himself. “it’s—still inside me. it won’t let go, please—jesus,” 

your heart stutters, swallowing the lump in your throat. that can’t be true. the exorcism was performed, the rites were followed—he was okay—

but anton is breaking before you. sweat beading along his forehead and it's wetting your habit. his breath coming out in harsh and uneven gasps. he lifts his head then, eyes wide, still brown, desperate—“please,” anton whispers, voice raw and pleading, “make it stop.” 

you nod hastily, hands brushing back the locks that fall on his sweaty forehead. “i—i’ll get father cha,”. you almost rise on your feet when anton’s hand shoots out, catching your wrist before you can move. “no,” his grip is weak but urgent, and you wince as his skin burns against yours.

“not him,” he rasps, shaking his head. “you.”

me?

your lips part, eyebrows furrowed, “anton, i—” 

he frantically shakes his head and tugs your wrist close, fingers tightening around the curve. “it’s still inside me—i feel it. but you—” anton swallows, voice breaking on the next words. “you can save me.”

a cold shudder ripples down your spine. 

anton trembles beneath you. he looks so helpless, his expression raw, stripped bare of anything but suffering. “you’re pure,” he whispers. “father cha brought you for a reason. you can drive me out—i know you can,”

this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

you want to decline—father cha is the priest, you’re just a sister. father cha can bring anton back and drive out the demon inside of him. and yet, when anton’s grip on you falters, when his head tilts back in another silent grimace of pain, you find yourself only shifting closer, your hand pressing against his damp, warm forehead.

“o—okay,” you stutter, despite not knowing what you’re agreeing to—how you can help him. 

his eyes flutter shut momentarily. his breathing slowly just slightly. his fingers twitch against your wrist, tighten and loosen. when he opens his eyes again, it’s different. “listen to me,” he whispers. his voice is hoarse with pain. “the rites didn’t work.” he sits up slightly, chest rising and falling with laboured breath. 

panic flickers inside you but anton doesn’t give you time to dwell.

“there’s only one way—” his gaze drags over you, unreadable, his lips parting slightly. then, he shifts, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts against your skin. “his desire clings to me because of what i am—filthy,” his fingers trail downward. “but if i—if we—” anton swallows, eyes glancing at you. “if i am touched by something pure, joined with something holy…”

your breath hitches, you pull away almost immediately and look at him with disbelief. no, no, no—whatever he’s—you’re thinking, it’s a no. there is no way, you refuse—

“no,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. his eyes downcast, lips quivering with something pleading—something knowing. “please,” anton’s voice is soft and reverent as he pulls your wrist towards him, pressing your palm against his damp cheek. “you can save me,”

you try to pull your hand away, shaking your head as your heart rams against your ribcage. “you can make it leave,” anton’s lips part to gently nip on the lower thumb section of your palm. “let me worship you,” he closes his eyes, almost nuzzling on your palm.

you swallow, your stomach twisting in knots as your breath stuck in your lungs. the weight of his request settles and is crushed over you. 

you can save me, 

you stare at the way he’s trembling with his eyes holding a quiet desperation—a plea. and it’s you. it has to be you. your hand twitches against the floor. this boy’s going to die if you don’t do something. he said it himself—the rites were a fail, the prayers were meaningless. he is the one who carries the evil within him, you don’t know what it feels like. but this, this is something real.

something that only you can give him.

but then—

your ring. your ring glistens as the moon shines over it. you remember the way jay had slipped it onto your finger, it’s a promise ring that i’ll marry you once i’m stable enough to support us out of here, he promised. 

jay,

your stomach twists violently. if you betray jay, you’ll betray your relationship—if you betray your god,... you inhale sharply. under you, anton groans, pressing his palm deeper against your flushed cheek. “please,” anton rasps. 

this is wrong. you should stand up and run and call out for father cha before it’s too late.

but your god is very dear to you. 

you nod, very slowly. “what… what do i have to do…?” anton’s breath hitches, he leans towards you and rests his forehead against yours. you let him. his throat bobs before his voice finally unfurls. 

“you have to trust me.” the words slip between you like a confession. his hand reaches to cup your cheeks, his fingers trembling and warm. when you don’t reply, anton flutters his eyelashes. “you trust me, don’t you?” he murmurs, coaxing. his thumb strokes the apple of your cheeks, the thenar grazing the corner of your lips. 

you swallow thickly. you shouldn’t be listening, but you nod anyway. you nod because he looks at you with his honey dripping brown eyes like you are the only thing tethering him to this world, like you are the only who can save him—literally. 

anton takes your nodding as a sign to proceed, he gently raises your chin with his finger so you’re now meeting his gaze. the moment stretches with unspoken words. then slowly, he leans forward and attaches his lips against yours. the touch is soft and featherlight at first, like a question rather than a demand. his breath fans against your skin, warm, and hesitant. 

you don’t pull away. you shut your eyes tightly—that’s your first kiss—frozen in place as his lips mold against yours, his fingers slide from your chin to cradle your jaw. anton moves in reverence like he’s kissing the feet of a saint. 

this isn’t like what you expected. you had expected him to kiss you in rapture—like he’s transferring the demon inside you instead. your chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, you don’t kiss him back. 

anton tilts his head to deepen the kiss just slightly when he realises you don’t pull away. without thinking, your lips part slightly, letting him in. your fingers clutch your habit, curling into a fist. his other hand finds its way to your waist, curling into the fabric like he’s anchoring himself to you. 

unlike his shaky body, the kiss is coaxing and steady. you feel his tongue brush against your bottom lip and you pull away—almost. “stay with me,” anton breathes against your lips. 

and then anton kisses you again, firmer this time, his hand squeezing the curve of your waist. you inhale sharply as his heat seeps into yours. it’s going good for anton until—

a sharp knock shatters the moment.

“yn?” father cha’s voice muffled through the wooden door. your head snaps back instinctively, panic crawling up your spine as you lightly push anton off by his chest. you don’t see it—but he internally groans and rolls his eyes back at the interruption. 

but before you can move—stand on your feet to open the door—anton’s grip tightens. one hand cradling your jaw and the other still firm on your waist. his breathing is ragged, lips parted, and his eyes pleading with desperation. 

“no, no—don’t listen,” he murmurs hastily, voice breaking. “that’s not him.” 

your heart pounds against your ribs. when you try to look back at the door, anton guides you to face him again. “what—?” 

“it’s the demon,” he cuts in, frantic. his fingers twitch against your skin. “he doesn’t want you to save me.” he continues, pressing his lips once again against yours.

another knock fills the room—firmer and insistent. “yn?”

your body stiffens, your frown deepen. you turn your head away from anton’s kiss. “anton—” you muffle, hiding your face into your shoulder. you should answer. open the door. open the door.

but anton cups your cheeks again, shaking his head with his eyes widen like wild. “please,” his forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. “he said it’s not the priest, sister yn, please. don’t let it win.” anton leans and brushes his thumb over the corner of your lips.

your pulse thrums violently in your ears. you’re caught—suspended between logic and something deeper. you want to tell anton to just let you open the door, if it’s not father cha—then it’s not. but if it’s him—

another knock.

“yn—!”

the voice cuts off. then silence.

it isn’t the kind of silence that’s natural. it’s dense, suffocating—sudden. the candle flames don’t flicker, the air doesn’t stir, and there is just no sound. not of father cha anymore. not even a faint echo of footsteps retreating down the hall.

your lips part. your eyes narrowing, ears straining as you look at the door. your breathing is controlled as you turn to face anton, blinking. anton pulls you close to him by your jaw. “do you see?” he whispers, breathing shallow. “they’re trying to take you away from me.”

you swallow thickly, trying to understand—but your thoughts are foggy.

“where—where did he go…?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.

anton shakes his head, caressing your flushed cheeks. “gone,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. you feel stupid. “they don’t want you to save me.” his fingers tighten ever so slightly. the words sink into you. 

for the first time, doubt curls in your chest like a serpent. 

“yn, let’s not waste time,” he whispers before pulling you into his lap. you gasp, hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders as your knees press against the floor. anton moves his hand to cup the back of your head as he crashes his lips against yours—this time more desperate than before.

his mouth moves against yours hungrily and he slips his tongue into your mouth. he explores the domain of your mouth with his tongue, licking and running his tongue over your rows of teeth. 

his hand travels up to brush at your side breast, you gasp, wanting to pry his hands off but he reassures you against your lips. “no, no—yn, this will quicken the custom.” you frown but let him continue. if that is how it is—the quicker it will end, the better it is for you. 

only until the demon returns anton’s body back to him—

your guilt is eating you up.

anton’s hand reaches to lift your veil, his knuckles brushing against your hairline as he removes the covering and lets your hair spill free. his fingers ghost over the exposed strands before he moves lower. his mouth never leaving your lips.

he slowly undoes the white linen that covers your neck, peeling it away and exposes your soft skin beneath. his fingers linger at the slope of your throat. his demon groans in silent annoyance at the amount of fabric that you have on. he unties the cincture that holds your tunic in place. 

anton’s breath grows heavier as he watches the habit pool around your feet, leaving you in the thin underdress clinging to your form. “you’re so beautiful, yn,” he whispers. his fingers skim the fabric of your shift, tracing down the curve of your waist. the sight of you so—freed, and vulnerable before him entices him.

“he wants me to touch you, sister yn,” anton whispers, his breath fanning over your cheek. a shudder runs through you, but you don’t refuse. he takes your silence as a yes. before you can register it, the world tilts before you.

anton lifts you almost effortlessly, pulling you from the floor and into his arms. your fingers clutch at his shoulders to seek balance. he plops you down on the soft mattress, your back meets the sheets. anton lets his eyes linger above you for a moment before caging you with his weight. his fingers splayed across your hip as he settles himself between your legs. 

anton shifts above you, his fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt. in a smooth motion, he pulls it over his head, fabric ruffling his hair before being discarded on the floor. you watch him in silence—he looks human like this. 

anton’s hands finds yours, guiding your palm to rest against his bare chest. his skin is fever-warm, heartbeat frantic beneath your touch. “feel that?” he whispers, his fingers curling around your wrist. “it’s still me.” 

you’re not sure if he’s convincing himself, or you.

anton doesn’t waste his time as he quickly leans in and attaches his lips on your poor flesh—sucking and abusing your skin. he sucks, hard, tugging on the flesh between his teeth until you feel a sharp sting. 

a gasp leaves your lips and your fingers instinctively curl themselves into his bedsheets. anton doesn’t ease up. his warm tongue soothes over the mark before he moves lower—trailing down the curve of your shoulder. he bites and grazes his teeth just enough to make you shudder. 

anton hums against your skin, trailing even further down. his breath fans over the fabric of your underdress before his teeth catch the cotton material. he tugs at it, pulling it down inch by inch. 

his motion is unhurried—like he’s savouring the act. his lips brush against your skin as the cloth slips lower until they settle around your waist—exposing your breasts with your nipples hardening, the cool air sending a shiver down your spine. his hands remain firm at your sides and he never once breaks eye contact.

almost immediately, anton dips his head low and latches his mouth around your perky tits, one hand groping the soft flesh of the other. his fingers brush and squeeze your nipple in between his fingertips—gaining a whimper out of you. he gently sucks on your breast, humming with his eyes fluttering close as he gives you the sweet and warm pleasure.

anton’s other hand travels down along the curve of your waist until they settle on the sides of your thighs. his fingers press into the flesh before he lifts your leg to hook over his own. the subtle shift brings you closer to him as your bodies align to one another.

“yeah, just like that,” he muffles against your tits, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. his fingertips brush up against your clothed pussy before he hooks his finger over the waistband of your panties. giving into the sensation that is quickly spreading over your body, you lift up your hips allowing him to pull down your undergarment down your legs, hanging around your ankle.

