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kiame-sama · 3 days ago

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Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 31

(Alistair is an Alicorn and crowned prince of The Queendom of Roses. He has only seen the Human once at the Spelldrive Tournament and has since been trying to find a way to interact with the Human. As crowned prince, Alistair is expected to be present for the Human's visit to the Queendom and act as the headsman for the execution. He has executed monsters in the past for trying to poach him- as Alicorn horns, hooves, and wings are a high-price item- and has zero problem carrying out the Huoshu Rat's execution as well)

Warnings: yandere, multiple yanderes, new places and new faces, platonic yandere (Ortho), slight conflict between guards, discussion of accommodations, keep the youngins close, Harpy, Shinigami, Hellcat, Drider, Dragon, Merman, Unicorn, Nemean Lion, Pegasus, Alicorn,

~~~~~~~~

"-and remember, you can always call and we will open the portal right back up to bring you all back. Don't hesitate to reach out to us for anything. I will also be sending professor Divus through halfway into the week for the execution to ensure no one tries anything during it. And if you need money-"

You stopped listening to the Crow as he went over the plan for your visit to the Queendom for the tenth time in the last hour. It was only natural he was worried and stressed, but you were tired of hearing the same thing over again despite it all. If anything, you were less worried about yourself and more worried about Ortho and Grim.

Grim is a Hellcat and uncommon to the land of Twisted Wonderland, meaning he is a rare commodity that others may try to take. Ortho is partly mechanical and relies on his mechanical pieces to keep him alive and for mobility, if someone shut down those mechanics, Ortho would die. The two of them are both safest and in the most danger by your side and you wanted to make sure they stayed safe throughout the event.

Naturally, Ortho was bouncing in excitement instead of stress as he ran circles around you with Grim. Both of them had been playing chase and yelling about how excited they were to see the Queendom despite the actual event you were going to witness. Grim was excited and you weren't entirely sure he understood that you all would be going there and staying there for the week, knowing how homesick he got when he stayed with you in the Savanaclaw dorm.

Beyond that, all you were doing at that point was waiting for Rook and Riddle to show up with their bags, as it was an impromptu packing for this week long trip. Malleus was ready to go the second you named him as a guard, and Leona was faster than the others to prepare himself for the trip. You vaguely wondered what was taking Riddle so long to prepare as he was typically the most organized of the group. Even Floyd was ready to go and keen to tell you all about Azul and Jade's meltdowns over not being selected.

From what you heard, even Kalim was upset he was not selected as a guard and had been more morose than usual over it. Apparently Vil had flown into a rage and was now making Pomefiore clean the dorm top to bottom for 'not being eye-catching enough' to be selected as you guard. Azul was apparently sequestering himself in an octopus pot in the aquarium of Octavinelle while Jade begrudgingly took care of the Monstro Lounge in his absence. Trey- despite not being selected- had been quick to make as many sweets and pastries as possible for the group to take with them on this trip and even suggested asking his parents to check in while you were in the Queendom.

You figured the respective dorm leaders and secondary guards were still having a meltdown after not being selected, but that was no longer any of your concern. If anything, your worry was the increased potential for poachers and the fact you were visiting solely to observe an execution. There was no love lost for the Huoshu Rat that dare incite violence against you and Grim, but it wasn't exactly a visit for fun either.

"Apologies for the wait! I'm ready to go."

Riddle called out as he walked in, several duffle bags held in either hand as he entered the room. He was dressed in his dorm uniform- minus his typical golden crown- and you vaguely wondered if his dorm uniform was similar to the common style of those in the Queendom of Roses. Perhaps he just felt more comfortable in his dorm clothes than common clothes.

"Ah, Mr. Rosehearts, there you are! We are just waiting on Mr. Hunt to join us."

"Pardonne-moi, Mademoiselle Trickster! I had a few things to take care of in Pomefiore, but I am ready to depart!"

Rook came scuttling in, several bags strapped to his back as he seemed ready for a month long trip and not just a week trip. You weren't entirely sure what it was Rook had packed up for this venture, but you figured he was doing his best to be mindful as to why you selected him as a guard. He had his bow and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back as well, letting you know he was taking you rather seriously. Some part of you wondered if Rook was late as a result of Vil having a temper tantrum.

"Good. Now that all of you are here, I can open up the portal to the Queendom. You all will be staying in a guarded wing in the Palace of Roses for the duration of this visit and I have arranged for several rooms to be shared just in the event of an emergency. They are aware of who all will be attending and the portal will put you just outside of the Palace to observe the formalities of visiting royals to the Queendom. The Queen assures me guards are surveying the area and it will be safe for all of you to be present. I have been informed there is already quite the gathering taking place around where you will be entering the Queendom and that they are eagerly awaiting your arrival. Are you ready to go, my Little Bird?"

"As ready as I can be..."

Crowley nodded before turning to Riddle next.

"Alright. Mr. Rosehearts, will you carry (Y/n) and young Grim? If anything happens I want you all to be able to return quickly, but (Y/n) should be last through so she is first to return."

Riddle was quick to lay down so you could climb onto his back, Grim held securely in your arms. Rook took Riddle's bags as well as your own and added them to his back with his own luggage. Malleus seemed less amused with you riding Riddle through the mirror, but he didn't bother to issue any complaints.

As the mirror portal opened, you felt your anxiety increase again, just wanting things to go well for once and not have a giant fallout from just trying to survive in this world. Malleus actually went first through the mirror despite his desire to enter with you instead, knowing poachers would be less likely to attack upon seeing the intimidating Dragon first. Then was Rook, who seemed to already be on guard as he entered the mirror.

It was odd to see them walk through as Floyd and Ortho went next, each moment making your heart race just a little bit faster as you tried to calm yourself. Part of the worry was the thought of what may be awaiting you beyond the looking glass and into the floral Kingdom. Part of it was what you were actually going to be attending and who all would be present when you arrived.

As Leona went next you could feel your heart picking up speed and your worry began to mount. Riddle stepped up to the mirror and you couldn't help but hold tightly to the Unicorn, looking at the silvery surface with apprehension. If you were going to survive long enough to escape this world, you would have to play by the rules of the beasts. You could only hope they would end in your favor.

It was always such a strange experience to walk through the mirrors of Night Raven College, and you always felt like you had to hold your breath every time. Even as the surface of the glass rippled around you and swallowed you whole, there was an unusual quiet that met your ears when you emerged on the other side. The silence was enough to open your eyes and try to take in your new surroundings despite your stress with the situation.

Standing on either side, with all eyes glued on you, a veritable crowd had gathered all around as they all erupted into cheers the moment you looked around at the gathering. There seemed to be monsters of almost all kinds, the more beastly Gnolls and Werewolves not represented among the many species. The sound was startling and deafening to the point you almost wanted to ask Riddle to turn around and leave, but the Unicorn gave you a gentle smile and held your hand as he trotted forward, following the other students of Night Raven College ahead of you.

Stretching out to the doors of the rather lavish looking palace was a long rolled out carpet of rose petals in all colors that almost made a rainbow like appearance. The colored petals were more soothing to you than you thought they would be and they gave you something to distract your mind from the many screaming faces around you. It was more like this was a parade or some kind of spectacle as Riddle trotted confidently ahead and towards the large double doors looming ahead of you.

The doors swung in, allowing your group entrance into what seemed to be a grand hall that had several grand staircases. Waiting at the primary staircase was a lovely equine woman with wings on her back, folded tightly into her shiny coat. She looked to be a woman with pale blonde curled hair. Atop her head sat an ornate red and gold grown that almost seemed to clash with her lovely blue eyes and faint blue feathers. Her smile was warm and she slightly bowed her head in polite greeting as she held a hand to her chest. In her other hand was a lovely golden scepter baring a red magestone in the shape of a rose atop it.

"(Y/n) (L/n) of Night Raven, Last Human of Twisted Wonderland. We welcome you and your guards to our humble halls. I trust your stay will be a pleasant one, despite the unpleasant business that needs to be attended to. I am Queen Helena Heartsqueen of The Queendom of Roses. It is truly pleasant to have a Human among our halls."

You were mostly unsure how to respond, but tried to have as much respect as the lovely Pegasus woman had shown you. Sliding from the back of the Unicorn with Grim held close, you approached the lovely Queen while ensuring to keep a certain distance from her to not commit a faux pas. Mimicking her head bow, you returned the gesture in kind and made a mental note to ask how to properly greet the presiding royals for the next country you visited.

"The pleasure is all mine, your Highness. I wish our meeting were under more favorable circumstances."

"As do I. Ser Rattigan always seemed such an honorable man of science, yet to see the evidence of his misdeeds and his crimes against the Queendom and against you, it is hard to view him as honorable any longer. I'm sure you and your guards would like to be aquatinted with your accommodations for your stay, if you would follow my son Ali-"

The Queen cut off with a sound of exasperation as she paused in the middle of her gesture. She had been gesturing to her side where there was a notably empty space only to realize that it was empty and the one she had been speaking of was nowhere in sight. You could almost feel her annoyance as the Pegasus in front of you turned from a regal and refined Queen to an exasperated mother.

"Sorry I'm late!"

Another voice cut in and you looked to your left to see a lovely young centaur quickly trotting from around the staircase, as there was likely a branching hall leading from the side of the stairway. Behind the centaur scampered a portly looking rabbit beast with several watches on their person. The first monster rushing out to stand with the Queen was unique from the other equine species you had seen. This centaur certainly looked like the Queen, but there was a noticeable difference between the young centaur and the noble Queen.

They were an equine species much like Trey and Riddle, though they seemed to be closer in build to Riddle than to Trey. Their hair was a fluffy faint blond that was even paler than the blonde curls of the Queen, bright purple eyes gleaming from beneath a prismatic horn. The horn protruded from a lovely purple star shape on their forehead, that same prismatic color clear in the stretched out wings that sat on the equine shoulders of their lower half. It almost looked like the tail of the beast and their ears had been surrounded in feathers much like the wings on their back.

A small recollection of what your world called these mixed monsters flashed through your head and you vaguely wondered if this world called them the same thing. Looking between Helena and Riddle, perhaps Alicorns were more common than you thought.

"Alistair, you were supposed to be here on time. Did Lapinette not tell you what time you were expected to arrive?"

"He did! I just got distracted with other things."

"What other things?"

A soft squeaking sound came from somewhere behind the still oddly stretched wings of the Alicorn as a certain look took over their face. The Alicorn- Alistair, according to the Queen- refused to meet Queen Helena's gaze as if they were trying to hide something. Behind their wings their feathers rustled and something seemed to be moving.

"Alistair."

"..."

"Alistair Heartsqueen, you hand those hedgehogs over to Lapinette this instant."

"But, Ma, I just wanted to have a quick game-"

"No excuses. At least try to pull yourself together for our guest."

This seemed to catch the Alicorn's attention as they quickly turned to look at you, their wings dropping in surprise as several hedgehogs tried to scamper away only to be caught by the Rabbit monster. If the Queen's words were anything to go off of, this was her son, making this unusually beautiful and odd Alicorn the prince of The Queendom of Roses. He seemed more stunned by you than anything as a bright pink dusted over his cheeks and the feathers on his wings fluffed out intensely.

"Our guest..?"

"Yes, our guest (Y/n) and her guards. It would behoove you to at least be respectful to her."

The Alicorn was quick to rush forward, almost tripping on his long legs as he hastily stood in front of you, resting a hand over his heart and bowing deeply. It almost looked like he had been out wrestling in the dirt with those hedgehogs given the faint dusty brown to his white clothes. He seemed nervous despite his deep bow to you and how his bright purple eyes seemed to shine in excitement.

"As prince of Roses, it is my personal pleasure to welcome you to the Palace of Roses. Pleased to meet you face to face, (Y/n). The name's Alistair, but you can call me Ali if you like-"

A sudden sound of the Queen lightly clearing her throat made Alistair straighten up, folding in his wings and extending an arm to you.

"Ah, if I may, I'll show you to where you and your guards will be staying."

Not wanting to commit a social error, you took the arm of the Alicorn and let him lead you away into the inner workings of the Palace. Heading up the grand staircase opposite where Alistair came, he quickly led you and the others to your rooms. The Alicorn was gorgeous in so many ways, his feathers catching the light and leaving rainbow colors on the walls as he seemed to glow in the warm rays of the sun.

Part of you wanted to just continue to stare at him as he led you and the others to the rooms. As he drew to a halt he turned to smile at you, his purple eyes glimmering in the light and his almost sweet behavior as his wings flared out.

"I'm so happy to finally get to meet you! I was kind of hoping we could spend some time in the gardens for a game of croquet, but you saw what happened with the hedgehogs. Anyway, I'll let you and yours get settled first, you'll definitely be needing a nap if Leona is with you."

"Oh, go sit on a cactus, Herbivore!"

Despite Leona's words, he had a warm smile on his face as he clasped hands with the Alicorn who laughed in response to the clipped words. It surprised you to see the two amicably talking and Grim let out a snort, pawing your face for your attention. As you looked down at the kit he was frowning and you gently pet his head to calm him. He was likely quite uncomfortable given the uproar the crowd had caused and you chuckled gently, kissing his forehead.

"Oh, is that the Hellcat that has everyone in RSA all stirred up? Neige was right, he's adorable!"

You looked up to see Alistair was now smiling down at Grim who was immediately enamored with the little wing-like appendages on the sides of Alistair's face. The feline's whiskers began to twitch as Alistair chuckled, making the small wings flutter which only fueled Grim's interests. He began to chatter gently as his whiskers twitched wildly.

"(Y/n), we should settle in our rooms first before we discuss where in the Queendom you would like to visit before the Execution."

Malleus interjected, breaking Grim's concentration on the Alicorn and you nodded, agreeing with the Dragon.

"Okay. We can continue this later."

Alistair looked somewhat downcast at your quick agreement with the Dragon, but he returned to happy rather quickly with a nod. His fluffy hair bouncing slightly with his movement.

"I'll see you soon, (Y/n)."

The prince bowed his head and trotted off, leaving you to check your accommodations with your chosen guards. The rooms themselves were lavish and clearly designed for comfort. Each room was large and flush with expensive looking overstuffed furniture. The rooms had only one bed, so you figured you would each be pairing up just in case and sharing beds with those paired together.

Naturally, all of your guards wanted to pair up with you and were quick to try and claim the large bed in the room you settled on. The only two who weren't arguing were Grim and Ortho.

"-I am the obvious best choice for guarding Mousey!"

"Non! Clearly I- the hunter and sharpest eyed of us- would be the best choice."

You looked between the five men who growled and argued before looking at Ortho, who had been keenly scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary.

"Hey guys?"

"Naw, Shrimpy chose me out of all those students because I am strong. I can guard her best!"

"Guys!"

They all quieted and snapped their attention over to you as you sighed in exasperation. Their arguing was getting them nowhere and you didn't want this entire trip to be filled with the men snapping back and forth. There was one easy way to solve the problem at hand.

"Grim, Ortho, and I will be staying in this room. You all can fight over the other rooms."

"But, Mousey-"

"No complaints! We are here for a specific reason, not to fight over accommodations. If you all really want, I can be convinced to let one of you share the bed with Ortho, Grim, and I. For now though, I am sharing with those two."

The males all grumbled soft complaints but refused to argue with you further on the matter. At least Malleus didn't seem particularly upset, though he was quick to lay claim to the room directly next to yours. Rook was first to agree to pair up with Malleus, setting your bags down first before carrying his things into the other room.

"Mama?"

"Yes, Grim?"

"I like Clouds."

"Clouds?"

"The pointy winged horse guy! His hair looks like clouds."

"Well, I'm glad you like prince Alistair."

"Do you think we can get some of his feathers to keep?"

As you turned to set the little feline down and continue the conversation, you missed the many frowns and silent exchanges between your guards. Only Leona seemed content with the prince, having seen the prince many times before and forming somewhat of a loose friendship with him. Riddle could feel his own anger at the ditzy rule-less Alicorn beginning to rise even with the short interaction that they had.

He just needed to make sure to keep himself and his temper under control, for his own sake as much as yours.

#kiame-sama #yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #tw yandere #reader insert #humans are extinct twst au

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quantomeno · 3 hours ago

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#assuming you're correct about his house/apartment...#it's fascinating that he should arrange those items almost identically in his new office#including that gosh darn apple. why did he get a new apple and put it in the exact same place#(i guess force of habit? i mean it is the same table in the same place. if he's gonna put an apple anywhere it's gonna be on that table)

@smile-files I think you've mistakenly grouped the photo from ED (the one with the apple on the table) with the bottom two.

But I also want to make one other point. One thing that made me think for the longest time that they were the same place was the exterior: it looks almost identical (Last Specter above, Curious Village below):

even the paving matches exactly. The door does look a fraction different, but that's arguably just the animators drawing it from scratch or something).

I think this similarity can be explained away though by fact it is still the same university so maybe the exteriors just so happen to look the same from one side, even if the interiors are differently sized.

Layton’s office

I’ve seen several posts about his office recently so I hope this can serve as a handy guide/reference for whoever needs it.

Layton has two offices in the games:

(1) his first office seen in the prequel trilogy

(2) his second office seen in the original trilogy

The first game chronologically is Last Specter. Here we see Layton’s first office. Notice the pipes in the ceiling and the position of the couch, the desk, and the window.

Miracle Mask. Same office.

And Azran Legacy, still same old office.

Now, sometime between Azran Legacy and Diabolical Box, the Professor moves to a different (slightly larger) office. According to that minisode from the JP version of Diabolical Box (Professor Layton and the London Holiday), Dr. Schrader gave his office to Layton when he retired. As someone has already pointed out, this office is not the same as Dr. Schrader’s flat seen in both DB and ED.

We get a slight glimpse of the Prof’s second office in DB.

A better glimpse in Unwound Future. Note: no pipes, larger window, and furniture in a different layout from the old office.

This second office is also the one seen in Eternal Diva, during the beginning and end of the film which both take place during the original trilogy.

Regarding this location in the UF flashback, I’d wager this is Layton’s house/apartment. The several familiar items seen will later be placed in his office (remember he was only just appointed Professor so he probably hasn’t moved into his office yet).

#professor layton

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goldenroutledge · 11 hours ago

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someday my prince will come

pairing ⤜ rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count ⤜ 3.7k

summary ⤜ fluff. in which you’ll never feel alone as long as you have rafe, and he’ll never feel alone as long as he has you.

warning(s) ⤜ wedding planning stress, toxic family members

a/n ⤜ inspired by ‘alone together’ - sabrina carpenter || masterlist

Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed. That’s what you try to tell yourself, hoping it will wish away the cynicism surrounding what is supposed to be the happiest time in your life. Transactional relationships set the norm on Figure Eight for friends and foe alike. Everyone used anyone they could get their hands on, only leaving them for dead when the conditions were no longer suitable.

It should’ve been no surprise that people would be treating your upcoming marriage to Rafe that same way. As if it’s nothing but a transaction curated to mutually benefit yourself, Rafe, and your respective families. Truthfully, your relationship was anything but.

Years together proved that passion still burns between you, in a way that most can’t begin to dream of. Every look, every kiss and every touch holds that passion somewhere deep inside. There was no denying that you two have enough of it to last a lifetime and then some when Rafe got down on bended knee and asked you to spend your life with him. You love Rafe Cameron for all the right reasons and he loves you the same.

Your families and friends around you are fools to not acknowledge that, seemingly destined to have their own ways of projecting insecurities onto the both of you. Planning your wedding was something you imagined to be a magical time, selecting colors and florals that would paint a picture reminiscent of a fairytale. Expect the worst and you won’t be disappointed.

From the moment your perfectly cut diamond ring was noticeable on your left hand, some chose to take it as a personal invitation to assert their unwarranted advice. It started with your mother, divorced and remarried now more times than you care to keep track of. Her guidance hardly resembles the special experience between mother and daughter that planning a wedding usually brings. After one of your first meetings with your wedding planner, you’d come to regret asking your mother to accompany you.

“I just don’t see why he’s walking you down the aisle instead of me.”

“You mean my father? I didn’t think you’d have such an issue with it given you chose to marry and have a child with him.”

“And I chose to divorce the asshole, too.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me, Mom. You both made your choices and I made mine. My father is going to be at my wedding whether you like it or not.”

“50 feet away from me at all times, I hope.” She speaks lowly, barely under her breath. You’d be burning with embarrassment right now if it weren’t for your wedding planner, ever attuned and able to spot an argument a mile away, who kindly left you and your mother to chat in private.

“Please, don’t worry about that. I’m sure he wants nothing to do with you either. The only difference is that he’s willing to tolerate you for the sake of my happiness.”

“This isn’t about happiness, Y/n. It’s about respect. Had I not raised you right, you wouldn’t be able to attract a man like Rafe in the first place. The least you could do is acknowledge your mother on your wedding day.”

“That’ll make for a beautiful toast at your next brunch with the ladies from the club. I’ll be sure to write that down.” You chide sarcastically, unable to hold back from rolling your eyes at her audaciousness. “It’s good to know that’s what you’re really excited about. Showboating to your friends that I found someone successful, not that I found someone I love.”

“Like it or not, it’s the truth. I’m not afraid to be honest with you unlike some people in your life.”

“What exactly is honest about guilt tripping me into letting you make all of my wedding decisions for me? For us! You’re lucky Rafe isn’t here or he would’ve thrown you out by now.”

“And risk our relationship just when we’re about to be in-laws? You’re ridiculous. I hope he knows the kind of dramatics he’s marrying into.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m not trying to be malicious, dear. I just want you to have your priorities straight.”

“Believe me, they are.”

“You can’t forget your family in the process, my darling. You can’t just leave me behind like I don’t exist because when this marriage is over you’ll realize that I’m not as crazy as you think. You’ll need me again one day.”

“When my marriage is over? This isn’t some fucking contract. We love each other.”

“There’s no need to get hysterical, Y/n. I told myself all the same things too. You’ll see.”

—

Your conversation with your mother left you disheartened at best, infuriated at worst. One look into Rafe’s eyes would have your worries melting away, but you can’t help the nagging feeling inside that’s telling you to say something. You know how much courage it took for him to open his heart to you in the way that he has. You know how much courage it’s taken for you to open your heart, too. You know how with each other it’s been so easy that neither of you really noticed how naturally your love has blossomed. When you fell for each other, there was nothing that could stop you.

That explains why this nagging feeling, that you assume is guilt, simply won’t go away. How can you imagine getting married to Rafe Cameron, the love of your life, and feel anything but unbridled joy. To give a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone doubting your relationship, you’d love nothing more than to proclaim your love for each other in front of a crowd. But in the many scenarios you’ve played in your head, none of them put you at ease.

There was no denying the deep trust that connects you, knowing that you can tell him whatever is on your mind. The worst thing you’ve ever done, the darkest thought you’ve ever had, he will stand by you through anything. And you would do the same for him. It’s why the idea of saying: ‘Hey, by the way, I don’t want a wedding’, is not something you can muster the courage for. Guilt begs you to tell him anyway, knowing how badly he would feel to know you’re suffering in silence like this.

Little do you know, Rafe is troubled in reconciling his own guilt. It’s not just your mother who wants to see the worst come of your relationship. Considering Rafe’s strained dynamic with his father, that should come as no surprise.

Cameron Development takes up most of Rafe’s time these days, leaving him and Ward to spend quite a lot of it together. Rafe prefers to keep their topics of discussion focused on the company. Their relationship works best that way, a transactional partnership between father and son that would benefit the Cameron legacy for generations.

But if it weren’t for Ward’s nagging, Rafe never would’ve ended up here at the Island Club having lunch with his father. He knows for a fact that it would’ve been time better spent with you, his future wife, desperate to feel the kiss of your lips or be able to exhale in your arms in the midst of a busy day.

Ward spends all of 5 minutes discussing some company stuff that could’ve easily been sent in an email drafted by his assistant before getting down to his real intentions. He always hides them behind the mask of a loving father.

“I lied about why I needed to speak with you today.”

Rafe scoffs, but always manages his expectations when it comes to Ward. “Imagine that.”

Ward chuckles, trying to play off his son’s jab as innocent sarcasm. “I wanted to talk to you about your soon-to-be marriage to Y/n.”

Rafe takes a gulp of his drink, already feeling slightly on edge and on guard at the mention of your life together. “What about it?”

“Have you two discussed a prenup?”

“Dad-” Rafe tries to interject, but to no avail. Ward’s already a step ahead of him.

“I know it’s only been a couple months into the engagement, but it’s never too early to have these conversations.”