“damn,” he murmurs, his breathing ragged. he looks down at the way you’re laying on his bed, underneath him. so flushed and soft, your chest rises and falls unevenly, your arms on the sides of your pretty face. “you’ve been hiding this body under those thousands layers of fabrics?” he chuckles in amusement. 

anton’s not sure if it’s him, or the devil who said that.

he leans down to leave kisses on your temple, cheek, and down your jaw and the side of your neck. his finger brushes over your slick coated folds like a ghost—two fingers gliding between the lips. “he said he wants to taste you, sister,” anton whispers into your ear before his head dips low between your legs.

you want to resist, to tell him to just get it over and done with—the penetration—that there’s no need for the supplementaries; but words wouldn’t escape your lips. it’s as if you crave it as much as he does.

anton’s breath hitches at the sight and the scent coming from your core. he gathers his spit before spitting on your pussy, using his index to smear and mix with your juices. you let out a soft whimper and groan as you feel anton’s warm tongue press flat against your clit. “oh—oh god,” you moan.

his licks, nibbles, and tugs on the little bud before running his tongue in between your folds—that makes your hands instantly fly to his hair, tangling your fingers in his locks. anton hums before slipping his tongue inside your entrance, his tongue wiggling around inside. his fingers circling and tugging on your clit. 

your thighs almost begin to close around him but his other hand stops you—fingers pressing firmly into your thigh as he holds you open with a grip. “mm, no,” he murmurs against your cunt. “let me.” 

you tilt your head to the side and let your small moans be muffled against his bedsheet. he keeps on moaning and humming in pleasure, fucking your pussy with his tongue—and you swear it feels so foreign, like it’s not a human’s tongue but something else entirely—

but you dismiss it—you are still a maiden, a virgin. how would you know the feeling?

your clit grows swollen in arousal. the new and intense amount of pleasure makes your stomach contract and grow in heat. you clench around anton’s tongue as an unfamiliar pressure builds deep in your core, tightening with every thrust of his tongue—like a wave cresting higher and higher.

“anton—” you squeak as he continues to chase your high. his tongue curls inside of you, scenes heightening from your taste, sounds, and scent. with anton’s lips on your pussy—his tongue fucking your hole, your orgasm hits around his mouth. you let out a cry of moan, head tilting back as your thighs shake in hedonism. 

anton pulls away, his mouth coated with your juices. your cunt twitches and pulsates, leaving you breathless.

not wasting any time, anton unbuttons his trousers and pulls down the waistband along with his underwear. he grips onto your thigh to pull you closer to him, settling himself between your legs. his cock stands tall against his pubic region, throbbing and leaking with pre-cum sprouting from the tip. 

you can’t bear to look—so you shut your eyes as tightly as you can and internally pray to god to get rid of the demon residing in anton. 

anton wraps his hand around the base of his cock, his eyes glance up to you and he lets out a small chuckle of mockery. “that’s funny—holiness looks a lot like sin when you close your eyes,” he rubs the head of his cock between your folds, coating it with your overflowing juices. “if it makes you feel better, your god isn’t watching, yn,” he continues, guiding his cock to tease your entrance. he slowly pushes his cock inside, looking down at how your entrance stretches from his demonic size.  “jesus christ,” anton mutters under his breath.

you groan and wince at the stretch, a burning sensation quickly sears through your core—your body tenses, heart hammers wildly against your ribs. tears gather at the corners of your eyes, and cling to your eyelashes as you keep your eyes tightly shut.

anton pushes half of his length inside, your walls instantly clenching around his erect. it must’ve been anton—because he is kind enough to start thrusting slowly and gently, the tightness and the fact that you are a virgin makes it hard for him too—too tight, body resisting despite your orgasm from earlier. his fingers dig into your hips as he tries to move but you’re gripping him like a vice. 

“sister, please,” anton breathes, biting his lower lip. with each thrust, your walls relaxed—adjusted around his size. he starts to slide the remainder of his length inside, and eventually fills you completely, balls deep. you bite your skin on the back of your hand to suppress your moans, tears running down your cheeks. 

anton only resumes his thrusting, his eyes zero in on the way your abdomen bulges and flattens with each thrust. “sister yn, look at him,” anton murmurs as he leans down to cup your cheek, wiping your tears with his thumb. reluctantly, you flutter your eyes open and meet his brown ones’. 

anton looks so, human—he looks like his parent’s boy that you almost forget he has a demon inside of him. 

but then he smiles softly, your eyes glossy with tears. dipping his head low, he intertwines his hand with yours and kisses you. lips overlapping one another as you moan freely into the kiss. anton, so consumed with lust and need, starts pounding harder and faster. the tip knocking against your cervix. “can’t believe heaven tried to keep you away from me,” he murmurs, subtly sneering. 

you want to cry, you so badly want to cry—the pleasure is too much for you to handle. anton rolls and snaps his hips against yours and presses down his region against yours, burying his cock deep inside—eliciting a moan from you. 

somewhere between ragged breaths, moanings and whimpers—anton realises. he feels lighter. the weight of his chest, the shadow over his shoulder, and the voice that was never his own… all of it is gone. 

the demon has left him.

he knows it—he’s sure of it because his body is wholly his again. yet, as he looks down on you, trembling beneath, lips parted with breathless sounds, so innocent and precious—he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t pull away. if anything, the absence of the demon only makes his desire burn hotter. the fever in his blood has nothing to do with possession anymore. it’s only him. he moves with more fervor and greed, chasing the high that has nothing to do with salvation. your crucifix moves along with your breasts.

“sister yn,” he cries out, the feeling becoming intense for him. you grip his bedsheet as he keeps on slamming on your g-spot that has you seeing stars. “holy, please,” you gasp, whispering to nothing. he loses his rhythm and composure as his thrusts get sloppy. his fingers fiddle with the ring around your finger—you barely notice when the weight of it disappears—too lost in the haze of his warmth. 

“i think, mh god, i think it’s coming out, sister,” he moans, leaning down to bury his head into the crook of your neck. his cock twitches inside you before he bursts with his cum—ropes of cum shoot out inside, filling you up, coating your walls white. anton’s hips buck as he empties inside you, languid thrusts only pushing his semen deeper. 

he pulls out slowly like he’s trying to memorise the feeling of your tunnel, his cum leaking out. “you’ve saved me,” he murmurs, looking down at you beneath him. he stares at his hands, flexing his fingers like he’s feeling his body for the first time. he smiles, whether whatever that was was salvation or damnation, he wanted it again. then, he lies beside you, pulling you close against his chest and brushing your hair with tenderness.

you lie still, staring blankly at the door, hands tremble to reach for the crucifix around your neck, but can’t bring yourself to. your chest rises and falls unevenly, too quick yet too slow, the weight of the sin that you’ve committed slams into you. “oh my god, oh god,” you whisper, bringing your hands up to your face in shame. 

it’s the choice you made. 

pulling the sheets over the two of you as if it could shield you from the eyes of god, you cry and whimper silently. lips parting in silent prayer to be forgiven for your sin of infidelity and adultery and hope you won’t be punished.

“sister yn!” 

father cha and lord lee finally manage to force the door open—greeted with suffocating air and the smell of sex. anton’s father’s breath catches in his throat at the sight before him—his son, bare-chested and spent, hair messy, and the sister of the church he funds, disheveled and trembling. 

father cha’s eyes widen in horror, watching the sin written all over your body, feels something deep in his bones crack. “no…” he breathes out. he can’t bring himself to move forward—to pick up your habit from the floor, to carry you out of this house, to call for help. the man of faith only stands still by the doorway.

lord lee’s fury is immediate. “what have you done?” his voice shakes with rage and something unknown, his fists clenching so tightly they tremble. he doesn’t know what to do either—to pull the sheets off the two young adults despite knowing what lies underneath and embarrass you even more, or do nothing.

anton doesn’t flinch, but you feel him tensing up behind you. you hide your face with the sheet out of humiliation. he wraps his arms around your waist. “she’s saved me, father,” he murmurs, locking his eyes with his father. you hear them bickering back and forth, but it goes muted in your ears—you can’t focus on anything else other than the voices in your head that tells you to—

apologise to jay.

💭 hiii…. i hope you guys love this as much :)) check out sanctified in another universe -> faith !! 🤍🤍

[itsaintmebabe]

silver springs

summary: years after the outbreak, joel keeps seeing someone who shouldn't be alive, just a glimpse, always disappearing before he can be sure. on the road to jackson, a masked stranger steps out of the shadows, gun raised, eyes too familiar to ignore.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

notes: i love love love reunion fics, let me know if you guys like it! i would love to take any requests you have too! <3

The first time Joel saw her, he thought he was losing his damn mind.

It was in Boston years after the world had ended when he spotted a figure slipping between two crumbling buildings. The street was crowded, loud, bodies pressing against each other as people bartered and argued over scraps. But everything else faded the moment he saw her.

His breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs.

It couldn't be.

Joel shoved his way through the market, ignoring the curses thrown his way, eyes locked on the spot where she had disappeared. His pulse roared in his ears as he turned the corner, boots skidding against the broken pavement.

But she was gone.

Just a ghost in the ruins. Another cruel trick of his memory.

Then it happened again. And again.

Always fleeting. Always just out of reach.

A silhouette in the firelight of a raider camp. A shadow disappearing around a corner in an abandoned QZ. Every time, he told himself it was nothing. Just someone who looked like her. Some stranger with her same gait, her same hair.

It was easier than the alternative.

Easier than believing she had been here all along, just beyond his grasp.

Easier than believing he had lost her twice.

────୨ৎ────

The wind howled through the trees, cutting through layers of fabric and sinking deep into the bone. Joel pulled his coat tighter, keeping a hand near his revolver as he and Ellie made their way through the frozen landscape.

They were close to Jackson now.

Joel could feel it.

Ellie trudged ahead, boots crunching against the ice-covered dirt. “You ever been to Wyoming before?” she asked, breath curling in the cold air.

Joel huffed. “No.”

She kicked a rock down the path. “Think Tommy’s gonna be happy to see you?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Ellie snorted. “Sounds promising.”

She was quiet for a moment before she spoke again, voice more careful this time.

“So… that picture.”

Joel’s brows furrowed. “What?”

Ellie hesitated. “The Polaroid. The one in your bag. With you and—”

Joel cut her off with a sharp look. “Drop it.”

She frowned. “C’mon, man. I saw it.”

Joel clenched his jaw, his shoulders going stiff. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

Ellie huffed. “Sure doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Because she had seen it.

The faded Polaroid buried at the bottom of his bag, edges worn soft from years of being handled. Sarah had taken it back before everything fell apart.

Joel stood in the frame, arm wrapped tight around Y/n’s waist, his head tilted just slightly as he looked at her. Not at the camera. At her. And Y/n, she had been smiling, really smiling, wide and bright. Ellie had never seen Joel look like that before, happy.

And now, he was acting like it didn’t exist.

Joel didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her. Just kept his gaze fixed ahead, hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Ellie sighed, kicking another rock. “Fine. Whatever.”

But she wasn’t stupid.

Whoever she was, whoever had taken that picture, had captured that moment, she mattered.

More than Joel was willing to admit.

────୨ৎ────

Then snap.

Joel stilled.

Ellie went rigid beside him, both of them drawing their weapons in a single, practiced motion.

The trees loomed over them, dark and endless, the wind shifting through the branches.

Then movement.

A figure stepped forward, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. They wore a thick coat, dusted with frost, a rifle slung across their back. But it was the mask that set Joel’s teeth on edge. It covered everything but their eyes, worn, tattered, like it had been pulled from the wreckage of a life long gone.

“Drop the guns,” the figure said.

The voice was muffled, but something about it made Joel’s stomach turn.

Ellie stiffened. “I don’t think so.”

Joel barely heard her.

Because suddenly, none of this felt real.

His grip tightened on his gun. The wind cut sharp through the trees, but his body burned, his blood pounding as something ancient and wrong crawled up his spine.

He knew that voice.

His throat felt tight. “Take off the mask.”

The figure hesitated.

Then, slowly, they reached up, fingers trembling just slightly, and pulled it away.

Joel’s world stopped.

It was her.

Older, leaner, sharpened by the years, by the fight. But still her. The same eyes that had haunted him for two decades.

A breath punched from his chest, like something had reached inside and squeezed the air from his lungs.

Ellie’s voice broke through the silence, barely above a whisper.

“Oh my god.”

Joel didn’t move. Couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the ground, his mind reeling as he stared at the impossible.

His hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach for her. To hold her. But she didn’t move.

The rifle was still firm in her hands, the barrel not pointed at him, but not lowered either.

“Y/n,” he breathed, stepping forward.