“I don’t need to worry about having these conversations at all. And you definitely don’t need to be concerned with it either because I’m not asking her to sign a prenup. Simple as that.”

“Rafe, if there’s anything I’ve learned in my marriage to Rose-”

“Your marriage to Rose is a sham. And Y/n is nothing like her.”

“Y/n’s great.” Ward seemingly surrenders, in hopes to disarm Rafe while still getting his point across. “I’m not trying to suggest otherwise. I’m just saying that things happen in marriages and you need to be prepared. What do you think will happen to Cameron Development if she winds up with half in a divorce?”

“If we get divorced, it means that I’ve got bigger problems than potentially losing Cameron Development.” Rafe laments, finishing his drink. “Besides, she wouldn’t want it.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know her. For sure. Alright?” Rafe fires back, firm intent behind every word. “I know you have a hard time imagining what it’s like to be loved for something other than your money. And I’m sure you have a harder time imagining how she could love me without it. But you can save your fatherly advice, I’m gonna live my life with Y/n without any of your prenup bullshit.”

Rafe grabs his wallet from his pocket, throwing down several bills on the table that he doesn’t bother counting. All that’s on his mind right now is getting back home to you.

“Have a nice day, Dad.”

—

At this point in his life, Rafe has mastered the art of ignoring Ward Cameron. He’s come to accept that they’re simply a better duo in business than as father and son. The family he came from felt less like family when he fell in love with you. Now that you were about to be married, it was gonna be real. You would be each other’s family not only in spirit, but officially on paper. For the rest of your lives you would be where you always belonged; together.

Right now, Rafe can’t shake the feeling that his father is already preparing for everything to fall apart before you two have a chance to build anything more. Logically, he knows the concept of a prenup isn’t a stupid idea. But his father’s intentions for him have proven to be anything but pure. There’s always something in it for Ward.

Rafe loves you, and that means he’s ready to share his life with you, money be damned. Besides there’s nobody more deserving for him to spend it on, no matter how badly you insist that you don’t love him for the fine jewelry or the dates at expensive restaurants around the island. For him, that’s all the more reason why he commits to showing you a lifestyle that’s beyond comprehension.

He wants to tell you about the absolute bullshit his father brought him to lunch to talk about today but hesitates in mentioning it at all. In any other scenario you’d both laugh it off, but this was a special time for your relationship. It’s delicate, and deserves to be handled with care. Rafe wants nothing more than to protect you from anyone looking to tarnish it.

Rafe’s final straw strikes later that night while waiting for you to finish your skincare routine and join him in bed. His phone sounds with several text messages from Topper. His eyebrows furrow in curiosity, expression quickly turning sour as he reads the messages.

Clearly, after cutting lunch short, Ward was quick to enlist Topper Thornton into his agenda. Seeing the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, he’s an easy enough target to carry out something like this. Rafe scans the messages, catching the gist of it.

Something about ‘A prenup is just insurance, you might not need it! But you should be prepared anyway cause she could leave you at any time, bro’ and ‘Have you heard of the infidelity clause? I'm not saying she would, but you know what Sarah did to me, better be safe than sorry.’ Rafe’s frustration catches your attention when he curses something about ‘this motherfucker’ under his breath.

“Everything okay, baby?”

Rafe looks up to meet your eyes peeking outside the bathroom door. He gives you a reassuring smile, but you can tell that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Coupled with the fact that his energy has been off ever since he got home today, you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s nothing, it’s just Topper bitching to me about the wedding. He doesn’t think he’ll find a date in time.” Rafe cringes at his white lie, but figures it’s better not to stress you out when you’re about to go to sleep. And it’s not completely untrue, Topper has expressed his concerns about finding a date ever since he found out about the engagement. At this point, it’s to be determined if he’s still invited.

You chuckle at the thought. “Our wedding date is 7 months away, surely that’s enough time.”

“Speaking of our wedding.” Rafe starts, which reminds you of the pit in your stomach. “How did it go with your mom today?”

“It was good.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows inquisitively, picking up on the uncertainty in your voice. Finishing your nighttime routine, you make your way to your shared bed. Rafe gets up to meet you halfway and to make sure you’re okay. He’ll be able to tell with just a glance.

“Okay, baby. You know as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Your heart flutters and you smile at him, knowing in your heart that he truly means it. “I know.” You press a kiss to his cheek, wrapping your arms around his large frame. Being in his embrace drowns out any lingering thoughts of frustration. After all, you could choose to blame it on pure exhaustion clouding your mind. “Can you believe we’re getting married in seven months?”

Rafe beams at the thought. “No. Can’t even fathom what I’ve done in my life to deserve you in the first place.”

You shove his chest softly, the tips of your ears warming up at his words. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“Not sure about that one, baby.”

You sigh, full of contentment while being held in the secure hold of your fiance. Yet a part of you still feels resigned from the stresses of today. “Just ask my mother.”

You can feel Rafe’s muscles tense slightly before he pulls back to look at you. “What do you mean? I thought it went well today?” The gears are turning in his head as he anticipates your response. He’s always been great at picking up on the smallest of cues, be it the change in your tone or the look in your eyes.

“It could’ve been better. I mean you know her, she always has something negative to say about everything, she’s pretty much allergic to my happiness.” You chuckle softly, trying to deflect and keep the conversation from going where it’s headed.

Rafe is having none of it. “She doesn’t think we should get married?”

“Not without her involvement, ad nauseam. Everything I suggested, she had a better idea. She’s trying to guilt trip me into letting her walk me down the aisle instead of my dad. It was just her usual schtick, trying to control me any way she can, hoping she’ll get my attention by using our wedding to play her little mind games.”

“You don’t owe anything to her, not about this. Besides, security will take care of it if there’s any problems. I’m not gonna let anything ruin this for us.”

“I know.” You reassure him, running your hand up and down his arm. “It’s just a lot of tradition this, and family legacy that. She’s sucking the joy out of everything, like usual.” You mumble that last sentence, almost hoping Rafe didn’t hear it. “Not that I’m not excited to marry you. You know what I mean, right?”

Rafe nods, flashing back to the conversation he had with his father at lunch today. It’s almost uncanny to him how you two are often on the same page about everything. It’s comforting above all else. “Yeah, I do. I know exactly what you mean. I had lunch with my dad today, got a lot of the same bullshit.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I shut him down. I guess our parents are just hellbent on making sure we do things the same way they did.”

“As if we want to be anything like them?”

Rafe chuckles at your quip, relieved at how you two are able to make light of the stress your families have imposed on you. “As if.”

You both stand in silence for a few moments, enjoying the calm of being in your lover’s arms. The weight of your worries feel lighter now that you’ve shared them with Rafe, unfortunately knowing that they’ve made a home with you until the big day is over and done with. Hopefully you make it, if the stress doesn’t kill you first. If there’s anyone you’d have by your side through this, it’s Rafe. You can’t imagine enduring the hardships that life has to offer with anyone else. Then again, there are worse problems to have. Just seven more months.

“Did you ever see yourself here before? Getting married?” You ask Rafe.

“Not until I found you.” He charms, satisfied with the way you snuggle even closer to him. “How about you?”

“The same. Never thought I’d find the one until I found you. If I’m honest, that’s all I’m excited for, to just be husband and wife.”

“Y/n?” You hum in response, matching his curious tone. “Do you even want a wedding?”

You freeze, noticeably tensing the same way Rafe did some time ago. You knew the answer and had a feeling that he did too. It was painful to put into words. “I want to be married to you, Rafe. You know that right?”

“I know that, silly. I wanna be married to you too, clearly.” Rafe acknowledges, brushing his thumb over the engagement ring on your finger. “But a ceremony and a reception, the tradition. Do you want that?”

You can’t help but give him a knowing look, one that says damn, you’re good. But it’s also filled with a plea for understanding. “I could live without it, but our wedding will be beautiful, Rafe. I just want to make sure that it’s ours. I hope you don’t have the wrong idea, that I’m having second thoughts or anything because I-”

Rafe cuts off your ramble by kissing you, your face cupped in his hands delicately. He’s gentle, but reassuring. He needs you to remember that he knows you and he’ll never forget.

“Run away with me?” His eyes gaze into yours and there’s an intensity of love behind them that leaves you tearing up. “Our wedding will be beautiful, because it will be ours. Just you and me. We can still have the actual event, don’t think that I don’t dream of you walking down the aisle towards me. We can still have the party and the tall ass cake that you deserve. But having that doesn’t mean we can’t have what we want.”

Rafe’s never been more sure of himself as he watches a tear slip down your cheek, his thumb wiping it away before it can fall too far. You beam at him, and it’s your turn to kiss the man that you love. The man that you’re about to run away and elope with.

“Screw tradition, let’s get married.”

—

The sun sets in the distance, giving you and your husband the perfect view of your spot on the beach, taking turns at feeding each other bites of a miniature cake, coated in a silky white frosting to commemorate your marriage. It was Rafe’s surprise to you, having ordered it custom, and practically overnight, decorated with icing rosettes and your new titles, Mr. and Mrs., written beautifully in the center.

“Our families might kill us, you know.”

Rafe’s smile doesn’t budge, he’s convinced it might just be stuck on his face forever as long as he’s spending it with you. “I guess that means we’ll have to die together then, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.” You whisper, closing the distance to kiss your husband. You’ll never get sick of it. Golden rays from the setting sun surround you in glowing warmth, something you’ll feel in your heart from this day forward. The light catches your diamond ring perfectly and it winks at you with a sparkle, forever a reminder of the love you and Rafe share.

He pulls back, yet never too far as he holds your face in his hands. His cerulean eyes glimmer with a hope you only see when he’s looking back at you. “You don’t regret it? Not having the fairytale wedding?”

“This is my fairytale wedding. Just you, me, and a cake.” Rafe smiles, unable to imagine that this is his real life; unable to imagine that having him and him alone, is more than enough for you. There’s not a decision he’s been more sure of in his life than asking you to marry him. “Do you regret it? Marrying me without a prenup?”

Rafe scoffs lightheartedly. “You’ve already taken my heart so you might as well have the rest. Nothing else matters to me as long as you’re mine and I’m yours. I love you, remember? ‘Til death do us part.”

He holds out his pinky and you happily reciprocate the youthful gesture by locking your fingers together. “‘Til death do us part.”

Emotion overcomes you once more, pouring your heart into a kiss that’s as true as your promise to each other. You know he intends to keep his, and so do you. Daring to love each other through the pretty and the ugly, healing each other with a simple look or touch. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. If you don’t have each other, then you have nothing at all.

💌: reblogs & comments are always appreciated! thank you for reading <3

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fluff #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #outer banks #obx #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks fic #obx fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fic

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transmisogyny-explained · 2 days ago

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Making my own post because apparently this still needs to be said:

GNC cis men are not TMA, regardless of what specific words they use to describe themselves.

Yes, some TMA people do not self-identify as women or fem/mes, and some of their identities have overlap with those of GNC cis men’s.

These two things are unrelated because the specific words you use to describe yourself is not what makes you TMA. As transfeminists have been saying for years: yes, everyone is “affected” by transmisogyny to some extent. But proximity to transfemininity, being mistaken for a trans woman, does not a transfeminized subject make. GNC cis men being interpersonally discriminated against for their proximity to transfemininity does not make them TMA — does not make their identities inherently confined by the entire system of oppression that is transmisogyny — any more than TME trans people’s proximity to trans women makes them TMA.

What does make someone TMA is that they reject their male assignment and transition toward womanhood/femininity. It is both of these things in tandem that create the intersection between oppositional sexism (transitioning from one gender to another) and traditional sexism (rejecting the concept of male supremacy) that we know as transmisogyny.

Furthermore, it’s absurd to continually insist, no matter what new excuse you come up with, that feminism needs to start centering men and prioritizing their needs above those of women. We have had this exact conversation a thousand different times over a thousand different things.

Also, it is frankly bizarre to claim that GNC cis men can be TMA but then completely ignore the existence of GNC trans men. If rejecting male assignment is not, in some part, required to be TMA, then how exactly are GNC trans men not TMA too…?

The possibility that some or even all self-identified GNC cis men/femboys/sissies/drag queens/etc. are actually eggs or closeted trans women (insane thing to assume, btw!) doesn’t suddenly give them a pass for the rampant transmisogyny within their communities. Transfeminists have never just given a pass to TMA people for being transmisogynistic and putting other TMA people down in order to prop themselves up and gain favor with TME people. It’s a wild double standard to give self-identified cis men who might be eggs leniency but not extend the same to self-identified transfems.