She stepped back.

His chest tightened.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real. Like he was something fragile, something impossible. Like if she blinked, he might disappear.

His voice wavered. “It’s me.”

She shook her head, lips parted, her breath shaky in the cold air.

Joel took another step forward.

And she took another step back.

His heart pounded as he reached for her rifle not yanking, not forcing just wrapping his fingers over it, solid and warm.

Her grip resisted for just a moment. A moment of hesitation, of silent disbelief, of fear that if she let go, this would all shatter into nothing.

Then her fingers loosened.

And the rifle fell between them, landing in the snow with a muffled thud.

Joel’s breath came ragged, his chest tight with something too big to name.

Y/n stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. Her hands twitched at her sides before slowly, hesitantly, one of them reached up.

Fingers ghosted over his jaw, tracing the scruff, the rough lines of his face. Over the creases in his forehead, the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

Like she was memorizing him.

Like she was afraid he would vanish if she didn’t.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat burning.

“‘M real,” he rasped.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as they pressed against his skin, as if expecting them to go right through.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and her lips parted like she was about to say something, maybe his name, maybe a curse, maybe nothing at all, before she was moving.

And Joel was catching.

His arms wrapped around her, locking her against him, holding her so damn tight he could barely breathe.

She gasped softly, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, gripping desperately, as if she was afraid to let go.

Joel buried his face in her hair, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing her in.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, voice breaking.

Her body shuddered against him. She clenched her fists tighter in his coat, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.

“I looked for you,” she choked out. “Everywhere.”

The words shattered something inside him.

Because there was pain in them. Guilt, regret, love.

And just like that, all those years of silence, of searching, of ghosts and longing.

They collapsed.

Into the warmth of her body against his. Into the way she whispered his name like it hurt.

Joel clutched her impossibly closer, afraid to let go.

Afraid that if he did, she might vanish all over again.

[askaalaska-vdeppressed]

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.  

[firelilyfox]

I will always rescue you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avengers female reader

Summary: While being in a fight, Bucky looses sight of his girl. When he finds her being hurt he won't hold back to save her.

Warnings: sfw. mentions of trauma. death (not Bucky or reader). killing. physical pain (reader). established relationship. kissing. anxiety. hurt/comfort.

Wordcount: 1,3k

___________________________

The gun felt heavy in his hand. 

Bucky sweared that he would only use it to scare the enemy and won’t pull the trigger to kill someone. Just incapacitate them. He was done with taking lives but he was still a fighter for a good cause. Him and the Avengers were on a mission to rescue citizens from a terrorist attack in the city. And everything went just like planned.

Until he lost his girl in the crowd. 

She weren’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be with the Maximoff Siblings. But when Bucky turned to look for them, he could only see Wanda and Pietro helping to get the people off the road and to safety. 

„Where is she?“, Bucky barked at them. 

Pietro looked up in confusion. His brows jerked upward when he realizes who he meant. „I don’t know, man. She was right behind us. Over there on the market place.“ He pointed his finger at a destroyed pavilion. 

Wanda slapped his hand down. „No she was already on her way to Barton. He helped a family out of a collapsed building.“ 

„And where is Barton now? Why haven’t they returned yet?“ He tried not to sound too anxious. Bucky knew you were capable of protecting yourself if things get rough, but he still needed to see for himself that you were safe. 

His chest tightens when Wanda shrugs. „Don’t know. But we can help find her.“ 

He was annoyed by himself that he was mad at them for loosing his girl out of their sight. At the end it was their job to protect the innocent citizens and not babysitting her, but still … he was mad. 

Bucky nodded and turned on his heel to jogg over to the market place, wich wasn’t more than ruins by now. Bullets lying around, stone walls broken into pieces and blood splattered on the ground. He wanted to throw up … what if … what if this blood came from her? 

„Barnes!“ The voice came from Natasha through his earpiece. „I heard your looking for someone.“ 

He held his breath, pressing the button on the earpiece to talk back. „Tell me where she is. Is she safe?“ 

Cracking sounds made it through the connection. „Not really. I’d see her getting dragged into a basement near the fountain. Have lost sight of her just now but …“ Natasha paused. 

„What is it? I swear to god if you won’t start talking …“ 

„There were three man. And they are heavily armed, Bucky. I think they want to use her as bait.“ 

„Send me the location. Now. And stay the hell back.“ Bucky put his gun into his belt, rotating his bionic shoulder. „This just got personal.“ 

They weren’t far from him. Just about two blocks on the north. Bucky made his way there, sneaking through the narrow side streets to avoid getting caught by the enemy. His training over the years made him hyper focused and perfectly prepared for any dangerous situation. Bucky can deal with any threat that came up. 

But he wasn’t trained to deal with the storm of uncontrollable emotions, that washed over him like a tidal wave the moment he saw his girlfriend lying on the floor. 

And she was crying. 

Bucky was hiding in the shadows, scanning the room for the men and their weapons. Two of them pointing guns on her and smirking in sick pleasure. His blood began to boil. He wanted to rip them into pieces. The third guy crouched down beside her. 

„You know these fun little gadgets, don’t you?“ He pointed at her temples and Bucky narrowed his eyes to see what he means. 

Two little metallic plates.

"This will hurt like hell sweetheart. Even on an Avenger. After all we got one without superpowers. Just another meaningless Widow, hm?"

He gave a sign and the guy on his left operated a remote. The plates began buzzing and she screamed like a feral animal in terrible pain. 

And Bucky snapped. 

He throws two knifes with an outer worldly accuracy. The blades cutting through the armor of the soldiers and came to a sudden stop when they stuck deep in their throats. Leaving them drop to the ground while gurgling on their own blood. 

Bucky stepped out of the shadowed corner and grabbed the third man by the neck. He yanked him away from her and slamming him head first against the ground. The plates on his bionic arm shifting, building an immense pressure on his grip. Bucky could hear the face of the soldier break as soon as it made contact with the concrete beneath his feet. 

With a quick twist he broke the mans neck. 

Bucky looked up to see his girl still cramping in pain. Her whole body shivering and twitching. He found the remote laying on the ground and crushing it with feet. 

A cry of relief escaped her mouth. „Bucky!“ 

He tugged her into his arms. Holding her until the electric shivering stopped to torture her body. Bucky knew this kind of feeling. Electric impulses rushing through the veins, a painful heat building up inside the bones. Making it hard to breath. Years and years of torture but nothing felt as worse, as seeing her suffering this pain now. She felt so breakable in his arms that he got terrified all over again, even if the threat was gone. 

„I-I’m so-so sorry!“, she cried. Her shaky hands wandering up his shoulders and wrap around his neck tightly. Searching for safety. Holding on to him just as he does to her. „I’m sorry, Bucky.“ 

He leaned his head back, but didn’t let go of her. „What are you talking about?“ He mumbled. His voice sounded strained and his vision blurred with tears. 

Her face was contorted in pain. Bucky swear he could hear his heart break seeing her like this. But when she spoke his whole world fell apart. 

„I wasn’t careful. I’m sorry!“ She sobbed with eyes haunted by fear. „I should’ve been more carful… I-I..“  

„Stop.“ 

„But it’s my fault. I should’ve fight back.“ She tried to get away from him but Bucky kept on holding her close.

„Love, stop.“ He insisted. But she couldn’t hear him. 

„It’s my fault you had to kill them!“ She was hyperventilating and her voice got strangled with her tears. 

So Bucky did the only thing that came to his mind to shut her up. He pressed his lips on hers. Rough and a little impatient. Maybe Bucky needed this more than her. He wanted to show his own nervous system that she was here. She was alive and well. And she was talking absolute nonsense. 

When he ended the kiss, she looked at him surprised. Skin pale as a ghost and lips parted in shock. „Aren’t you mad?“ She asked. „You can be mad… You should be m-…“ 

„God, doll. Please shut up“, he chuckled with a teary smile. „I’m not mad.“ 

„But why?“ She reached out to cup his face with her palms and Bucky leaned into her touch, closing his eyes to remember this feeling. „You said you never wanted to kill someone. And today you were forced to do it anyway.“ 

He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Was she really that clueless? How could she be? Bucky would burn the world down to save this girl. Including killing some really bad guys. He would rather die than let anything ever happen to her again. 

„I don’t want to be the Winter Soldier again. He killed innocent people. And he wasn’t in control.“ His jaw tightened as glimpses of memories crossed his mind. „I want to be Bucky Barnes. And I want to be in control to protect the ones I love.“ 

He kissed her again. Soft and reassuring. „Especially the girl I love most.“ 

A shy smile pulled on the corners of her lips. „I love you too, Buck. With all my heart.“ 

Cracking sounds. „I hate to interrupt your foreplay guys but we need to get out of here before the press arrives, or our faces will be on the news again.“ Natasha insisted through Buckys earpiece. „And tell her that I’m happy she is still alive, Barnes.“ 

Bucky grinned and looked down on his whole world. „We should get out of here.“ 

_______________________________

Thanks for reading! 💙 All interactions are appreciated (but please do not copy my work!)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist 🦾

[megalony]

A Hindrance

This is a new Emperor Geta imagine (Gladiator), thank you to the lovely anon who requested this. Please let me know what you think.

I'd love to take on any Geta requests anybody has.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt

Main Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) tries to attend state meetings now she is married to an Emperor, but some of the Senates aren't so kind towards her. When Geta finds out, he makes them see reason.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A soft grin formed on (Y/n)'s lips before she even found the will power to open her eyes. She didn't have to look up to know that the shadows casting over her was because of her husband.

It almost felt strange to think that, to acknowledge that she was married now. That she was bound to someone from now until her last day. Someone to give herself to, someone to be herself around and to love more than anyone else; before anyone else. But it was also one of the most wonderful feelings in the world to (Y/n).

Knowing she was married to one of two Emperors was a daunting thought. It was easy for (Y/n) to separate Geta from the crown placed on his head, sometimes it was like seeing him as two different people. The stone faced Emperor the people saw, and the thawed out, doting man she had married only a fortnight ago.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was as soft and subtle as the warm breeze passing through the open window.

And when (Y/n) dared to open her eyes, she was met with a lovely sight. Geta had his right arm pressing down into the mattress near her shoulder and his head was tilted at an angle so he was looking down at her. He was leaning up on his elbow and his hip and his left arm stretched out so his fingers could create a ticklish path from the base of (Y/n)'s throat down her bare chest. It was almost as if Geta was drawing a map or following a road with the pad of his finger.

The lazy smile on his lips was infectious and seeing him now, bare and absent of any make up, it made him look warm. There was finally colour to his cheeks and a redness to his lips and a soft pale cream beneath his eyes.

It was homely and soothing to see Geta in this light, and to know that (Y/n) was the only person who got to see him like this. But she would have to admit that seeing him in his full regalia and make up was also a sight to behold. His deathly white skin when it was painted always looked so regal rather than pasty and ill. And the black streaks painted beneath his eyes made him stand out and made his gaze all the more piercing.

"Admiring the view," Geta murmured back whilst he continued his administrations, trailing his fingers down until he was creating patterns and secret words along (Y/n)'s waist just to feel the way she qould squirm and fidget beneath him.

His words set a fire blazing within (Y/n) and she couldn't help but reach her hand up to cup the side of his face. She pushed up from the pillow to capture him in a kiss that seemed to entice him until he was pushing his bare chest down against hers.

When she prepared to marry Geta, people had warned her. They told (Y/n) that Geta wouldn't give up his concubines or the women of the night he ventured to with his brother. And they also said that because he was an Emperor, he wasn't expected to either. He was permitted and socially applauded for keeping those favoured women around and having them to go to when he didn't want to be with his wife or in the event that she became pregnant.

Part of (Y/n) had tried to prepare herself for that thought and that event, but it turned out that she had no need. Geta had dismissed them all. All the women and concubines who had been at the palace to serve him had been dismissed and the only ones who remained were Caracalla's favoured women.

Geta had made it very clear that he didn't want anyone but (Y/n); he would devote himself to her in the same respect he expected her to devote to him. And (Y/n) was beyond happy with that gesture of love and trust.

"Don't we have a meeting to attend?" (Y/n)'s thumb stroked the side of Geta's face that she was still cradling in her palm and she spoke in between stolen kisses against his blushing red lips.

She liked the way his hands stopped drawing on her skin in favour of gripping her waist when she moved to sit up and he followed suit. His nose nudged against hers and his lips stole every breath (Y/n) tried to inhale like Geta simply couldn't breathe without her.

When one hand left her hip in favour of cradling the back of her neck so he could angle her lips better to his, (Y/n) could have passed out then and there. Her hands moved to grip his sturdy shoulders and she let him steal half a dozen more kisses and touches before she finally pulled back for air before her head burst.

"The meeting," She mumbled against his lips and leaned forward to leave an open mouthed kiss against the very corner of his mouth which caused Geta's eyes to flutter closed.

"This is more important."

"I don't think the Senate would agree."

"Ah, but taking care of my wife is my responsibility, not theirs." Geta's counter argument was effective, even if he wasn't using it to sway (Y/n)'s mind since he was already untangling from the sheets so he could stand up.

His touch lingered on her skin after he ventured into the smaller, adjoining room that housed all their clothes and garments.

(Y/n) supposed that she should get ready as well since she was expected to attend the meeting. She was expected to attend most, if not all, of the meetings both Emperors had regarding Rome and their conquored nations. She was the Empress now, her husband was one of the rulers and it wasn't just about being by his side and showing support for him and the people.

It was about (Y/n) understanding the governing of Rome and listening to the matters of state. (Y/n) had to know just as much as the Emperors about the land they ruled and controlled, she couldn't rely on second hand information from others.

Once she was dressed, (Y/n) smoothed her hands up and down her dress, brushing off the few wrinkles and making sure that it didn't hug too tight around her frame and flowed freely around her lower legs.

She began to pin her hair back and donned a golden band in her hair which matched the golden belt around her waist just as she felt a familiar pair of hands on her hips. She felt the growl rumble from Geta's lips through her neck and all throughout her blood when he tucked his face into her neck.

And she heard 'beautiful' and 'matching' mutter past his lips like he was singing her praises. She realised the colour of her dressed matched what Geta had chosen to wear.

Most of his and Caracalla's clothes had some element of gold in them, for gold was the colour of wealth and regal and it matched their natural fiery hair. Although where Caracalla favoured blue with gold, it was well seen that Geta favoured red.

He had streaks of red woven into the clothing he was wearing which was outwardly cream with gold embellishments and edgings. His robes didn't have sleeves as long as some of his other garments, the sleeves on this particular robe Geta wore today cut just past his shoulders and hung in front of his chest like a backwards cape.

(Y/n) murmured a soft "Thank you," When Geta unravelled himself from her and moved to stand beside her in front of the table which heldall the various pins and rings and jewels each of them would wear.

Geta had grown accustomed to sleeping with his rings still on his fingers until two weeks ago when he married (Y/n). None of his concubines had ever shared his bed all through the night so he hadn't realised that he could swing his arms out during his sleep. The rings that clad his fingers were heavy and had caused a bruise or two on (Y/n)'s soft skin when he slung an arm over her or at her during the night.

His fingers skimmed over the rings and he set about sliding each one over the grooves of his fingers towards his knuckles.

But when it came to choosing and clipping his other jewellery, he paused. His lips curved into a soft, melting smile when he held his wrist out towards (Y/n) and felt her soft touch skimming across his skin.

He watched with growing adoration in his eyes as (Y/n)slid a golden band over his wrist which looked like a piece of armor that started at his wrist and went halfway up his forearm. Next, she chose a thin gold bracelet to place on his other wrist and two golden chains for his neck.

Geta leaned forward towards her, raising a brow and curving his lips into a sideways grin as he bowed his head towards her chest so she could reach and loop the first chain over the back of his head until it hung comfortably around his neck. The pendant on the chain settled just below his collar bone, situated lovingly against his exposed pale skin and the second chain that looped around his neck hung much lower and rested over halfway down his chest.

When he raised back up to his full height, (Y/n) grinned as if admiring a work of art which in many ways, Geta was to her. The finishing touch was the golden leaf crown that (Y/n) carefully nestled into his golden hair, making sure the crown wasn't engulfed or obscured by his silky strands.

"My Emperor," Her voice was as tender as her touch when she skimmed the back of her hand down Geta's cheek and over his exposed chest.

She was sure he whispered "Yours alone." Against her lips when he dove down to steal a kiss and brush a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear.

(Y/n) slid her own rings onto her fingers when Geta finally released her so he could apply the make up he favoured whenever he had be seen by anyone other than his wife or brother. She hooked a few bracelets onto her wrist and one necklace.

Once they were both ready, (Y/n) looped her right hand around Geta's arm and stood close to his side as they left their chambers.

It had only been two weeks since their wedding, but they were quickly falling into a rhythm and routine together. Breakfast wasn't something they tended to fuss about. Before Geta and Caracalla became Emperors, during their harsh childhood, food had been something of a luxury they couldn't afford, something they didn't find often enough.

Breakfast had been cut out of their routines, they ate at midday and late evening, a lot of the times while growing up it had been one small meal a day if they were lucky. Becoming Emperors and having all the riches and luxuries in the world made them appreciate what they never used to have and they stuck to the routine of two meals a day.

And Geta preferred to get up and go straight to business, walk straight into these meetings. (Y/n) would follow Geta.

She was his wife, she wanted to show her support and show that their alliance was a loving and happy one. If Geta went to meetings and events alone it might imply that something was wrong or he didn't want her around. (Y/n) didn't want to give off that impression, especially when Geta wanted her by his side every moment of the day. He couldn't bear to be without her.

Her cheek nuzzled into his shoulder as they walked in tandem down the long corridors and down a flight of stairs.

The room in the palace where meetings were held was a large open court room that overlooked one of the fountains outside. (Y/n) thought the room was lovely, until it was filled with people.

The walls of stone were thick and high and when voices got louder, the room echoed badly. (Y/n) had never been a fan of crowds but loud noises were something she couldn't abide by. It was something Geta had figured out very early on in their courtship and something he was invested in helping with now that they were married.

Once they entered the room, a cold shiver passed over (Y/n) and she tucked herself more into Geta's side.

Apart from him and Caracalla, there weren't many, if any, people in here that she knew well enough to trust or talk to. (Y/n) was still finding her feet, she was attending these meetings more to keep on track with what was happening in Rome and to learn rather than to add any opinions or input into the room.

She was too nervous to speak unless Geta struck up a conversation and asked for her opinion and even then, (Y/n) was timid. Geta never pushed her into conversations, he was more than happy to simply have his wife by his side and on his arm. If she didn't want to speak that was fine by him, he would never push her boundaries.

It still felt unusual to sit in the centre of the room, being at the centre of the attention and focus of every other person in the room. (Y/n) was used to some attention, it came with the territory of being born into the upper class. She had to mind her manners, always be elequent when in public and hold her tongue. But being married to an Emperor was something else entirely. It was a whole new level of scrutiny and observation.

At least (Y/n) wasn't the full centre of attention. That fell onto her husband and brother in law. (Y/n) could sit silent by Geta's side and observe and he was the only person who would ask her opinion or ask her to comment. And he tried not to because he could see it made (Y/n) nervous.

When they sat down, Geta propped his chin on one hand and stretched his other arm across to rest on (Y/n)'s thigh. His fingers danced across her skin and the metal rings cladding his fingers tapped against her thigh in a soft, lulling pattern as he tried to concentrate as the meeting began.

The moment everyone began to speak, (Y/n) felt uneasy. No one seemed to wait their turn to speak. These were all men of the world, men of upper class, and yet they couldn't be polite enough to wait until one had finished speaking for another to butt in and make his point. They rose their voices over each other to be heard and to try and get one or both Emperors to listen to them before anyone else.

Their voices were loud enough without the stone walls echoing them and doubling their volume until it felt like needles were scratching down (Y/n)'s spine and stabbing into her ears.

Her fingers began to glide across each of Geta's rings and she tilted her head down to try and study each one, even though she had practically committed each design to memory by now. She needed something to focus on to calm herself down so she could listen to their raised voice in the background. It took patience to endure these meetings and although (Y/n) had abundance of patience, she wasn't sure she had the willpower.

But this was her place. Being beside her husband, listening to state affairs and the problems of Rome. This was where she was supposed to be and (Y/n) didn't dare ask to be removed from these meetings in fear of what people would say. What Geta would say. She didn't want to let him down, not when they had only just married.

Geta nodded aimlessly to the three Senates stood beside Caracalla who were now starting to raise their voices to get their invalid, separate points across. When one particular man rose his voice and his pitch seemed to bounce off the stone walls, Geta looked to his left.

He felt (Y/n) shudder.

Her fingers paused their administrations dancing across his knuckles and she seemed to shrink and jump in her seat when the particular echo vibrated through her ears.

That was something Geta had noticed a lot these past two weeks. He noticed his wife shrink back into his side or pull away when a particularly loud noise or someone's shout sounded loudly nearby. Loud noises never bothered Geta. He had grown up in a palace with strict rules and tutors and people rushing about and making clattering noises at all hours.

He was used to the roaring crowds of the colosseum and the cheering crowds when speeches were given and events were hosted. It was part of his life and his ears had become deafened to raised tones and volumes. Sometimes it slipped his mind that other people might have a sensitivity to things like this. He would have to keep an eye on (Y/n) and take note of what disgruntled her to make sure it didn't occur again.

After another debate that (Y/n) could barely keep track of, she finally stopped trailing her fingers across Geta's rings and hand in favour of squeezing his wrist to gain his attention.

She loved the way his head inclined in her direction and how his ruby red lips formed a living grin even before he knew what she was going to say. His free hand was pressing into his chin and his fingertips were tapping along his lip as if to obscure his smile so only his wife was able to see it.

The way (Y/n) silently circled her finger through the air gave Geta all the information he needed and he nodded, removing his hand from her thigh to allow her to get up. She was going to circle the room and try to get some fresh air from the open doors. Sitting down was making her go stiff and she wasn't engaged in conversation so no one could say anything if she traipsed around the room for a little while.

Her hands smoothed across her dress as if sorting the imaginary creases and her sandals glided agaginst the slabs of stone that scuffed beneath her feet. The subtle click of her sandals against the floor was a soothing sound compared to the voices and hands thrashing down on table tops to get their oblivious points across.

If it would have been socially acceptable to have Arla, her pet, in this meeting with them then (Y/n) would have asked one of the servants to bring her in. But she could just imagine the looks she would receive from all the older men in the room. The looks of distaste and irritation, the snide glances and tuts and eye rolls that it would cause.

After all, (Y/n) was an Empress but she wasn't the highest point of authority in Rome like her husband and her brother in law. If Caracalla ever brought Dondus into the meetings, no one batted an eyelid. No one wanted to be at the end of his temper and receive Caracalla's wrath. (Y/n) was different. She may have a temper, but she would never let it flare or argue with anyone, especially not in front of a crowd.

At least having Arla here with her would have made (Y/n) feel calmer and it would have given her something to put her attention to.

(Y/n) had a sudden, yearning desire to creep out of the door behind her when she stood at the corner of the room near the open doors that led out towards one of the many gardens in the palace. She wanted to disappear outside or head back into the palace and go about her day. She wanted to be away from prying eyes and wait faithfully for Geta rather than to be in here feeling useless and giving very little help or reasoning to this meeting.

She contemplated the thought for a while, that was, until she heard her title being called behind her.

"Empress." The quiet yet gruff voice caused (Y/n) to turn on her heels.

She clasped her hands together in front of her and tilted her head to one side as she looked the Senate up and down. It was Senator Arelius. A gentleman already on the wrong side of middle age with thinning grey hair and gaunt features that made him look toughened and stern.

He seemed to be smiling, but the way his eyes were narrowed down on (Y/n) made her feel unsettled and the slight curve of his lips was frightening rather than inviting.

"Arelius," (Y/n) nodded her head in acknowledgement and put on her best smile as her hands tightened together until the blood was cut off from her fingertips. She tried to be subtle as she took one step to the right so she could glance behind him and cast her eyes towards her husband.

(Y/n) wouldn't want to walk over there and interrupt Geta if he was deep in conversation, but she would rather be back at his side than stood here with a man she didn't trust and hardly knew.