And pointing out that GNC cis men are not TMA is in no way comparable to claiming that closeted trans women have male privilege? Closeted trans women aren’t TMA because they’re perceived as feminine men, they are literally women who have been forced to hide their identities. That, in itself, is transmisogyny.

Closeted trans women are still trans women, even if they call themselves men. TME people are still TME, even if they call themselves transfems. GNC cis men are still cis men, even if they call themselves femboys or sissies. What you choose to label yourself is more or less arbitrary, but the category into which a stratified society forcibly places you based on certain immutable characteristics like gender does, in fact, affect how you relate to conversations about privilege and oppression. “Identity” is made up, but Identity is not.

For the last time, trans women are not treated like feminine men (see: third-gendering/degendering); they’re treated like “failed women,” women denied their womanhood, women you’re allowed to abuse. To act like their treatment by society is the same as GNC cis men’s is to give credence to the theories transandrobros have been pushing about how transmisogyny is actually derived from “misandry.” Frankly, if you seriously can’t tell the difference at this point, then I don’t know what to tell you, you might just not be a transfeminist.

And, lastly, I will always be wary of any argument about how “x group is TMA too!” when nine times out of ten, it’s just TMEs trying to assert that they have the authority to speak over transfems about our own oppression.

#ask to tag #transmisogyny #transfeminism

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hannamoon143 · 2 days ago

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"I could just use a hug"

with Hyunjin °‧ ♡ Wc: 675 °‧♡

You curled up with your comforter,wanting to never get out of bed again. To say you were tired would be an understandment. This last week had been so draining, and seasonal depression was just adding to it. The sky was cloudy all the time, the wind was throwing your hair into your face, and making your throat feel dry. You knew it could be worse, but that didn’t make your feelings unvalid, did it? You sighed, closing your eyes, hoping to fall asleep. Sleep was the only thing that was feeling somewhat good right now.

Or...

You heard the front door of your apartment open. A little spark lit up inside you. That meant he was home. That meant, no matter how shitty you felt right now, your beautiful boyfriend would soon come in and make it better. He always did, with just his presence, his hugs, his reassurancing words, and everything he did.

You heard him shuffling around a bit, probably unpacking his things from practice. And then, slowly his footsteps came nearer, until the bedroom door creaked open, and a hyunjin with messy hair and slight dark circles under his eyes appeared. The fairylights hanging above your shared bed were illuminating the dark room into a comforting, warm glow, making his features seem soft. Your eyes peaked out from your blanket nest, looking at hyunjin, and god he wanted to squish your cheeks and smooch you, you just looked so adorable right now. But besides that he could see exhaustion in your eyes too. He stepped to the side of the bed, crouching down so your face was on the same height as his. He gently reached out, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. „Hey my muse. you okay?“ He softly smiled at you, and you already felt like that smile could heal you in all your sickness. „I could just use a hug.“ You muttered, your voice a bit hoarse from the biting cold outside, and you blinked at him.

His lips turned into a small, gentle smile and he carressed your cheek lightly. „I’m here now.“ He simply murmured, and then laid down on the bed next to you. You wrapped him into the comforter too, and snuggled into his chest immediately. He felt warm, his shirt smelling like his cologne, and the recording studio.

He was tired too. He had been busy the whole day, without the slightest bit time to even text you.

This was exactly what the both of you needed right now. You closed your eyes, the only sound in the room your soft breathing. Hyunjin wrapped his arms around you, placing a featherlight kiss on the top of your head. „Go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up, hm?“

You nodded, mumbling a already drowsy„You too, pretty boy. I know your tired too.“

Your words made him feel fuzzy inside. You always said the right things, and you were even cuter when you were sleepy. He traced round shapes on your back, burrying his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes too. He inhaled your scent, a mix of vanilla and cotton, and then started quietly humming a tune. He always did that on nights like this. When you’d fall asleep in his embrace, the soft melodies he was humming the last thing you could hear. This time it was ‚sweater weather‘. He knew you loved it, and oh how much it fit this rainy night.

And maybe, things weren’t that tough. Like this, with the rain softly pattering against your window, hyunjin’s angelic voice in your ears, and you, being fully embraced by him, things would be okay. They would. No words were needed between the two of you, as if you could just read each other’s eyes. You felt safe with him, and so did he with you. And nothing was ever going to change that. Not even those draining days, or when seasonal depressing took it’s toll on you. Everything would be okay somehow.

Back to prompt masterlist ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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rekino2114 · 16 hours ago

Note

How about 3 with fem kaiser and male reader

I imagine she'd give you a blue rose bouquet

Fem!kaiser giving you a bouquet and chocolate

Valentine's prompt #3

Prompts list

Pairing:fem!Michael kaiser x male reader

A/n:my first Valentine's Day post, and it's with one of my favorite characters to write for

"I-i'm sorry ma'am but we don't carry-"

"Tch"

Kaiser didn't even let the florist finish her sentence, a sentence that she had heard way too many times in a day. She hated when people repeated things to her, especially if it was something she didn't want to hear

"I should have expected that, this place is so trashy anyway"

The woman she was speaking to wanted to say something, but she knew better than to talk back to one of germany's most famous and important football players and people in general which was currently looking at her like she could buy this entire store 5 times and still have enough money to afford the incredibly expensive box of chocolates she was holding, which was actually very true

Kaiser sighed and simply walked outside of the store, not saying anything else. She sat on a bench inside of the mall she was in and ran a hand through her hair sighing even more heavily, she knew she fucked up and this was all just her fault.

She knew she shouldn't have waited until the last day to try to get the bouquet, but she was overconfident just like she was in football except that there her skills backed her confidence up but in this occasion there was no skill she could make use of, just the unpredictable mechanism of luck.

Unlike most holidays (Christmas especially), Michelle actually likes Valentine's day, sure it's cheesy and corny, but she can't deny that ever since she started dating you, she has become a bit cheesy and corny herself, giving you a blue rose bouquet every month with a note entitled to "my emperor💙" constantly showering you in praise and compliments and still using pick up lines even after years of dating but that's what feeling love for the first time ever does to a person. Kaiser loved you, and you deserved nothing short of perfection....which was exactly why she was disappointed that she couldn't give it to you today.

Her usual blue rose supplier had gotten sick and couldn't do his job. She was about to tell him to get up and do it anyway since she would still play a match while sick, but she didn't want to be that mean on a day about love so she just hung up without saying anything and went to look for blue roses in basically all of Munich's flower shops.

Of course, she knew that blue roses were very rare and literally unobtainable in nature. That's the whole reason why she got the tattoo in the first place, but what else could she have done? Give you normal roses? As if! She was the blue rose empress, that was literally her symbol. She wanted to get you blue roses so that every time you looked at them, you would think of her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing. When she took it out of her pocket, she was relieved to see it was you calling her and not someone else to bother her even more.

"Hello, what is it schatz?"

"Hi Michelle, noa wanted me to ask you why you didn't come at practice today"

"Oh, I'm just shopping"

".....really, for what? You usually just send ness to do it or go with me"

".......well-"

"Speaking of ness, where is he? He didn't come either"

"Yeah......i sent him to buy something too"

"So.....you two are trying to buy the same thing but you're not together?"

"......yeah"

"....it must be important"

"It is"

"I see well I'll just tell noa you're busy and not bother you anymore, love you bye"

"Thanks, love you too"

The conversation kaiser had just finished made her feel even more guilty. You were just so sweet and perfect. The roses and chocolates you had given her this morning had already proven it to her among the mountains of other things you did for her.

You knew she didn't like receiving gifts, that she genuinely wouldn't have known how to react, but you still did it, simply telling her that it was just because of tradition and she didn't have to get you anything, but she wanted to, she wanted to get those damn blue roses.

She gritted her teeth as her anger rose. Why today of all days? Somehow, not being able to give you what you deserved felt even worse than getting a goal blocked by isagi

*ring ring*

"What is it?"

This time kaiser didn't even try to hide her frustration at however was on the other side of the phone

"K-kaiser, I found the roses"

"Finally! Where are they?"

"I-it's just-"

"Listen ness, I don't care what's happening there, I'll get the roses even if I have to kill someone to have them"

"But it's 800 euros for a bouquet"

"......ok and?"

"Isn't that......super expensive?"

"Yes and wildly overpriced. Like i told you, I'm getting those roses no matter what ,plus it's not actually that much for me, I can make that back in a match if I play well, and I always do"

"........o-ok"

After going to get the roses, kaiser and Ness went back to the bastard münchen building and were greeted by noa scolding them for not attending practice which Michelle mostly ignored as she told the magician to tell you to come to her room later.

"Hey babe, what-"

You gasped as the first thing you saw when you opened the door was kaiser holding a blue rose bouquet, smiling at you

"Happy valentine's day schatz"

"You didn't have to do this you know?"

"Yes, but I wanted to. You do so much for me. I would have felt terrible not giving you anything back"

She kissed you, wrapping her arms around you and guiding you to her large bed, where she placed the bouquet and opened the chocolate box

"Want some?"

The chocolates all looked amazing....and expensive, some of them had golden wrappers or phrases like I love you written on the chocolates themselves

"How much did this cost?"

"Please schatz don't worry about that"

She grabbed one of the chocolates with her fingers and held it out to you

"Do you need me to feed it to you~"

"I certainly wouldn't complain about that"

You opened your mouth as kaiser fed you the chocolates, you swallowed it, and your eyes lit up at how tasty it was

"So good!"

"Of course, I made sure they were all your favorite flavors. My emperor only deserves the best"

"What did i do to deserve you?"

"Just.....loving me"

Kaiser got close to you once again and hugged you. You hugged back as you let yourself fall on the bed with her on top of you. She kissed you passionately another time and continued kissing your face, leaving blue lipstick marks on it

"I love you so much schatz"

"Me too, I love you so so much"

Kaiser's smile widened as she moved to your right, hugging you even tighter. You were now fully cuddling on the bed

"Should I add the bouquet to the ones you always give me"

"If you want, I'd say this one is special, though. It cost me a lot, both in money and effort"

"Awww and you still brought it for me, you're so sweet"

"It's nothing, I'd do anything for you"

With those final words, kaiser kissed your forehead as you two continued to cuddle in silence. Her love warmed you up as you felt her heartbeat, which you knew was beating for you, the only person who showed kaiser love, her boyfriend, teammate, emperor, soulmate and now her valentine.

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haechanhues · 2 days ago

Text

chapter twenty five : thunder and storm clouds

*written*

word count : 1.6k

warnings : smut (MDNI). The mood changes up quite a bit. Sorry this took awhile to get through but I finished finally. We’re at the halfway point now, guys! not proofread.

He’s thunder and storm clouds, making himself comfortable in your apartment. You can’t say the same because you find yourself up against the wall with his hand on your throat, anger dripping from his eyes.

You grimace a little, the sensitivity of old love bites burning at healing skin and a smirk twitches at the corner of his lips as he regards you and the hickies he left behind, “Deja vu, huh?”

You scowl and you feel so pathetically inadequate when all it takes to dissolve the severity of it is the kiss he gives you. He slots his mouth over yours, a soft contrast to the hand squeezing at your throat, and when he adds tongue you’re confused as what exactly has turned your vision into stars.

You moan into his mouth, and he exhales a sharp breath standing closer to hear it again. It sounds so much better to him when your moans are just for him to hear. Or if the men that want you are there to see who’s making you moan so much.

He nips at your lips, almost as if he can see them swell a little to pull back from your lips, and when he slots his knee in between your legs there’s no push back. Brushing the slightest bit at the apex, he grins manically, his hair curling over his eyes.

“You’re so messy.”

“Fuc-”

“Shut up, don’t talk,” He hisses, his hand slapping over your mouth, “I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

Despite the makeshift muffler of your lips, you’re too curious not to ask, “Why?”

He’s unimpressed, and it shows in his body language. He pauses, the dark expression taking new terror on his kissed stupid features and his hands painting pictures across your collarbone and chest, “Because the last time you did, you pissed me off.”

You swallow and he enjoys it, the realisation in your eyes, his fingers swiping letters you can’t make sense of, every word he writes unintelligible, “I’m not going to let you just forget it, Y/N. You’re not a Princess here, I’m afraid.”