Most of the Senates (Y/n) didn't trust because she knew the way they thought and how they did politics. They were all out for their own gain. When some heard of her betrothal to Geta, they began to get close to (Y/n), to try and befriend her and be on her good side in hopes that she would do them favours with the Emperors. They were wrong. (Y/n) wouldn't be used as a pawn in their games.

She would rather not talk to any of them unless it was strictly necessary.

The conversation between them quickly became stilted and broken and when Arelius turned so he was stood beside (Y/n) rather than in front of her, he looked back towards the Emperors. Both Emperors were on their feet and now stood around the table in the far corner of the room, nodding and observing the notes that they were being presented with.

It was as if Geta could sense their stares because he cast his head to the left and let a smile grace his lips when he looked at (Y/n) before he cast his eyes back down to his notes. A small acknowledgement that he still had her on his mind and that he wasn't too swept away with state business to be thinking of her and making sure she was okay.

"It seems the Emperor doesn't want to let his bride out of his sight. Does he not trust you, my Lady?"

Arelius's words made (Y/n)'s thoughts come to a halt and her expression faltered in panic as she turned to look up at him. Why would he say something like that? What would make him think that?

(Y/n) wasn't someone who needed to be watched at every moment of the day in case she did something wrong. She was not a child who needed supervision, she was Geta's wife. And he didn't have her here in the meeting with them just so he could keep an eye on her. She was here because it was her place and Geta wanted his wife by his side, not someone to keep track over.

"Pardon?" She did her best to steel her voice and hold her head high to show that she didn't believe nor take too kindly to what he was insinuating.

"Maybe the Emperor fears you might become a hinderence if you are left to your own devices."

The way Arelius smiled was as if he was a kindly parent trying to give (Y/n) some kind of advice. She didn't appreciate it. She did not appreciate what he was saying for he was acting as if she was inexperienced in state affairs like this. (Y/n) knew how to act and what to do and how to engage in these conversations, she simply did not wish to engage.

But she always acted respectfully, she never caused any scene or started arguments like the rest of the men in here. She did nothing to make Geta upset or show him up in front of his subserviant men.

(Y/n) could feel tears welling up behind her eyes that she did her best to push away as she tried to take a deep breath to control herself. The last thing she needed was to cause a scene or get upset and prove him right.

Her head tilted back and her chin raised high as she tried to hold herself together and find something to say in rebuttal but she paused when she noticed another Senate clearly listening in on their one-sided conversation. The other Senate was just a little bit younger than Arelius, and he had the kind of smile that was unnerving and made (Y/n) take a step back.

She continued to knot her fingers together as she mustered up the courage to speak her mind.

"Is it not a wife's place to be with her husband, especially an Empress? I think I should witness matters of state, Senator." (Y/n) thought she worded that rather well, and she was telling the truth.

It was her place to be beside Geta, she was his wife, she was supposed to support his decisions and what better way to do that than to witness those decisions being made. Show her support right from the start. If they didn't want (Y/n) here then they had to bring that up with both the Emperors.

"Or to be supervised." The younger Senate, Forin, muttered with one arched brow and his head twisted to the other side as if (Y/n) wasn't worth her time and this conversation wasn't as interesting as he hoped it would be.

"I think I'll take my place now."

(Y/n) took another step to the side and twisted away from both of them. Her place was beside her Emperor, no one else could say that and these two men, however high and mighty they thought of themselves, were not as high as they thought they were. At least not when compared with (Y/n)'s elevated status.

She could go and sit with Geta whereas they would have to fight to bend his ear and get any of his attention. (Y/n) never had to fight for Geta's attention; not once.

One step closer to Geta was all (Y/n) managed before a hand curled around her arm and she was suddenly halted in her pace by his firm grip. He wasn't finished, and he didn't like people walking away from him when he was clearly not done with their conversation.

"I can explain the matters of State for you, so you don't interrupt."

Did he really think (Y/n) would blunder over there and interrupt her husband? Did he think she was a child who needed watching and that she needed everything to be dumbed down and explained to her using pictures?

His words made (Y/n)'s stomach churn but his grip on her arm was what was unsettling her the most. As much as she wasn't a fan of loud noises, (Y/n) really wasn't a fan of personal contact or touch with anyone who wasn't her close family. Geta, Caracalla and her parents were the only people she was okay with being this close to her.

Having a Senate who was clearly unsettled and annoyed with her, grabbing her to pull her back and keep her from 'interrupting' her husband.

Her eyes darted between Arelius and his hand on her arm as her hands clenched and her palms began to sweat.

As if by chance, Geta turned to look behind him again. He thought (Y/n) would have been back by his side by now. She didn't often walk around the room for so long, especially when she didn't tend to talk to anyone during these meetings. She liked to be back by Geta's side and he liked to have her back with him as her presence was calming.

It took Geta a moment to scour his eyes around the hall and find his wife but when he did, his brows furrowed.

Why did Senator Arelius have his hand on Geta's wife?

Geta couldn't think of one valid reason why the Senate would be gripping her like that. The touch was clearly making her uncomfortable and that thought was riling up the bottle of rage that was held within Geta's chest. He could feel it spilling over inside of him like an errupting volcano and it made his blood fizzle and sent colour rushing beneath his painted white cheeks.

He straightened up until his spine clicked into place and he looked as straight as a board with a face that could rival the worst thunderstorm.

Before any of the Senates or his brother gathering round the table had chance to question what had changed Geta's mood so suddenly, he raised his right hand to pause their conversation.

He turned on his heels and stormed away from the table, aiming for the Senate with a blazing fury in his eyes and his jaw ground tight causing his pale cheekbones to pop out. His hands clenched into fists at his sides while he moved to stand directly beside (Y/n), close enough that she could feel his chest brushing up against her arm.

"Is there a problem?" The steely tone to Geta's voice was enough to make the warm summer air turn brisk and damp with cold as if Winter had rolled in without them knowing.

The way his eyes raked up and down Arelius made the elder man shiver and look as if he were about to melt into a puddle on the floor. The scrutiny in Geta's eyes was unnerving and frightening. He was displeased, and no one got away with displeasing an Emperor without a reprimand.

"No Emperor," Arelius smiled nervously and tilted his head back as he tried to calm his rising panic and steady himself.

"Then remove your hand from my wife, unless you wish to lose it."

(Y/n) gasped with the swiftness that Geta moved and how fast his demanour changed. Within an instant, his left arm was secured around her waist, reeling her into his side at the same moment which Arelius let go of her arm. But his right hand moved to push part of his robe to the side so his palm could curl around the handle of his sword.

A threat.

A very clear, menacing threat that told Arelius if he didn't back off, he would lose a limb; possibly his life. Geta was no stranger to being ruthless and he would easily follow through with any threat that he made.

The deep breath that Geta intook made (Y/n) tuck herself more into his side and push back into his firm chest that felt like it was fit to burst. She didn't want a scene to break out, not because of her and not when nothing had really happened except for a mere insult which (Y/n) could brush off and ignore.

"My apologies, Emperor… Empress." Arelius was quick to correct his error and add (Y/n)'s title to the end of his apology when Geta's head turned and his lips pursed into a thin line.

It was not Geta who he needed to be apologising to and if he couldn't be respectful then he needed to leave before he really got on Geta's dark side.

When Arelius backed up towards the corner of the room like a shamed child, (Y/n) glanced up at her husband. Her right hand slithered round to his lower back while her other hand pressed down on his chest as she twisted to face him. Her thumb brushed across his skin and she leaned her head forward into his chest, taking a quick moment to gather her senses and sink into Geta's unwavering embrace.

She felt his lips pressing against her temple and when she tilted her head back to look up at him, he stole a feverish kiss that managed to settle the anger that was still dwelling within him.

Maybe it was time for (Y/n) to depart. Perhaps it would be best if she left the meeting so no other disruptions were caused and they could conclude this meeting. She could meet with Geta afterwards and make sure this debacle was put behind them and reassure him that everything was as it should be.

(Y/n) didn't get the chance to offer a request to leave before she realised she was suddenly walking forwards rather than retreating towards the door. Geta's arm stayed firmly around her waist and he guided her back towards their seats. Back to where his brother was perched on the edge of the table with one leg crossed regally over the other and his hands tapping against his thighs while a smile lit up his face.

He liked confrontation and confliction. Caracalla feeded off the shockwaves and the high tension and he loved to see his twin assert dominance and show just how powerful the pair of them had become. They were the rulers, no one denied them anything or went against them. They would meet the end of a blade if they did.

"Your opinion is required to settle a debate, my love." Geta's words were murmured against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear and his hand feathered up and down her back as he sat down in his chair that was opposite the table. He had no want to stand next to the Senates, he would rather keep some space between them and simmer down.

When (Y/n) moved to try and take a seat beside him, both Geta's hands found her hips and he manovered her gently until she was perched down on his thigh instead. His arm secured around her waist so his hand could feather along her hip and he leant forward until his chin was settled neatly on her shoulder and his lips could attach to the crook of her neck.

He inhaled her scent like she was the air he needed to breathe and when his eyes diverted up to the Senates, they began their debate again.

(Y/n) moved her hands down to hold onto Geta's wrist and her cheek settled on top of his soft hair that felt like feathers tickling her skin. She could feel a point or two from his crown nestling against the base of her chin, but it was comforting rather than uncomfortable.

She loved it when Geta would wrap himself around her like this and want her as close as possible. And the way he held her and hummed into her neck showed he was happy- no, enthralled to be in her presence. He didn't think of (Y/n) as a hindrance like the Senator suggested.

She tried to focus on the way her husband was wrapped around her and how calm he was now that he was in her presence. This was why she had to stay at meetings like these.

How could she refuse when her place was right here by her husband's side?

After all, he was including her in discussions. He wanted her here and he valued her opinion, contrary to what some of the other men in this room might think. (Y/n) didn't want anyone to think badly of her when she had only just married Geta. And she wouldn't want them thinking that she didn't listen to her husband or that she liked to go against his wishes and leave when he wanted her there beside him.

Her place was here, and (Y/n) couldn't leave.

***

(Y/n) leaned her chin on her hand and began to tap her fingers against her cheek as she looked around the dome shaped room.

Another meeting.

The beginning of this meeting had been more fruitful than whatever seemed to be taking place now. For a while, (Y/n) had chipped in with an opinion and she had smiled and felt butterflies swarming through her stomach when Geta grinned proudly at her suggestions and wrote them down. She felt like she was making a bit of a difference and that her opinions were valued. At least by her husband and brother in law.

But now the meeting had turned sour. It wasn't just raised voices, it was arguments going back and forth between different people. The men seemed to have split into segments, little huddling groups arguing over vastly different ideas and topics that were making less and less sense the more they argued.

(Y/n) wanted to go. She wanted to walk out and go take Arla for a walk. She wished she had brought her faithful pet into this meeting, at least then she could have someone to focus on and something to take her mind off her growing panic.

She found her eyes diverting to Geta again when he grunted and slammed his hand down on the table. He wasn't happy. Whatever had been suggested to him was now cast to one side and completely overruled.

She heard him utter "Do shut up." To one of the Senates and as much as his gruff voice should have been off-putting, it made (Y/n) smile inwardly. There was a rough edge to his voice that made (Y/n) shiver.

He was a sight to behold when he took charge like this.

Her eyes didn't stay on him for very long when a group of three Senates began to argue loud enough to start a brawl between them. (Y/n) lifted her head off her hand and sat up straighter in her seat as she observed them with worried, narrowed eyes.

She wasn't sure what they were arguing about, but fingers were wagging and hands were clenching and one began to tut and toss his head back in annoyance.

Another groan vibrated at the back of Geta's throat and he tossed his head back when he heard the familiar voice of Horin starting up an argument. Why did all of these men have to argue like little children fighting over their toys? Could they not grow up and act like men?

Even Geta and Caracalla had never acted in this manner when they were little, although most of their childhood had been spent in rigid tutoring sessions. And fending off their father's unwarranted anger that was always unleashed unfairly onto the twins.

With one hand on the table in front of him, Geta slowly twisted on his heels and let his head loll to one side as he looked for the arguing gentlemen. One brow arched up and his red lips parted with a sigh. The unamused look in his eyes should have been enough to ward off the argument, but the men were taking no notice of him. They didn't seem to notice Caracalla huffing with growing irritation and his foot tapping against the floor.