At the last word, his hands slide down to the thick of your waist, bunching it in his grip before he spins you both around so that his back is flat against the wall and you’re leaning over him.

You stare at him, questions running amok in your head.

With a smack of his lips, his fingers claw in your hair, deep rooted pleasure slow as he grips at your hair, “You thinking of him, right now?”

You shake your head. With his thumb, he forces his way in between your swollen full lips until he finds the base of your tongue, the suction of it all tempting him to have his way with you.

“Think of him if you want, baby,” He shrugs, pulling his pants down and prying himself free, “It’s your last chance to anyways.”

With an almost gentle brush of your lips with the pad of his thumb, you’re away with the fairies replaying the moment over and over again in your head.

“Open,” He commands softly to which you obey him with only a moment's hesitation, and he slowly watches as his cock is swallowed by your throat. His head tips back of the feeling of your mouth, your tongue and your lips working together, sucking and sucking.

He doesn’t even realise he’s thrusting into your mouth until you start to gag around him, tears welling in your eyes. He’s about to allow you an intake of breath, only to be falter at the feeling of you swallowing, he shakes and his grip tightens within the strands of your hair.

“Mmm,” He growls appreciatively, clenching his palm into a fist and eyes flickering as he struggles to find a place to put his hands, letting a whine pass his lips as you suck harder, attempting to draw out the subby whines you want to hear.

“W-wait,” His breath hitches at your pace, “I’m seriously going to come down your throat if you’re not careful.”

But when you refuse to budge, he can’t say he finds it anything to complain about. But he has to.

He moans again, “Don’t you want me to fuck you? If you keep going like this, I won’t be able to.”

You pull away from his cock with a pop and it takes every bone in his body not to shove himself down your throat again. You race upwards, taking his lips for yours. Letting him taste himself on your lips. Loving the way he loses it because of you, stealing his moment of composure in order to see him like this.

He’s a shadow of the dom he was portraying before, weak at the hands of you. And with his guard down, he doesn’t think twice before his hand cups your face.

He kisses at his own pace, the sounds between you both heavy as you lead him into the bedroom. He sits on the bed, impatient as you straddle him and longing as you plant wet kisses on his neck. He finds himself tipping back as you climb higher up his torso, your hips at his chest, the feeling of him beneath you making your clit throb.

You want him so fucking badly.

“Fours?” You murmur, voice barely a whisper. You’ve got ideas and you so desperately want to use them during his favourite position to drive him nuts.

His eyes are lost, vision blurry as he shakes his head, “No.”

No?

He flips you over, leg hitching over his hips as he drags himself forward. Letting you feel just how hard he is. How much he wants you. Right where you want him.

“Oh-”

He steals your moans with another hurried kiss, hands moving busy as he undresses himself. Shirt first. Then pants. His erection hitting his stomach. He’s been getting thicker, his body gradually getting stronger and you can’t say you don’t appreciate it. Normally, however, he’d take notice and make a comment that irritated you well into the next day.

But he doesn’t give you any sort of normalcy.

Instead, he cups your face with both hands, gentle as he kisses you again. Softly this time. Sweeter. He’s slow about it, taking his time. It feels addictive. How good it is. You return his kiss with his mirror image. Soft. Sweet. Addicting.

You don’t know how long you kiss for.

You just know that when he stops, you’re removing your own clothes slowly, watching as his eyes gaze across your body appreciatively. Normally, you’d give him your own comment, but for some reason you don’t.

You just watch his admiration.

Your breasts. Your skin. Everything feels perfect to him. He leans forward as you go to unbuckle your jeans, the swell of your breasts in his mouth so delicious your hands drop from their work to enjoy the moment for a second.

He kisses down your stomach and then returns to your mouth, hoping you’d taste how good you taste. Your hands naturally jerk back to the zip of your jeans and you smile into the kiss as you knock hands with him as he pulls expertly at the buttons of your jeans. The satisfying click of freedom, all the incentive to peel your jeans and underwear off your legs.

You can almost hear him without even hearing him say it.

Jeans, really?

And you would quip back, because that’s how your relationship was. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he kisses your cheek gently, his palm finding the meat of your thigh as he angles your leg around his torso. He can feel how wet you are, and with a quick dip of his fingers into your heat, he knows how desperate you are too.

His digits dragging deliciously across your walls, you whimper at the loss of his fingers. He hushes you, “I’m almost there, baby.”

He taps the tip of his cock against your clit, watching the way your pussy clenches at the sensation, all before he sinks into you letting out a groan of his own as he feels you squeeze him within your walls.

“Oh f-fuck,” You mewl, nails breaking through his skin and he isn’t even moving yet.

He kisses you again and it’s all so hazy. You two have kissed a couple times now, but it’s still rather new to kiss like this during sex. It makes your head turn with how emotional it feels when paired with the slow thrust of his hips.

You clench tighter on his dick, enjoying the way he loses it and thrusts hurriedly into you. You wish there was an archive in your brain that let you play out his sounds at every period of the day.

But you’ll just have to fuck him like this again and again.

As he loses it on top of you, his head tilting and eyes squinting as he lets himself go. The muscles in body tensed all the way to the tips of his fingers. He almost cries at the feeling of your soft kisses, a contrast to the severe intensity of the pleasure he feels because of your pussy.

He tips his head back feeling your kisses on his throat. His chin. He turns his head and you still kiss at the apples of his cheeks and the curve of his jaw. His collarbone. His chest.

He comes, you don’t. But you don’t care. His come spilling from your pussy. You don’t care, because the guy in front of you is a vision you can’t bring yourself to be mad at. He’s red in the face, sweat dripping from his forehead, heaving chest.

You give him a minute, a smile growing on your face. He nestles his head into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing softly against the skin and you feel your whole body flutter.

All before he murmurs something unintelligible and your whole body locks, frozen still. You can’t even pretend anymore. Not after that.

AND NOW, US

your best friend's best friend offers his services as you keep complaining about your lack of… sexual gratification.

chapter twenty five: thunder and storm clouds

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taglist : @harunade @yukisroom97 @haesluvr @choizzn @lovetyong @kukkurookkoo @t-102 @jeonghansshitester @haechansssun @miniature-tragedy @nctdreamchaser @tenjyucat @chan-yeoldelling @ant-onie @toroufriteh @queenrachelpink @tywritesstuff @meowtella @gomdoleemyson @karmasbestie @berries-n-blues @sundamariis @minkyuncutie @kodasity @bbambidorii @sibwol @jae-n0

#nct social au #nct x reader #nct fic #haechan x reader #nct fluff #haechan fluff #nct smut #haechan smut #nct angst #haechan angst #haechan smau #nct dream social au #nct dream social media au #nct imagines #haechan imagines #nct scenarios #haechan scenarios

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fabbyf1 · 3 days ago

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Hi Besties!

I know I sort of just... disappeared, and I’m very sorry for worrying you.

To everyone who sent me an ask or dm checking on me: I really appreciate you. I'm not going to publish them, because I don’t think you sent them to me so that I would publish them, but thank you so much for caring about me and taking the time to send me a note of love and support.

It means a lot to me to know that so many of you think about me and notice when I'm not around. I think we can all agree that that’s a really nice feeling. It says a lot about who you are as people and confirms the fact that we have built such a lovely little corner of the internet together. I'm a firm believer in the fact tumblr, and any other fan space or social media website, should always bring joy and positivity to your life. And if it's not, you should do something else.

Nobody is getting paid to be here. We all choose to spend our free time here to relax, and unwind, and share a laugh with other people who share our weird little interests. I'm so grateful that my blog, and everyone who follows and interacts with me, has always kept it a light-hearted, supportive place. I know a lot of other big blogs can’t say the same thing, and they are constantly receiving hate and rude people in their inboxes. So thank you for helping me keep this a safe space where we can giggle and gossip and support each other.

Let’s address the elephant in the room.

I disappeared from the internet for a lot of reasons, but mostly because... I am feeling very guilty and overwhelmed about my lack of writing. It's easier for me to disappear and avoid it altogether than to feel like I’m disappointing anyone.

But let me be clear: these feelings are totally and 100% my own. Nobody is making me feel this way. Nobody is sending me anon hate, or demanding updates, or telling me that I've let them down. This is an expectation and standard I have put on myself, and I feel like I am failing myself when it comes to writing.

And that’s just something I have to deal with.

Writing fanfiction has been a major part of my life since I was 12 years old (albeit, very bad fanfiction at 12 years old.) It’s a hobby that I will never move on from. And honestly, the older I get, the more I fall in love with it. I think fanfiction gets a lot of hate from people who don’t understand it or have never read it, but fanfiction is an important part of fan culture and brings so many people together.

Some of the most powerful, impacting, and lasting words I’ve ever read were all from fanfiction. The words that haunt me, or that I think about over and over again are all from fanfiction. And I think that’s why I put so much pressure on myself when it comes to writing.

I don’t want to publish something that is not my best work. I don’t want to update something just to update it; I want it to be exactly the way I envisioned it, if not better. I want it to mean something to you. I want you to love it, or laugh at it, or cry to it, or whatever that fic or that chapter is supposed to bring out of you.

I haven’t opened my google docs for more than 5 minutes in... months.

Just thinking about it overwhelms me because I feel like I’ve backed myself into a corner that I don’t want to be in. It’s silly and not as dramatic as I’m making it seem, but I wish I could go back and delete a few paragraphs at the end of the last chapter of the mastermind fic, so that the next chapter could be something... different.

And I know that I technically could do that, but that doesn’t seem right either, because it would be confusing to everyone who is current with the fic and especially those who have read it multiple times and are expecting the next chapter to be something.

Silly, right?

But I feel very trapped by my wip right now.

When I wrote my other long fics like Long Live or Vapor, I didn’t post them as wips and I could go back and completely change the course of the story if I wanted to. But you can’t really do that with a wip. (Again, I know I technically could, but it would be very confusing.) I had this entire story mapped out in a timeline of how I wanted things to go, and so far have followed that, but I’m feeling very... trapped by it now. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it.

I’m going to find a way out of this writing slump I’m in. I promise you will. I have to. The fic, the characters, you, and I deserve this fic to continue and to grow into what I know they should be. I’m just struggling a lot with the idea of writing this next chapter because I wish it could be something different.

I’m not sure any of that makes sense, but maybe you get it.

I’m sorry I disappeared.

When my fight or flight kicks in, I always choose flight.

I’m going to try and be better.

Thank you all for loving me.

#kate's ranting again but now it's a formal address #tl;dr i'm alive and have been avoiding my google docs and im sorry if i scared you into thinking i died #mastermind fic

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pedros-mustache · 1 day ago

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nighthawks (20)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 6k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader

a/n: wow - um, hey, guys. so after my year long hiatus, i am here. hello. i truthfully to not expect anyone to flock to this story again after how inconsistent i have been. but din & scout came to me fully formed almost four years ago, and i must finish the story within. you are, of course, welcome to come along for the ride. 💛

please forgive me if this is utter shite. it has been a long time since i wrote much of anything, so i am, as the kids say, pretty mid at this.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice.

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do.

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding.

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face.

And he will be the first to fall.

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist.

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.”

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer.

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip.

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs.

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them.

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again.

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper.

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster.

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin.

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.”

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle.

“What can you tell me about this man?”

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!”

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face.

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp.

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind.

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold?

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far.

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars.

“So, what now?”

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip.

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—”

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable.

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire.

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward.

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace.

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all.

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.”

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in.

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.”

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice.

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.”

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering.

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.”

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break.

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers.

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest.

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too.

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance.

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach.

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek.

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog.

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it.

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward.

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod.

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods.

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm.

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik.

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear.

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you.

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal.

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet.

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back.

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod.

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer.

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple.

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds.

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg.

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent.

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters.

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead.

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes.

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other.

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain.

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in.

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs.

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.”

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough.

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags.

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side.

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet.

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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rotworld · 2 days ago

Text

Where the Heart Was

once a year, you visit a memorial for a pack that no longer exists and mourn what could have been. this visit will not be like the others.

->sawyer/reader. contains grief/mourning, hurt/comfort, vague mentions of abuse and unspecified trauma, mentioned gore, murder.

You buy the bouquet before you leave town. Pink roses, white lilies and baby’s breath, cloying in your passenger seat. You used to wait until you got all the way to Quail Creek. You’d stop at that florist on the corner and fidget by the register with all your awkward smiles and survivor’s guilt, never quite making eye contact, never quite able to ignore the small town gawking from the old folks and teenage part timers watching you pass through like a haunting on repeat.

So now you buy it before you get there. Your car will smell soft and sad like a funeral for days after, but the pain stays private that way.

You get into Quail Creek late. Sunset smolders on the horizon and stretches shadows across a long, lonely road. Past the little diners and antique stores, the gas stations and highway ramps to other places, all the way out here at the very edge of town, there’s a memorial. The city never put up signs to help anyone find it but you know the way by heart.

Turn left onto the dirt road that peels away from town into dense woodland, the one that warns NO OUTLET on a yellow sign. Take it as far as it goes. There’s a circular patch of dirt at the end meant for u-turns, and a willow tree growing at the roadside. You park in its dappled shadow. The rest of this journey is made on foot. The path you take is not paved but worn into the earth by countless footsteps before yours, but the wildflowers steadily overtake it year by year. With the bouquet in your hand, you march the fading trail deep into the forest.

When the day comes that the forest swallows any trace of it, you’ll still know where to go. You remember what he said, exactly how he said it. Smiling softly, squeezing your hand, whispers in the dark:

“Follow the creek ‘till you see three big boulders all in a line. Go west from there, towards the evergreens. The trees are marked. You can feel them even if it’s too dark to see. Three slashes, diagonal, a small fourth slash on top. Eventually, you’ll get to the stepping stones and they’ll take you the rest of the way. Remember that, okay? You’ll reach the end of the stones and I’ll be there, waiting for you.”

The last light of day trickles between pine branches. The stepping stones are half-hidden in dry and dead leaves but you feel the difference between your shoes, spots of solid rock amongst grass and soil. The air is cool and the sky is dark by the time you reach the memorial. Echoes of things that used to be here linger, patches of flattened earth where buildings once stood and crops used to grow. In the middle of a clearing, a large stone juts from the ground. Unaltered from its natural, slightly rounded shape, it is etched with two sets of carvings. The same message, written twice.

On one side are runic symbols. Not Old Norse but something similar, a close cousin. On the other:

Here dwelt brave wolves and beloved ravens of the Yarrow Meadow pack. May ye frolick spring fields ever after.

Below that is a list of names.

You approach the stone with slow steps. Crouching beside it, you trail your fingers over the cold, bumpy surface. You have to use the light on your phone to find it, but it’s there. The left-most column. Bottom row. Luke is the name there, with the silhouette of a bird carved beside it. You trace the indents of the letters with your thumb.

“I’m here. I’m home,” you say, hoarse and quiet. You swallow hard, swiping your sleeve across your face. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry this time. “I know I’m late this year. Sorry. You know I’m good at finding excuses.” You tug the ribbon off the bouquet and dismantle it crudely, crumpling up the plastic and jamming it in your pocket. You place the flowers at the base of the stone. “I meant to come in the spring. Those rose bushes you told me about, they’re still here. They’re not blooming right now. It’s just a wall of thorns.”

It’s so quiet. There’s no one here but you and little things rustling in the underbrush. A squirrel chitters quietly on its way up a tree, returning to its nest for the night. The moon peeks through the clouds and you can just barely see the treeline like the bars of a cage.

“I can’t stay long. It’s dark and I don’t know these roads very well. Might need to sleep in the car for a few hours.” You don’t get up. You mean to. You try a few times but you never do, your hand still resting on the stone. “Why am I such a coward?” you whisper. “I don’t want to go back. But I will. I always do. It wouldn’t matter if I was brave now because it’s too late. I wish I’d…I wish…” You bite back a sob and scrub furiously at your burning, tear-filled eyes.

A branch snaps behind you.

You lurch to your feet and whirl around, eyes scanning the woods. That wasn’t some tiny twig breaking. It’s big, whatever it is, a bristling shape loping closer at a steady pace. It’s not a bear, is it? Your pulse hammers in your chest. You fumble with your phone, angling the lights towards it in the hopes of scaring it off or blinding it.

Open maw. Teeth bared. Glowing predator light for eyes. Your heart skips a beat. The thing makes an irritated noise, somewhere between a growl and a whine. Its ears flick back and it wrenches its eyes shut. No, that’s definitely not a bear but it’s almost as big. It’s a wolf, covered in jet black fur. If you hadn’t heard it coming, you definitely wouldn’t have spotted it in the dark.

It lets out a whiny bark, like a dog complaining about being stuck indoors. It shakes its head, swiping one of its front paws in front of its face. Then it does it again, growling. Annoyed, you think. It’s such a purposeful, distinctly human gesture, a wordless, “Turn that shit off.”

Not a regular wolf, you realize.

“Sorry!” you stammer, flicking the light off. Your stomach lurches in terror at the sudden darkness that fills your vision, the shadows seeming to squirm as your eyes adjust. You know the wolf is still there. It lets out a huff and pads closer, its movements suddenly obvious and easy to hear. You can just barely make out the shape of it, head raised and gait slow. Is it doing that on purpose, stepping on every single stick and crunching leaf so you know where it is? It comes very, very close, but it holds still when you flinch. Its eyes unnerve you, indistinguishable from the feral gaze of a wolf except for an uncanny sense of familiarity. Thinking, assessing, judging the world not quite you do, not quite like an animal does, but in a way that bridges the two.

“Are you…visiting the memorial?” you guess. It bobs its head emphatically in a nod. “I just finished. I’ll give you some privacy—”

It veers into your path when you step away. You move to the left and it follows. You shift your weight to the right and it does the same, mirroring your movements.

“Uh. Excuse me,” you say. You try to leave again. Your only warning is a growl before it lunges.

It happens so fast. The scream gets caught in your throat as the wolf comes barreling right into you, knocking you off your feet. Your heart is in your throat expecting to hit the ground hard, to feel teeth in your throat, but instead you fall into soft warmth. That’s fur against your back and beneath your fingers, velvety smooth. Your brain is still struggling to make sense of what happened, how it moved so fast that it could both topple you and break your fall, when the wolf shimmies out from under you. It’s such a smooth, graceful movement, angling its body so you slide gently into the grass. Its size is frighteningly apparent like this, golden eyes and open, panting maw angled down to study your bewildered expression. Its paws are easily the size of your hands, maybe larger. If you were standing, it would be eye-level with your chest.

Clearly, it doesn’t want you to leave so you stay put. You watch it snuffle around the base of the stone, snout nudging against the flowers you brought before it glances at you questioningly. You’re not sure what it wants or what it’s thinking, but suddenly it shivers and curls in on itself. It trembles, ears flat and tail tucked in, making choked sounds. Fur recedes unevenly. Limbs and digits lengthen with nauseating cracks as bone lurches and slides beneath rearranging muscle.

You avert your eyes, terrified. Is shifting supposed to take so long and sound so awful? Quick, canine panting turns to longer, deeper breaths. Now there’s a man crouched beside you, running a clawed hand through dark, messy hair. His eyes are still bright yellow and glinting like an animal’s when he glances at you in his periphery.

“Shouldn’t wander around here by yourself at night,” he says, hoarse and winded.

“Oh,” you say awkwardly. You try not to stare. He rakes his fingers through the fur on the nape of his neck, untangling a knot and dislodging a prickly seed pod. When you shift your legs under you, nervous and unsure of what to say, his gaze flicks back to you with magnetic speed. That look feels like a warning. You avert your eyes and tilt your head away from him, showing him your neck. Luke taught you that. Said it’d fix everything if a wild wolf ever looked angry.

To your shock and amazement, the man—the werewolf—relaxes the second you do it. For a moment, his eyes widen and his lips part in wordless surprise. All the tension and tautness in his posture evaporates. A soft, rhythmic rustling draws your gaze to the ground behind him where his tail has just started to wag slowly. Still, he’s looking at you a little too intently, his focus making you self-conscious. He looks like he’s waiting for something.

“Is, uh. Is it dangerous?” you ask, trying to break the ice. “I heard there are bears in the area but I’ve never seen one.”

He grunts. “They’re here. More of them now since the pack disbanded.” You hear more rustling, in front of you this time. He’s doing something with the plants at the base of the memorial. Plucking blades of grass, weaving them together. He catches you staring, huffing in quiet amusement when you quickly look away. “I don’t bite.” He spares you from trying to think of a response, picking up one of the flowers from the bouquet. “You brought these?”

“Yeah,” you say.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything for a while. His eyes move down and up again, back to your face. He’s frowning. Did you say something wrong? Move too much? You can’t tell if he’s angry or if that’s just how his face looks. Luke said wild wolves can come across as a little intense without meaning to. “Would you like to use it?” he asks, his voice considerably softer.

“Use it?”

“Come.” He beckons you to him with a sharp nod. Reluctantly, you inch closer. “It’s what we do when we talk to the departed. You take pollen, or you grind up some petals, and you put it on their name. It honors them.”

Your chest feels tight. You come a little closer, kneeling right beside him. Your knees bump into his, an apology getting stuck in your throat when he stops you from pulling back with a hand on your thigh. It’s such a quick, automatic gesture, done without any shame or hesitation. He only lifts his hand when you stop squirming, watching you through his shaggy bangs. “Could you show me?” you ask. “It’s Luke. His name’s all the way on the left, down at the bottom.”

He’s giving you that look again. Brows furrowed, mouth pursed like he tasted something sour. His gaze rakes up and down again and you wonder what he’s looking for. After a moment, he nods. You watch him take the lily, rubbing the stamens between his fingers until they’re coated in fine, dark dust. He doesn’t need to look for Luke’s name, you notice. He knows right where it is, barely glancing at the stone before he rubs the spot once, twice, a third time, pressing the pad of his thumb into each letter.

“There,” he says. He rises gracefully to his feet, towering over you. He’s got long limbs, legs that bend a bit like a wolf’s, scars all over his body and—

You look away quickly. Yep, definitely naked. He walks around to the other side of the memorial and you hear him repeat the process. Crinkling petals, fingers whispering over stone. You stare at Luke’s name until your vision blurs with tears. The werewolf whispers something with hushed solemnity of a prayer. You hear him sigh softly and then he stands again, returning to your side. He sits in the grass beside you, staring again, not saying a word.

“Sorry, just…give me a minute,” you say.

“There’s no rush,” he assures you.

“What’s your name?”

“Sawyer.” He shifts closer. The fur on his arms is soft.

You sniffle, giving him your name. “Did you know somebody who lived here?” What a stupid question, you scold yourself. Obviously he did or he wouldn’t be here. But he just nods. Something moves across the forest floor right behind you and you jump, frightened until you realize it’s just his tail again. “I’ve never actually seen anyone else out here. I’m glad I’m not the only one. Some people—humans, anyway—they think it’s embarrassing. Knowing someone who joined a pack. Parents especially, they take it as some kind of judgement on their parenting. Sometimes it is.”

His frown deepens. “There’s nothing wrong with becoming a pack human.”

You laugh, which seems to startle him. His ears, still furred at the ends and more pointed than they should be, twitch. “Of course you’d say that.”

“I say that because it’s the truth. It’s not easy, and it’s not something just anyone can do. Pack humans are exceptional. Selfless and hardworking, stronger than any packless human could ever understand—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. He looks almost embarrassed, sheepishly turning his gaze elsewhere. “You don’t have to convince me. I was never embarrassed of Luke. I actually…I’d promised him…” Your voice wavers. You clear your throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sawyer hums in acknowledgement. He reaches out, stroking the names at the bottom of the memorial. “You blame yourself for something you never could have prevented,” he says.

You shrug. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I did. For years.” He gets to his feet with that same eerie grace as before, a single fluid motion, and then he offers his hand. You hesitate to take it but he waits, unmoving and patient. When you finally reach for him, he makes a chuffing sound. Dog with a bone, you can’t help but think, a satisfied noise. “Let me walk you wherever you’re going.”

“I drove here,” you tell him, a little flustered. He’s still holding your hand.

“Do you live in Quail Creek?” When you shake your head, he huffs. “It’s late. You need rest.”

You tug your hand out of his grip. You’re torn between being touched by his concern and irritated at being lectured. “I won’t drive all night.”