Those men didn't even have the nerve to raise their opinions to the Emperors, they were arguing between themselves rather than talking calmly with the rest of the room. After all, they would need the Emperors to agree with them if they wanted their point to be taken seriously or their matter to be decided upon. They couldn't make any decisions themselves. That was why Geta and Caracalla were here.

"That's ludacris!" One of them shrieked, and his voice was loud and high enough in pitch to echo off the walls.

Geta took one step away from the table and squared his shoulders before his eyes were casting to the left. He saw the way (Y/n) flinched. Her arms coiled around her chest and she seemed to pull in on herself like she was trying to make herself small and compact or to disappear.

The clear discomfort on her features did something to Geta. It made something twist horribly in his gut and his usually neutral expression weakened for a moment as he looked at her.

He was torn between wanting to go over and dispell the argument and wanting to veer towards his wife and make sure she was alright. It was becoming apparent that distinct and loud noises were unsettling to her and Geta didn't want her to be in those kind of situations if she didn't need to be or if it was going to upset her.

He paused somewhere in between both directions when one of the Senates lashed his hand out and knocked a silver tray of glasses off the table. The bundle of glasses clattered to the floor and fractured into hundreds of sparkling pieces that glimmered in the midday sun and sprinkled across the stone floor.

The tray, however, bounced and each time it hit the stone and wavered back up into the air it caused a horrible thunder to crack through the room.

(Y/n) gasped. She couldn't help it. Her knees coiled up, her eyes snapped closed and her trembling hands moved to cup over her ears to preserve them and save them from the echoing thuds that were getting louder and sending shockwaves through her system.

Her back pressed into the chair and she shrank down as her nails scratched through her hair and into her scalp. She wanted them to stop. Why did they have to resort to lashing out when their arguments were getting them nowhere? Why couldn't they talk things out like calm, sensible men?

The way (Y/n) reacted sealed Geta's direction and had him turning towards her. He needed to remove her from this situation before she got upset, and he needed all of these idiots bundled up in this room to understand that this kind of behaviour wasn't acceptable.

He would have made it towards (Y/n), if it weren't for Arelius's voice that stopped Geta in his tracks and sent all his blood rushing to his head.

"The Empress is but a child; a hindrance."

Geta moved before anyone could blink. He thundered in (Y/n)'s direction but walked three feet past her chair to where Arelius was standing. Clearly he either hadn't anticipated the Emperor hearing his words or he thought Geta might agree with him. The nerve!'

But it was the movement of his right hand, gripping the sword on his waist that made all murmurs cease and had all eyes on them.

He removed the sword strapped to his waist and yeilded it expertly, twisting his wrist and thrusting forward until the end of the blade was pressing uncomfortably against Arelius's trachea. He used the blade to tilt Arelius's head back until his neck was pressing out and showing off his Adam's apple and each gulp of air he took was visible to everyone in the room.

Nobody moved. Not a single word was uttered as they all waited in anticipation and slight horror to see what the Emperor would do.

Intrigue pooled in Caracalla's eyes as he pushed forward from the table he was leaning against, being the first person in the room to make a move. Although he didn't move far. He walked until he was stood beside (Y/n)'s chair almost as if he were acting as a guard for her. His head inclined to one side and a smile lit up his face, showing off his golden tooth as he watched his twin.

He was eager to see what Geta would do and if he would be the first Emperor to spill blood during a political meeting like this. Caracalla would certainly cheer him on and back him up if that was what his brother wanted to do.

"Out."

That one word seethed past Geta's lips as his chest rose and fell like the tides crashing against the shore. It felt like his lungs were going to burst and each breath was physically paining him. It was like Geta was controlling all of the rage inside of him and it was putting pressure on each and every organ within him. His stomach was churning. His heart was desperately trying to break free and wrap itself around (Y/n) and his nerves were twisting themselves into knots.

"I- I-"

"Emperor-" Whoever it was that tried to step in to dissolve the situation clamped their mouth shut immediately when Caracalla sneered at them. His brother didn't need any help sorting out this situation. The Emperors were in charge and they could serve out any punishment and give any command they saw fit.

"Out. Before the hilt is buried in your throat." To prove his point, Geta clenched his hand tighter around the blade and pushed until the tip of the sword began to scratch into Arelius's neck.

The sharp blade easily cut through the first few layers of skin and had a slow trickle of blood slithering directly down his throat and soaking into the pale cream robes he was wearing.

If he wanted his life to be spared then Arelius needed to back away and leave the room before Geta changed his mind. Because it was becoming more and more desirable to thrust his sword through the Senate's throat and watch it carve out the other side.

But he didn't want to do that; not in front of (Y/n). Not when Geta knew seeing blood being shed by his own hands would not push his wife into his open arms. He didn't want to do anything that would push her away or upset her any further. Geta never wanted to do that.

When Arelius stepped back and slowly removed his throat from being pressed into the blade, he watched how Geta's arm stayed locked in place. Holding his threat that he was one second away from following through with.

Arelius pressed his palm against his throat, gasping and swallowing heavily as he turned on his heels and departed the room like a mutt with its tail between its legs.

Once he was gone and the doors were swung wide open in his wake, Geta finally moved. His movements felt stiff and broken as he thrust his sword back into the belt strapped around his waist and he turned in his wife's direction.

She no longer had her hands clasped over her ears, but she was starting to shake and her eyes were focused on the floor like she was too afraid to look up and see the faces of all the people staring at them. At her.

Shivers coursed up and down (Y/n)'s spine and she gasped when Geta's hand was suddenly enveloped around her own and he pulled her to her feet. Her free hand curled around his arm and she hurriedly smothered her face into his arm and glued herself into his side like she wished she could use Geta as a shield to hide herself from everyone in this room.

"This meeting is over." Geta's voice was rugged and his jaw clenched tight as he steered (Y/n) towards the doors.

He wasn't waiting around to finish this rather pointless meeting. If no one could be civil and talk like adults rather than petty children then this wasn't going ahead. And Geta certainly wasn't sitting around and waiting for this to finish when (Y/n) was upset and needed to leave.

(Y/n) closed her eyes and meshed her face into the back of Geta's shoulder, allowing him to steer her down the hall and up the stairs. She didn't have to open her eyes to know where he was taking her. Their room. He wanted to talk and he wasn't doing that until they were in the privacy of their room with no prying ears trying to listen in.

She could feel each deep, ragged breath Geta took as he stormed up the stairs and practically kicked their chamber door open.

When he led her inside, (Y/n) slowly unravelled her hands from his arm and retracted from his side so she could sit down on the end of their bed. Her feet began to tap and jitter against the floor and her hands quickly fisted into her dress and her nails began to scratch up and down her knees.

Was Geta angry with her? Did he think she had caused a scene? Did he think she was a hindrance like the rest of his council seemed to believe?

"I'm sorry… I- I didn't mean to interrupt the meeting." (Y/n) kept her eyes cast down on her hands that were almost shaking as she scratched deeply into her knees to try and gain some control over her bubbling emotions. She didn't want to cry and she didn't want to seem weak, but Arelius's recent words had cut deep.

Her teeth sank down into her lower lip in a desperate attempt to keep a stoic expression on her face and keep any tears at bay. But her eyes went round when Geta's hand suddenly pressed beneath her chin and her head was tilted back to look up at him.

He stood in front of her, close enough that he was pressing up against her legs and his chin was aimed down so he could look down on her properly. But the way Geta's thumb traced her chin and reached up to brush along her lower lip had (Y/n) at a loss for words.

"What on God's Earth are you sorry for? It is Arelius who should be apologising to you."

(Y/n) didn't have a response to that. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. Arelius had been cruel but his words had worried (Y/n). She worried she was becoming a hindrance, that Geta might regret marrying her or think she was weak or being silly or that she was interfering like Arelius had previously suggested. She would never want Geta to think of her like that.

"But you- you don't believe that I'm in the way, or need supervising, do you?"

The rage that seeped into Geta's eyes made (Y/n) want to cower down, but she knew that it wasn't directed at her. He wasn't angry with her. He was furious that someone would have suggested such a thing and made (Y/n) feel that way when there was absolutely no truth to the matter whatsoever.

Her eyes followed him as he seemed to debate whether to start pacing up and down the room or to sit beside her. He chose to sit down, against his better judgement considering how riled up he was now beginning to feel. His hand reached across to clasp around (Y/n)'s and when she leaned her head on his shoulder, Geta twisted to merge his lips with the top of her head.

"I don't believe that for a moment, my love." He murmured as he began to stroke his thumb up and down the back of her hand.

It was clear Geta was pushing the subject of Arelius to one side. He didn't want to upset (Y/n) any further and he would soon have a word with his brother and see what they could do to deal with this traitor and make an example of him. Because Geta wouldn't allow anyone else to think they could talk to (Y/n) like this or upset her.

He would try and push those thoughts to the back of his mind until he was in his brother's company. For now, he would focus on his wife and making sure that she was okay and happy.

"But you do not enjoy these meetings, do you?"

(Y/n) nudged her nose against Geta's shoulder, debating her answer and how truthful she wanted to be. "No, I don't. That room echoes, everything is too loud and their yells and anger are unnecessary; I don't like their shouts."

Anything such as those meetings or public events where they had to stand before a rowding crowd was unsettling. The games were even worse as the colosseum seemed to amplify any noise tenfold and deafen every spectator. (Y/n) didn't know how her husband could laugh and thrive in such environments as those.

"You don't have to attend any further meetings, my love." Geta's words clearly confused (Y/n) for she lifted her head from his shoulder with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

"But… but I should attend, it's my place-"

"Your place is always by my side, but I won't have you somewhere you don't feel comfortable. The Senate can't refuse if I excuse you from any and all further meetings you do not wish to attend."

If Geta told his council and the Senates that (Y/n) was not to attend any further meetings, that should be the end of it. They had no authority to question him or ask why or demand that (Y/n) attend. In the back of his mind Geta knew none of those fools would demand (Y/n) be at the meetings, they never asked her opinions, even if they thought what she said was credible once Geta asked for her advice.

They wouldn't bat an eyelid if she weren't there, although they would ask why. They could ask, but they wouldn't receive any response. Geta didn't have to explain any of his rulings to them, he answered to no one. Not even the Gods.

"You won't think bad of me?"

"Never. And anyone who questions your absence will meet their fate by my blade."

The feeling of his hand cupping her face was electrifying and when he tilted her head back so their lips could meet, his touch was heavenly. No one would question this and no one would have the right to make any comments. And Geta certainly wouldn't think bad of her.

He only wished for her happiness, and he would do whatever was in his power to make that happen.

[eelnoise]

currents

roronoa zoro x gn!reader cw: fluff. giving zoro some much needed validation. established relationship wc: 3.2k an: it's been a while, hasn't it? ao3 link

beneath the safety of a sea cave large enough to house the thousand sunny, the straw hat pirates dock on a modest island, its location far from the nearby village to remain unnoticed. the cavern’s towering rocky walls cast long shadows, shielding the crew from view, while the sea carries the scent of damp stone and salt, mingling with the faint echo of waves crashing against the it’s mouth.

eager to stretch their land legs, the crew wastes no time in disembarking. they split up almost immediately, each drawn to their own interests—some head to the market, some to the beach, and the rest scatter to explore the town’s hidden corners. zoro starts to wander off on his own, one hand lazily resting atop the swords at his side and his expression focused, but makes it no more than five feet away from the others before a hand gently wraps around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“not so fast,” you say, touch still resting lightly on his arm as his gaze tilts down to meet yours. “where to? i’ll come with ya.” while your tone is light, it’s a firm one that leaves no room for argument—you're tagging along with him, though happy to let him lead the way, whatever that looks like. 

zoro grumbles something about “not needing a babysitter”, but he doesn’t protest. instead he gestures vaguely toward the path ahead and starts walking, his pace slow to allow you to keep up.

the village is a vibrant mix of tropical greenery and a lively marketplace, its narrow streets bustling with midday activity. merchants call out to passersby, their stalls overflowing with colorful fruits, handmade trinkets, and the occasional exotic spice. the air is thick with fresh produce and salty sea breeze, joined by the sounds of the day-to-day clientele. it’s the kind of place that just feels alive, every corner teeming with energy and life.

he leads you through its winding roads, his sense of direction as unreliable as ever, but eventually, you reach a quiet spot near the edge of town where the bustling markets give way to dense forest. the clearing he finds seems perfect for training—shaded by tall trees, with enough room for him to swing his swords without worry.

silently, he shrugs off his green coat and tosses it in your direction, trusting you to catch it before unsheathing two of his three swords. he begins with a series of fluid, precise strikes, the blades cutting through the thin nothing with a whistle. even without anything to land blows upon, his focus is unwavering, his body moving with the kind of practiced ease that comes from years of discipline.

you settle nearby, draping his coat over your lap as you lean against a tree. the rhythmic sound of his movements blends with the distant hum of the town. for a moment, you wish you had brought a book along—something to pass the time while he trains. but then again, watching him isn’t exactly a hardship. 

as the sun climbs higher in the sky, the watch on your wrist chimes softly, signaling that it’s time to regroup with the crew. you glance over at zoro, who’s mid-swing, his movements precise and his focus unshakable.

“time to head back for lunch,” you call out, holding up your wrist to show him the watch, though you know he doesn’t need proof. “unless you’d rather keep training?” you add, a teasing lilt to your tone.

zoro pauses mid-swing, his blades freezing as he turns to look at you. his brow furrows for a moment, and you can almost see the internal debate playing out in his head—training versus food. but then his stomach growls loudly, betraying him, and he lets out a grunt, sheathing his swords with a practiced flick of his wrists. “food first,” he mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “i can come back to this.”

you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you stand to hand him his coat. “thought so.”

—--

the walk back into town is quiet, the two of you navigating the maze of streets side by side, your steps falling into an easy rhythm. the sound of laughter and clinking dishes spills out into the street as you push open the door of the tavern, and the warm, inviting atmosphere quickly envelops you. the rest of the crew is already gathered around a large table, their voices rising and falling in animated conversation.

the bar is lively and ripe with the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. zoro slides into a seat across from you, his swords propped against the wall beside him. he grabs a tankard of ale from a passing server, taking a long drink before setting it down with a satisfied sigh. you settle into your seat, your own drink in hand, content to listen to the chatter around you.

already halfway through a mountain of meat, luffy’s enthusiasm remains undiminished by the sheer volume of food in front of him while sanji flits between the table and the kitchen, much to the visible annoyance of the tavern staff. he’s not cooking this time, but that hasn’t stopped him from swooping in to carry plates to the table, adjust the presentation of dishes, and interrogate the chefs about their seasoning choices. 

franky and robin are seated nearby, their heads bent together as they discuss something in hushed tones, though robin occasionally glances up to watch sanji’s antics with an amused smile.

the meal is in full swing, the table alive with chatter and clinking dishes, when nami’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and pointed. “—and don’t think i’ve forgotten about the 10,000 berries you owe me, zoro,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sweetness as she leans forward, her eyes glinting with mischief. “you know, for that incident with my ledger last week.”

zoro, who had been mid-bite, sets his chopsticks down with a clink, his scowl deepening. “i already told you, i didn’t ruin your stupid ledger. you left it on the deck. that’s on you.”

nami’s eyes narrow, her smile turning dangerous. “oh, so it’s my fault you decided to drink like a maniac and spill sake all over it? typical.” she crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair. “face it, zoro. you’re just bad with anything that doesn’t involve swinging a sword or napping.”

zoro rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “whatever, witch. just add it to my tab.”

sanji, who had been setting a plate of food in front of robin, immediately turns on zoro, his face red with anger. “don’t you dare call nami-swan a witch, you brute!”

zoro doesn’t even look at him, his tone dismissive. “shut the hell up, love-cook. no one even asked you.”

nami, seeing an opportunity to twist the knife, smirks and leans forward. “you sure you’re any better than he is, zoro? at least sanji’s obvious about it. you think we don’t notice how you act when someone’s around?” she tilts her head meaningfully in your direction, her grin widening. “you’re softer than a marshmallow, and it’s almost worse because you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

the two burst into laughter, their voices ringing out above the noise of the tavern. the rest of the crew, engrossed in their own conversations, barely notice the exchange. zoro’s face darkens, his scowl deepening into a face of sudden rage as he slams his chopsticks down on the table.

he stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor, and storms out of the tavern without another word. the table falls silent for a moment, the crew exchanging uneasy glances, before the chatter slowly resumes.

you scowl, pinching the bridge of your nose as you glance between them. “you three are going to be the fucking death of me,” you mutter, your voice low but strong enough to cut through their laughter. they pause, looking at you with a mix of amusement and guilt, but you don’t give them a chance to respond. pushing your chair back, you stand and follow zoro, ignoring the curious looks from the rest of the crew.

the cool afternoon air hits you as you step outside, and you scan the bustling street for any sign of zoro. it doesn’t take long to spot him—his green hair and imposing figure being hard to miss in a crowd. he’s already halfway down the street, his shoulders tense and his fists clenched at his sides.

you call out to him, quickening your pace to catch up. he doesn’t stop, but he doesn’t tell you to leave him alone either. you fall into step beside him, matching his long strides as he leads you toward the edge of town. the sounds of the port fade behind you, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of seabirds. you don’t say anything, giving him the space he needs, but your presence alone is a quiet reminder that you’re not going anywhere.

the two of you walk in silence until you reach a quiet spot near where the forest meets the sea, where the bustling streets give way to a small, secluded clearing. a large, flat rock sits nestled under the shade of a towering palm tree, and zoro heads straight for it, dropping onto the surface with a heavy sigh. you sit down beside him, close enough to offer comfort but not so close that it feels intrusive. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant crash of waves against the shore.

zoro’s shoulders are still tense, his teeth clenching as he stares at the ground. you don’t push him, letting the silence stretch between you. finally, after what feels like an eternity, he huffs and runs a hand through his hair. “am i really like that?” he asks, his voice low and gruff, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will. he doesn’t look at you, but you can hear the frustration in his tone. “do i really… act different when you’re around?”

you glance at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his question. “different how?” you ask gently, giving him the space and time to explain himself.

he hesitates, brow furrowing as he struggles to find the right words. “i don’t know. softer. like i’m… like i’m not as strong as i should be.” his voice trails off, and he clenches his fists, clearly frustrated with himself. “i don’t want to be seen as weak. i can’t afford to be weak. not when i’ve got a promise to keep.”

you frown, turning to face him fully. “caring about someone doesn’t make you weak.” you reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against the back of his hand, a small but deliberate gesture to ground him. “it just makes you human, and i think it’s a sign of strength to realize that being human can be a boon.” 

you let the words hang for a moment, watching as his mouth tightens and his gaze flickers to yours before looking away again. “and who cares what they think anyway?” you add, your tone condensed but not unkind. “they're just trying to get under your skin. they don’t get to decide what you are or aren’t.”

he doesn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the ground. you can see the conflict in his expression, watching as he wrestles with his thoughts. finally, he lets out a frustrated breath and shakes his head. 

“but i don’t even know how to be a… a—” he pauses, and you can hear him swallow hard, like the words are stuck in his throat. “—whatever this is,” he finishes, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. his voice is quieter now, almost uncertain.

you tilt your head, studying him carefully. “what do you want it to be?” you ask, your voice soft but steady. “this thing between us—it doesn’t have to fit into some box. we get to decide what it means.”

zoro lets out an intense exhale, his shoulders slumping slightly as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “that’s the problem. i don’t know what it means. i don’t even know how to—” he cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as he struggles to articulate his thoughts. “i’ve never had to think about this kind of stuff before. it’s… hard.”

you smile faintly, your hand still resting lightly against his. “you don’t have to have all the answers right now. but you can’t just ignore it, either. not if it’s bothering you this much.”

he looks at you then, his gaze searching yours for a moment before he looks away again. “it’s just—,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to his words. “i don’t want to mess this up.”

“you won’t,” you say simply, your voice firm. “not if you’re honest with yourself.”

zoro is quiet for a long moment, his fingers flexing against the rock beneath him. the silence between you is comfortable, though, and you don’t push him to fill it. instead, you sit there beside him, your presence a quiet reminder that you’re not going anywhere. eventually, he lets out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. 

“i’ll figure it out,” he says finally, his voice low but resolute. “just… give me some time.”

you nod, squeezing his hand lightly before pulling away. “take all the time you need. i’m not going anywhere.”

he glances at you then, his expression softening just enough for you to notice. “you’re stubborn, you know that?” he says, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement.

you grin, leaning back on your hands. “takes one to know one.”

zoro huffs out a laugh, the sound rough but genuine, and for the first time since you left the tavern, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. the two of you sit there in silence for a while longer, the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. but for now, it’s enough just to be there with him, offering the quiet reassurance he needs.

—--

a week and a half passes, and they find themselves hastily docking at another island to allow franky to work his magic on the patch-job after an unexpected storm damages part of the thousand sunny’s rigging, a few insist on taking the opportunity to top off their stores and supply.

in the days since your conversation with zoro, things between you have remained the same—comfortable, familiar, and unspoken. he hasn’t pulled away or acted differently, and neither have you. if anything, there’s a quiet understanding between you now, a sense of patience as he works through his thoughts. 

the ship is quiet with most of the crew either asleep or still in the village, enjoying the island’s nightlife. you’re on your way back to your room after helping sanji organize the pantry when you pass by zoro’s door. just as you’re about to walk past, the door slides open, and a strong hand grabs your shoulder, pulling you inside before you can react.

“zoro—?” you start, but the words are cut off as he pulls you into a tight bear hug, his arms wrapping around you with a firmness that leaves no room for escape. you can feel the warmth of his chest against yours, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the faint scent of steel and sweat that always seems to cling to him.

you don’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him in return and hugging him just as tightly. you know better than to question when zoro initiates physical affection. instead, you let the silence speak for itself, the quiet understanding between you filling the room.

“zoro?” you ask again, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away, just holds you there for a moment, his grip unyielding but not uncomfortable. finally, he lets out a quiet breath, his voice low and rough. “yeah. just… happy you’re here.”

after a moment, he loosens his grip slightly but doesn’t let go. you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s still wrestling with something he can’t quite put into words. 

“i’m happy too,” you murmur, your thumb brushing lightly over his cheek before cupping it in your palm gently. zoro leans into the touch almost unintentionally, his features softening under your hand. “really happy.”

zoro’s brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, his hands rest loosely on your hips. “happy, huh?” he asks like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the idea.

“yeah,” you say softly, your voice steady and sure. “being here with you, like this… it means a lot to me. more than i can really put into words.”

he looks at you for a long moment, his gaze searching yours as if looking for confirmation. you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he’s still trying to reconcile his feelings with the image he’s always had of himself. but then, slowly, his expression softens, and he lets out a quiet breath, his shoulders relaxing under your touch.

“you make it sound so simple,” he mutters, his tone dry but without any real bite.

“because it doesn’t have to be complicated,” you reply, smiling faintly. “whatever this is,” you add, waving a hand in the space between the two of you.

zoro looks at you for a long moment, his hands tightening slightly on your hips while a grin plays at the corners of his lips. then, without a word, he leans down, closing the distance between you. his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft, deliberate, and a quiet affirmation of everything he hasn’t been able to say. you kiss him back without hesitation, your fingers sliding into his hair as you pull him closer.

the kiss is tender, unhurried, and full of the understanding that’s always been between you. it’s not the first time you’ve kissed him, but it feels different this time—deeper, more intentional. like he’s finally letting himself be fully present in the moment, without the walls he usually keeps up.

when you finally pull back, zoro rests his forehead against yours, his breathing slow and steady. “you’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he says, unable to hide his fondness. 

you laugh softly, your hands still resting against his face. “takes one to know one.”

he huffs out a quiet laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into another hug. this one is less intense than the first, but no less meaningful. you can feel the tension in his shoulders easing, the way he’s finally starting to let go of the weight he’s been carrying.

for a moment, the two of you simply stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the quiet of the room wrapping around you like a blanket. but then zoro shifts, his hands sliding up to cradle your face as he leans in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s softer, deeper, and far more confident than before. this time, there’s no hesitation, no unspoken question hanging between you—just the quiet certainty that this is where you’re both meant to be.