“No, you won’t. Show me where you parked. Come.”

“I’m not a dog,” you complain.

He walks a few steps ahead of you before he suddenly drops down on all fours and shifts back into a wolf. It’s a much faster change this time and doesn’t leave him panting. He huffs, shakes his body, and looks back at you. He barks impatiently when you don’t start moving and trots back, shoving his cold nose into your knees.

“Alright, alright!” you sigh. Is this what sheep feel like when a herding dog snaps at their heels? Sawyer stays close the whole walk back, either behind you or right beside you. He growls at something in the dark twice, the sound making goosebumps rise on your arms, and hurries you along more insistently. “Well,” you tell him, fishing out your keys, “thank you for the escort. It was nice meeting you—”

He leaps inside the moment you open the door. You stare in disbelief at the sight of him padding around in a circle in your passenger seat, sniffing everything as he goes.

“Uh. Do you need a ride?” The only answer you get is a pawing motion. You don’t know what else to do, so you get in and start the car with a werewolf sitting next to you. You keep waiting for him to turn back and tell you where he’s going but he never does. He gets comfortable, sitting upright and tilting his head in a cute, dog-like way, examining whatever grabs his attention.

As strange as it is, it’s a quiet and peaceful drive. You turn on the radio very quietly, humming along under your breath. Sawyer is good company even when he doesn’t say a word. It’s reassuring to have someone with you and he’s endearing in wolf form, physically affectionate. He likes to rest his snout in your lap and lick your face at stoplights.

It doesn’t stop the trip from weighing on you. You get quieter, smile less, taking deep breaths as reality sinks in again. “You’re right. I do blame myself,” you say. Then you laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, you don’t even know me and I’m just…”

Sawyer nudges against your shoulder. “Go on,” he seems to say.

“You can’t even talk back, I’m not—”

He does it again, nuzzling against you with the side of his face. He’s soft and warm, and his eyes are so big and sad, and the tears are coming all over again.

“We started talking about it all the way back in high school. We didn’t really get it back then. It was just a fantasy. LIfe was so painful. Anything, anywhere would’ve been better than where we were. We held out because of that stupid fantasy. Promised ourselves and each other we’d find a pack someday, one that would take both of us.” The streetlights turn to smears of light through your tears and you quickly wipe your eyes. “We grew up. Things changed, and they didn’t. I gave up on the whole pack thing but Luke never did. And then one day, he was gone. Stopped answering messages, calls, everything. Worst week of my life. Then the first letter came.”

You smile sadly just thinking about it: a musty, yellowed envelope, an antique that’d been collecting dust in some kind of pack storage building, wrapped with twine and labeled with a Quail Creek PO box for a return address. You only knew Quail Creek as a name you sometimes saw on a highway sign.

“Yarrow Meadow had picked him. I think he sent me seven whole pages, just talking about the commune and how it was everything we’d ever wanted and more. The wolves loved him. He said it’s rare that you get to write letters that early, or even at all, and he sent a lot of them. It took a few months before they let him visit because he was job training, basically. He was called a ‘hrefn.’ It sounded like a big deal. The next time I saw him, he was…”

Your throat constricts. He’d been so happy, smiling and misty-eyed like a newlywed, everything about him joyous and unburdened. You had always clung to each other so desperately but now he held you, steady and strong. He had shown you all of his marks like each was a trophy, bites and hickeys and suggestive scratches down his back. They were not like his old scars, the marks he always hid in high school with long sleeves and bulky clothes. He had asked for these. Had even begged, he whispered. He bore them proudly.

That day, like every day he visited, you laid together in a heap of sweaty, tangled limbs and he whispered in your ear. Follow the creek. West from the boulders. Into the evergreens. I’ll wait for you at the end of the stones. He told you Yarrow Meadow was growing, that they wanted—needed—more pack humans. He’d gone wandering into those very woods where the memorial stands now, had sought them out and been welcomed with open arms. He had already told them all about you. All you needed to do was walk the same path.

“I never went.” Your voice is a thin whisper. It hurts to admit. “I was so scared of being rejected. If they turned me away, then what would Luke do? Would he ruin everything for himself, just because of some stupid promise we made as kids? Would they even let him? Or would he stay, and I’d be all alone? I got cold feet every time I thought about it. Luke kept visiting. Kept telling me it’d be fine, it’d all be fine. I just had to go. I had to try. And I couldn’t. And the years went by, and the next thing I know, Quail Creek’s all over the news because the commune burned to the fucking ground, and Luke, he’s…”

His name was Samson Albinson. Twenty-four years old. Software engineer. Infiltrator-hunter. Every article and news show ran the same photo for a month straight of him being ushered into a police vehicle still covered in blood and ash. The trial had been excruciatingly long and highly publicized due to Albinson claiming membership with a prominent vigilante werewolf hunting group—a group which quickly denied any association, insisting he acted alone. To this day, you have no idea whether he was lying in the hopes of appearing righteous or if the hunters were just trying to save face. It doesn’t really matter.

You’d gotten sick just listening to a journalist summarize his simpering argument in court, insisting he had gone to Yarrow Meadow to “inspire a revolution.” He’d waited until a busy festival night when the wolves were occupied, sharing his daring plan of escape with the pack hrefn in the hopes of rallying all of the pack humans, but the hrefn refused. There had been an argument. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone. It had been an accident.

A fourteen stab wound, blunt force trauma to the head accident. A fire started in the main cabin’s den room accident. Six pack humans burned alive because the doors were blocked from the outside accident. Nine dead wolves ambushed from behind while trying to save them accident. Two more with intense facial trauma and defensive wounds on their hands and arms but no blood beneath their claws, as if they had been too shocked to fight back. An accident.

Albinson fled from the commune in the commotion. He wasn’t familiar with the trail or how to get back into town, but one of the pack’s wolves found him. They might’ve been in shock, he recounted, or they might genuinely not have known he was responsible for what happened. Regardless, they fell back on instinct and guided him all the way to the road, staying at his side until emergency services arrived. He claims the wolf became aggressive when a police officer approached to take a statement. A paramedic at the scene disputed this.

The wolf had been frantic but nonviolent, she said, until Albinson announced to everyone present that he was an infiltrator-hunter. She suspects he said this in the hopes of eliciting a response that would cause the police on scene to shoot the wolf.

“Take the next exit,” Sawyer says. You jolt, startled by the sound of his voice. He’s in mostly-human form again, sitting tense and straight-backed in the passenger seat. He’s staring at the road ahead, lit by your headlights. “The sign said there’s a motel,” he clarifies, still not looking at you. “We’re going to stay there tonight.”

“If I sleep in the car, I won’t have to pay—”

“I’ll pay,” he insists.

You’re too tired, physically and emotionally, to argue. Sawyer doesn’t say anything as you pull off the highway and follow the glowing lights until you find a place to stay. He gets out of the car the second you kill the ignition and walks slightly ahead of you into the lobby. It only occurs to you that he’s not wearing anything when you’re under harsh fluorescent lights, staring at his toned legs and firm backside while he scowls at the front desk. The woman who comes scurrying out of a back room freezes mid-stride, stammering and wide-eyed until Sawyer clears his throat.

“Region 12-A. Hoarfrost Falls,” he says. She nods stiffly and hides behind her computer. Sawyer looks back as if to make sure you’re still there, nodding sharply for you to come closer. You let out a sight and stand next to him. He strokes your head. Petting you, like a dog.

You try not to think too hard about the weirdly pleasant feeling that gives you.

“How are you paying for this?” you ask.

He nods towards the computer. “Pack account. There’s a database with every registered pack listed. My alpha will get a notification and approve the charge.” His hand smooths down the back of your head and settles on your nape.

“And how many, uh, beds…?” the woman behind the counter trails off, avoiding Sawyer’s steely gaze.

“One,” he says. You have no idea how but he knows exactly when you’re about to argue and that’s when he squeezes, applying firm but gentle pressure to the back of your neck. You’re so startled that you lose your train of thought entirely.

Sawyer takes the keycard and guides you to the room you’ll be sharing for the night. You don’t put up much of a fight when he steers you towards the bed, kicking off your shoes and collapsing without complaint. You watch with curious amusement as he inspects everything, pacing back and forth, sniffing the furniture, sticking his head into the closet like he seriously expects something threatening to be in there. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“Making sure this is a safe place to sleep.” You hear him in the bathroom, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. He pulls back the shower curtain and opens all of the drawers. “Acceptable,” he mutters after a while. Seemingly satisfied, he comes back out and turns out the lights. The mattress dips beneath his weight. His eyes glint in the dark above you. He’s not laying down.

“You’re not going to stand guard all night, are you?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as apprehensive as you feel.

He doesn’t answer. You hear the slide of his fingers over the sheets, see his claws arch before he clutches his hand into a fist. Like he wanted to touch you, and then thought better of it. No louder than a whisper, Sawyer speaks your name in the dark. “I know who you are,” he says, hoarse like a confession. “I knew before you introduced yourself.”

You sit up slowly. Sawyer watches you, gaze rising to follow your face, his expression solemn and unreadable. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“Luke.” The way he says that name, the warmth and fondness and love he manages to convey in a single syllable, makes your heart ache all over again. “He told us all about you. All the things you survived together, all the mischief you got into together. What made you sad and what made you laugh. You were like a pair of doves, the way he told it. Inseparable.” Sawyer reaches out to cup your cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb so gently you don’t even feel his claw. “I promised him that the moment you set foot in our woods, you would be ours. We didn’t have the influence to hunt beyond our territory or I would have gone to get you myself.”

He sees the guilt and misery start to bubble over, a sob tearing from your throat. He takes one of your hands and places it on his chest. You’re startled by the stiff, leathery texture of his skin, scars in streaks and patches that leave him hairless in spots along the shoulders and down his sides. He guides your touch across his old wounds, pressing your palm into every dip and ridge and bumpy spot, over his collarbones, down his arms, across his knuckles. You think of Yarrow Meadows and the night everything turned to ashes. You think about that werewolf who led Albinson all the way to safety, shielding him from blowing embers and burning branches, how it must have felt at the end to look him in the eye when he smiled with all that blood on his hands.

“You need to forgive yourself,” Sawyer says, each word spoken slowly, with solemn weight. He pulls you closer and you don’t fight, needing something solid and unyielding to keep you from falling to pieces. His arms wrap around you, your head cradled against his chest. You sob into his soft fur and scars. Sawyer says nothing but he makes soft, soothing noises, cooing and wordless whispers, his hand stroking up and down your back. You cry until you’re certain you have no tears left, wrung out and raw like an open scab. You can’t remember lying down but he’s wrapped around you, keeping you warm and protected.

“Sawyer?” you say, your voice reduced to a sad croak.

He hums quietly, stroking your shoulder. What about tomorrow? you want to ask, but you never get the words out. You don’t want to think about it. Tomorrow, you go back home. But it’s not home, is it? It hasn’t been for a long time. “Get some rest,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” You’re embarrassed by how needy you sound, but Sawyer kisses your cheek and hums again like it was the right thing to say.

“Promise. I need to give you my alpha’s number. You’re going to text him, answer his questions.” Something dangerously close to hope quickens your pulse. Sawyer huffs and nuzzles his face into your hair. “In the morning,” he insists. “Time for bed.”

But you push. You can’t help it. You need to know if this is real. “Why am I going to text your alpha? ” you ask.

“Because I have a promise to keep.” He pulls back so he can see your face, wiping the lingering dampness from your cheeks and pressing his lips to your forehead. The way he looks at you makes you feel delicate, like something truly precious.

But even now, doubt starts to creep in. Hesitation. Fear. Can you do this? After everything, all this time and all this hurt, can you still do this? Are they going to want you? “Where…where will—?”

Your first proper kiss is heartstopping and over too quickly. Sawyer’s lips move against yours like he’s been waiting years to taste you, coaxing you to match his hunger. He pulls away with a teasing nip at your lower lip, just hard enough to let you feel the sharp points of his teeth. You hear him inhale sharply. He rests his forehead against yours and drinks you in, sight and sound and your breath with his saliva on your tongue. It both steadies him and ignites even more wanting in his gaze.

“Things are different now. I hunt where I please.” The next kiss is chaste, a quick peck at the corner of your mouth, but you hear something like a growl rumble in his throat. You look into his eyes and you see everything you used to dream about, all the love and desire you and Luke swore you would have someday.