[eiralunaire]

🌹 Damian Wayne (Yandere) Headcanons

Damian falls madly in love with you (a girl with curly brown hair, big brown eyes, and a warm personality). At first, his pride prevents him from admitting it, but his obsession secretly grows... until he can no longer contain himself.

1. Silent Observation.

- Damian never shows open interest, but he's always nearby.

- He watches you train in the Batcave (if you're an ally) or follows you around Gotham Academy (if you're classmates).

- He memorizes your schedules, your likes, and even your conversations with others.

- "Tt. It's not like I care... I'm just making sure you're not a burden to others." (Lie. He cares too much about you.)

2. Extreme Jealousy.

- If someone else smiles at you, his fists clench.

- If a villain threatens you, that criminal disappears... and no one ever hears from him again.

- "That idiot Jon Kent shouldn't be anywhere near you. He's not worthy." (Jon just handed you a pencil).

3. Possessive Protection.

- He makes up excuses to "protect" you:

- "Father said I should walk you home." (Batman didn't say anything).

- "This road is dangerous. I'll go with you."(He broke the streetlights himself to justify it).

- If you get hurt, his dark side comes out: "Who was it? Tell me his name. Now."

4. Gifts... or Warnings?

- He leaves black roses in your locker (no one knows how he got into the building).

- If you mention liking a book, it appears signed by "Al Ghul" on your desk the next day.

- "Don't accept gifts from strangers. Only mine are safe."

5. Terrifying (or Romantic?) Confession.

- One day, he corners you in a dark alley (or on the roof of Wayne Manor).

- "You're mine. Always have been. I won't tolerate anyone else touching you."

- If you try to run away, he uses his assassin skills to persuade you... but he'll swear he only wants to "protect" you.

. "Affectionate" Kidnapping

- Damian waits for you in the shadows when you leave your house. Before you can react, a chloroformed cloth covers your mouth.

- You wake up in a luxurious but dead-end room (a League of Shadows hideout? A secret suite in Wayne Tower?).

- You're dressed in an elegant black silk nightgown ("Don't worry, I changed you. It was… educational.").

His Twisted Justification:

"Gotham is too dangerous for you. You'll be safe here… with me. Always with me."

. "Innocent" Touches (That Aren't)

- Damian sits next to you on the bed, "just to make sure you're okay," but his fingers run over your collarbone with sick adoration.

- If you move away, his grip tightens. "Don't run. You know there's no escape."

- He feeds you with his bare hands, murmuring in Arabic things like, "Habibi, you're too precious to let go."

Punishments for Disobedience.

- If you cry or scream, he doesn't release you... but he does silence you with a violent, toothy, possessive kiss.

- "Every tear of yours hurts me... but it won't stop me."

- If you mention another man, his expression darkens. "Do you really think I'll allow anyone else to touch you?"

A "Confession" Between Tears and Blood.

- One night, he enters the room with bloody knuckles (who knows what he did to that boy who smiled at you yesterday?).

- He kneels in front of you, wiping the blood from his hands before caressing your cheek.

- "Look at me. Only at me. Why do you insist on doing this to me? On forcing me to be... this?"

- His words are a mixture of love and guilt, but his actions are irreversible.

. Alternate Ending: Escape or Submission?

- If you try to escape: Damian uses all his assassin skills to find you. When he does, there will be no more gentleness. He drags you back, this time with shackles and promises that "you'll never see the light of day without me."

- If you give in to his obsession: His "sweet" side emerges. He pampers you, protects you, even trains you so "no one can hurt you"… but his love is suffocating. Every smile you give him drives him crazier.

"You're mine. In this life and all the ones to come."

Gotham never prepared you for this…

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Favorite Poses.

. "Against the Mirror"

(His favorite pose: your back pressed against his chest, while he forces you to look at your reflection)

"Look at yourself," he pants in your ear, hands on your hips, marking the bruises. "Look at yourself and tell me it's not perfect... that we're not perfect."

Each thrust pushes you harder against the glass, and you see your mouth open in a stifled moan.

"Like this... now repeat: "Only yours."

. "Astride (But with a Dagger)"

(He sits on the edge of the bed, you on top of him, but with the edge of his dagger grazing your side)

"Do you really think I'd let you control this?" he mocks, his hands guiding you with false sweetness. "Silly..."

He pulls you down onto his lap with a jerk, and you moan.

"No, don't move." I decide when, how, and…—a bite on your shoulder—…how deep.

"On Your Knees (But He's the One Between Your Legs)"

(You on the mattress, he kneels between your legs, but with your thighs on his shoulders as an offering)

"Darling…" he murmurs, worshipping every inch of your center with burning kisses. "Do you know how many nights I dreamed of this?"

When he finally enters you, it's with the reverence of a monk before his goddess.

"Scream… but not for him to stop. So the world knows who makes you feel this way."

"Hands Tied (With His Cloak)"

(You face down, wrists bound with Robin's black cloth, while he immobilizes you by the back of your neck)

"I thought about being gentle," he confesses between gasps, "but you kept challenging me..."

Each thrust drags you against the sheets, and he lowers himself to whisper:

"Say 'more,' and maybe I'll untie you... (It's a lie. He'll never let you go.)

"Oral Possession"

(You on the edge of the table, he on his knees, but with a hand on your throat dictating the rhythm)

"Habibti..." he commands, while his tongue makes you see stars. "You don't want to run away, do you?"

When you try to close your legs, his fingers dig into your thighs.

"Open them. Or I will." (And he will. Gladly.)

[pressureplus]

I actually have this request in my head for a while now... but I'm not sure if you be up to do it so thank to let me know if you will do it or not. Fem! Reader who is happily married and live together with Sebastian (when he still human). Until, Sebastian was arrested and sentence to dead. Reader found no long after his dead that she was pregnant. Years later, Sebastian manage to escape Hadal Blacksite probably very injured in the process. He was soon spotted by the kid that look similar to his human self (the kid probably be now close to be a teenager now), as the kid call up their mother. Sebastian was shocked to see his wife come to view.

I'm looking 👀

Love this dramatic shit, I'm SO here for it!

I'm going to be referring to your son as S/N, so y'all can name your boy yourselves! (I'm real interested in the stuff you might choose, so if you wanna put them in the replies, I'd love to see your baby names!)

Smaller Hands

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x Fem!Reader

Au: [Unnamed]

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, an Absent Father, injury, and Imprisonment

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

He had been running a very long time before he got to where he was now.

Escaping the Blacksite was only the beginning of his long, long journey home. He had wrestled himself from the depths of the deep ocean and fought his way all the way up to the light far, far above him.

Breaking through the surface of the water had provided him with a hope he never thought he'd see truly grow into something he could really hold. Sunlight and open air and a horizon that stretched endlessly in every direction... Sebastian hadn't known freedom in over 10 years, but there it was.

The way the natural light caught the glint of his wedding ring had him already tearing through the water with a grin, energy back in his tired body. It certainly wasn't his original ring, no, that one wouldn't fit on his new, much larger hand anymore, but the replacement that he got so he could wear a ring on his hand and not just as a pendant was enough of a visual reminder of his love, sending him treading the water the way this body was made to do. He had to get to his wife.

He had to see his Y/N again. That's always what his efforts were for.

It was days before he even reached a beach, and weeks of dragging himself through the shadows and the alleyways, keeping himself out of sight. He would squint at road maps and try to figure out how he was going to get himself home, not very well able to get on the public transport or drive himself there with a body like this. He had to be more than a little creative with how he was going to cross the countless miles between his lover and himself if he wanted to make it there at all. He'd spend his seemingly endless days hopping trains and swimming rivers just to close the distance faster, like it may wash away the last decade he's had to go without her.

Sebastian could only hope she waited for him, though those chances were next to none. She had been there the day he was 'executed', watching him get taken back to the chair that was supposed to put his story to its end. She has every right and reason to think he died that day, and he could never be angry or upset if she decided she still needed to be held the way his other hands used to hold her... Would these hands even fit her anymore? They'd outgrown his first ring... Would they be too big to hold hers anymore? The painful thought was a reoccurring one, and it plagued every dream he had in the moments he would manage to rest.

He's nearing his old cottage now, beaten and scarred from the long trip home, more than a little bit tired and definitely hungry. He's barely going to make it if he manages to get to the doorstep at all, but more thankful than ever he'd made his home with her outside of the city and out into the woods so he might have a moment to his thoughts. He could very well find her with another man, or he could find a completely new family, or even find nothing but flowers and trees- The life that he made with her could be all but ashes on a breeze that swept this place years ago. She could be a memory and this could all be for nothing just as easily as anything else. He wouldn't even have a right to be angry... He wouldn't even feel a right to cry if she's decided to move on.

"SNAKE MAN! SNAKE MAN!!!"

He's shaken from his pondering by an unfamiliar voice, a starry eyed child fumbling out of the bushes like a little animal.

He nearly panics and flees before the brave, feral little boy reaches out for his hand and looks up at him like something right out of a story book- Which, he supposed may be fair given the way that he looks now.

"Are you a forest monster!? Do you grant wishes and eat people and stuff?!" It's clear the boy doesn't know fear, young and small still, with new eyes... But familiar ones.

Sebastian's heart drops into his stomach when he begins to recognize the thick, dark hair and deep brown eyes. This boy is the spitting image of the way he looked when he was around 10 or 11... It's like he's been pulled right from Sebastian's old childhood photos.

Too dumbfounded to speak, Sebastian stands there, every muscle in his body tense while his eyes flick around the boy's face trying to figure out how this could be.

"S/N! What are you doing talking to strangers, you were supposed to be at least playing in the yard and not the woods before the sun started setting." Y/N rounds the trees with a stubborn look on her face and immediately freezes when her gaze meets Sebastian's.

The air is knocked out of the both of them, leaving them only able to stare, and he notes the way she's remained nearly the same as the day that he was forced to leave her behind. Like a flower that never wilts, she stands as beautiful and as amazing as she was when he had first met her. Frozen with an expression he can't place, she makes no motion to do anything at all. The larger man acts first at the realization she must be frightened of him, going to put his two unheld hands up and open his mouth to explain himself-

"You said not to talk to strangers, this is CLEARLY a forest monster." Little S/N beats both of them to the punch and confirms to Sebastian all at once that his attitude is as strong in his blood as that unruly dark hair is.

"Heed your mother, would you? I could very well eat you." Sebastian ushers the child forward with a playful threat, the boy in reference pouting and looking back up at him.

"Come on, I'm only out a little bit late! It's not dark yet! Monsters only eat people in the dark." The boy argues, unfamiliar with the idea of real danger, it seems, but certain of himself the way only children really can be.

"Sebastian I can't believe it... Is it you? Am I losing my mind?" Putting the scolding and corrections on her son's statements off for a better time, Y/N looks up at the mutated form of her lover, hoping she might be right. When Y/N speaks, it's soft and uncertain, a hand going to rest on her child's shoulder so as not to lose him while she's distracted.

"You recognize me?" His heart practically jumps into his throat and he struggles to cope with how quickly she's guessed it was him.

"If not for the way one soul knows another, then for your voice and... Our ring." Unafraid just as well, she walks right up to the towering creature and brings her hand up to the necklace it's strung onto around his neck.

"Am I too late?" Sebastian asks, still scared.

"You're late, but never too much. You had better come home now though." She gets firm near the end and he laughs, melting.

"Awe that's no fair! I'm in trouble for being a few minutes late and he gets to be gone forever!" The boy whines and Y/N seems to laugh when she ruffles his hair.

"You can be out of trouble because it's a special day. Now, let's go home and get you to bed." Y/N's eyes stray back up to her husband, the fondness that was there in those beautiful eyes he fell in love with was something that had grown blurry and hard to recall until now. The way her gaze rested on him so softly brought him back like he'd never left in the first place.

"I think I have some things to talk about with your monster, here." She smiles at him and goes to slide her hand into his, the cold feeling against his palm of her own ring -the matching one to his from the promise that they'd made at that altar a long time ago- made him feel warm again, and made him feel alive.

"Yes, I've got a lot of things I've been waiting to tell her for these years we've spent apart."