You cling to him, afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Part of you is still afraid of this, afraid of how badly you want it, certain you don’t deserve it. Sawyer holds you like he knows, firm but gentle, keeping you against his chest so you can hear the steady certainty of his heartbeat.

There is something both pained, almost mournful, and relieved in his voice when he whispers, “You’ll be home soon.”

#rotpeach writes #meanwolves #sawyer #after starting and stopping several drafts that gave little crumbs of sawyer's backstory in this one you just get the whole thing lol #hoping to do a sequel to this one where these two get to enjoy themselves for once

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em-harlsnow · 2 days ago

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He’s got Joey on the phone in one ear, telling him they need him and whoever he can bring now, while he’s trying to shove on his hoodie and shoes on the same time.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get Mickey, think he’s free.”

“‘Kay, come quick.”

“Yeah, you just fuckin’ said.”

Iggy hangs up, shoving the flip phone into the pocket of his jeans and zipping up the hoodie. His struggles with his shoes for a few minutes longer, getting frustrated and nearly tripping. Eventually, though he’s ready to go and he’s already managed to stumble halfway to what is now Mickey’s room.

He bangs on it with his fist, rapping twice on the wood. Iggy’s learnt his lesson from last time.

“Yeah?” Ian’s voice sounds through the thin door.

Iggy didn’t want Ian, he wanted Mickey… but maybe Ian could work. Surely even a Gallagher can cope with a little drug run. Mickey won’t mind, if anything he’d be happy. Iggy guesses he would be, anyway, since doing drug runs is basically a Milkovich right of passage. If Ian wants to be a part of their family, he’s going to have to do at least one. He needs to get on with it, too, if he wants Iggy’s respect.

Cautiously, because he’s still scarred, Iggy swings the door open by a foot to poke his head in the door.

He opens his mouth to ask Ian where Mickey is, and if he would like to come on the run instead, but he’s interrupted by the sight of his brother sleeping soundly beside Ian. They’re not exactly cuddled up or any gay shit like that, but what Iggy sees is enough to startle. His brother - Mr. I’ll Kill You If You Touch Me - has a firm grip on Ian’s arm, like Ian’s a balloon that could float away into space. Iggy’s never seen him touch anyone willingly. He’s disgusted if Iggy so much as brushes past him too closely, yet now he’s holding onto Ian like he’d be upset if he wasn’t touching him.

Iggy hones in on the contact, unable to take his eyes off of the place where Mickey’s tattooed hand is clasping Ian’s arm. He can see silver scars shining in the light from the window, circular scars on Mickey’s hand. Iggy remembers when he got them. He’s got a matching set. They feel more like matching sibling tattoos than the knuckle tats.

It’s because of those scars, the story behind them, that Iggy hates people smoking around him. More specifically, waving lit cigarettes or joints around that are clasped between loose fingers. Smoking is one thing. Iggy has more tobacco and weed in his lungs than oxygen. It’s when people aren’t careful - and most people aren’t - that stresses Iggy out. He doesn’t like it. Mickey doesn’t like it either.

Ian’s smoking. Iggy doesn’t think he’ll drop the cigarette, but he’s not being careful. He’s smoking the way most people do; casually. If Iggy were as close to Ian as Mickey is, he’d be stressed. Mickey’s not stressed. Mickey’s sleeping. Mickey’s trusting him. Mickey isn’t worried about getting burnt by the cigarette in his hand. Mickey hardly trusts his own hands not to fuck him over, never mind another person.

Iggy can’t stop thinking about Mickey’s hand on Ian’s bicep, his restful, calm face and Ian’s cigarette.

“What?” Ian prods, reminding him of his rush.

“Uh-“ Iggy stutters, looking between Ian’s expecting face and Mickey’s comfortable sleep. “Yeah. I’m goin’ on a run with Joey. You up for it?” He won’t wake Mickey up. Not because he looks happy or anything, Iggy isn’t a pussy, but because Mickey’s an asshole when he’s woken up.

read the rest on ao3!!

i hope you enjoy!!

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #gallavich fic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fan fiction #gallavich fanfic

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alyssawritcs · 16 hours ago

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JUST LUNCH ( a kelvin harrison jr. fanfic ) one - shot .

love interest : kelvin harrison jr. rating : m as shit . ( smut , unprotected sex ( wrap it up ) , plain ol' p in v sex ) wc : 4.3k author's note : i have no idea where this came from y'all, just wanted to show love to my little leo short king 🤷🏽‍♀️

As much as Nevaeh sometimes missed her hometown, the beautiful and incomparable New Orleans, she had long since felt right at home in New York City. The move there had been almost on a whim, a decision made after her LSU graduation once the “far fetched” application she’d sent in to her dream gallery in Brooklyn was returned to her inbox with a link for a Zoom interview. Six weeks later, she was settled into a teeny tiny apartment in Bedstuy and working long hours at the gallery she’d grown to call her second home. However, it was while she was out with her newfound friends that she had spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

Kelvin and her had been good friends in high school, nerdy kids and often the only black ones in the room. They had a love for the arts, though, and often paired off to work on projects. But the shy girl that he’d met in freshman year biology was not the one he’d run into that night at the bar. Now, little Nana had been ... blessed in high school and of course he’d noticed back then, he wasn’t blind but she was always hiding whatever she had going on under uniform, with big ol’ crewnecks or just the polos when the sweltering heat didn’t make sense for the former.

As he’d seen her there that day, head thrown back in laughter, that same pretty smile she’d always had, sitting on that - yeah, he’d have been a fool to not have approached her then and there.

The little reunion had gone better than even he had expected, with the two of them separating from their respective groups to catch up in some corner booth, where they had talked for hours. He told her about the roles he’d gotten and she talked about the exhibits she was helping to curate. Before they had known it, it was closing time and Kelvin, ever the southern gentleman, had offered to walk her home. She had thanked him on her doorstep with a soft kiss to his cheek.

That had been 2017 and they went to date just until January of 2022. In that time, he’d gotten the roles of his lifetime. She’d been promoted to full time co-head curator at the gallery. Their schedules, which used to align perfectly, weren’t even in the same timezone most days. He needed to move to LA for his career’s sake and she surely wasn’t leaving New York because of hers. Though they had started the process of separating at each other’s throats, knowing exactly what buttons to push that only came with being together for half a decade, they’d both seemed to realize that it couldn’t end like that. So he got a little place in Venice Beach, she took over the lease on their shared loft in Brooklyn, and they amicably went their separate ways.

Well, after one more incredible night that plagued Nevaeh’s every thought at that moment while she walked to Bredren, their old favorite Jamaican and soul food fusion spot not that far from the gallery. She tried to focus on the cute memories of them there, having little dates after he picked her up from work and he’d trek from his set in Harlem. That was cute, that was fun, that was appropriate. Thinking of the last time they’d slept together, when he’d made her cum four times in a row and then twice more the next morning before he left ... yeah, that was not very “let’s stay friends” of her, now was it?

Honestly, it had taken her months before she could even look at another picture of Kel, let alone even entertain the thought of being any type of friend to him. But of course, Chevalier had released in 2023 and she figured she needed to face the music, no pun intended. It was when she got through the whole film that she thought, ‘let me text this boy and tell him that shit was phenomenal’.

That had started a chain of sweet, light, and cutesy little exchanges between the both of them through texts and DMs. Swapping funny videos or tweets, him talking to her about filming for Mufasa or Genius, her talking about a new artist she was sourcing from all throughout the country. It felt like they were really friends, for real! That is until, the thirst edits had started popping up on her For You page and she found herself watching a couple of them a few too many times. She never liked or saved any of them, of course, but that didn’t stop her from occasionally typing his name into the little search bar.

Now, as she rounded the corner and saw the back of his head sitting outside of the restaurant, she wanted nothing more than to run up on him and whoop his ass. How dare he bring these feelings back to her?! Matter of fact -

“Ow! What the he - girl, what is wrong with you?” He exclaimed as he turned, drawing the attention of the other patrons, rubbing the back of his head where she’d hit him lightly. God, he was such a drama king. “You ain’t got no couth?”

“Boy, shut up. Spell couth.” Nevaeh dropped her bright pink purse onto the table in front of him and walked over to the entrance, as the outside seating area was blocked off by a little fence.

“C-o-u-t-h, you can’t spell it either.” He rapped once she slid into the seat opposite him, clicking his tongue at her while she rolled her eyes. “Nice purse.”

“Thanks, my annoying ass ex bought it for me.”

His jaw fake-dropped and he placed a hand over his chest. “Annoying ass ex? You sure you didn’t mean handsome, talented, hilariously charming ex?”

“What I say?” She quirked an eyebrow at him and it was now his turn to roll his eyes, her favorite response sounding nice and familiar in his ears. She used to say that shit to him all the time, especially when he wanted to do something he found fun and that she kept saying no to. At the time, it’d been irksome but now, it felt like home. God, he was so fuckin’ corny.

She looked around on the table in front of them and then for the waiter. “Where are the menus?”

“Oh, I ordered already.”

“Little presumptuous, no?”

“No. I know what you’re gonna get.” Kelvin watched as she tilted her head and stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth, a sign that she was trying to not cuss him out. He hid his smirk behind his glass of water as he took a sip from it.

“What if I changed my order?” She crossed her arms under chest. It was at this moment that he took in her outfit, a black summer dress that came down to her calves and pushed her boobs all the way up. Her wrists held her usual assortment of bracelets, clinking together as she moved. And she’d been wearing heels to match the purse, the pink sandals she knew he loved. Had she gotten dressed for him?

“You didn’t. Jerk chicken and waffles, pepper shrimp & grits on the side, a little plate of mac & cheese, and two beef patties to take home.” He sat back and crossed his arms to match her, even tilting his head too. Ooh, he pissed her off and even more now that he was right. “Plus a ginger beer and some sorrel, also for home. You look nice by the way.”

She didn’t respond at first, still eyeing him up and down. She never remembered to order the sorrel to take home, so he used to do it for her. In the two years since their breakup, every time she ordered from the restaurant, she still forgot. Fuck this nigga.

“Thanks, I was giving a tour to an investor.”

“Investor to help purchase the spot next door?”

“Fingers crossed.” To his credit, Kelvin had always been interested in her work. It was a museum that specifically highlighted pieces by all members of the African diaspora and every year, a new region became the focus. This year was Central African focused, with artists featured from Angola, Congo, Chad and many others. It was only halfway through the year at this point but they were already prepping for next year, when the focus would be on black artists from the Southern United States, of which she was extremely excited to 100% biasedly center folks from NOLA.

“I gotta pop in, see what y’all working with.” He was saying, just as the waiter arrived with their drinks as well as their plates, filled to the brim. He was the brother of the owner and they’d known him for years at that point so it should’ve come as no surprise when, after the plates were set before them, he wiggled his wrinkled finger at them.

“I like to see you two back together. Better this way.” He offered them no chance to respond, walking away briskly as they stared dumbly after him. Once their eyes met again, they both let out a little laugh and shook their heads, digging into the food.

It was quiet for a minute, and then, “You too.” She mumbled, around bites.

“Me too, what?” Kelvin asked, cutting into his oxtail and cornbread.

“You look good too.” Nevaeh smiled, because she knew his face was getting a bit hot even if she couldn’t see the blush. For a Leo, he was always quite shy when it came to her giving him compliments. She liked it though. She liked having that effect on him because he more than had it on her. “How long you in the city for?”

“Couple of weeks. I got a little place in Soho that I’m leasing for a month, just to do some auditions and shit.” He shrugged like it was nothing but to her, it felt like everything. He was going to be that close for a whole month? In the past, when he came to New York, they’d meet up almost by accident but not really. They would attend events knowing (hoping?) that the other would too, never ask, and then act surprised to run into each other at the bar or something. They’d spend damn near the whole night catching each other’s eye from across the room, maybe even attend the after party together, and then have a lot of lingering stares while she waited for her Uber. Because he always waited for her Uber with her. He’d stand damn near in the middle of the street watching it drive away. She never had to look back to know that he was doing it either.

This lunch, as it carried on and they chatted away, was the longest conversation they’d had in nearly two years. She had gotten a cat in his absence, a little black one that she had named Salem and he laughed because he knew she grew up obsessed with Sabrina the Teenage Witch. He talked about meeting Beyoncé, teasing her a little because he knew she was jealous as hell (hello, she’d been in Club Renaissance at MSG!), and showed her pictures he’d semi-creepily taken on his phone, which made her laugh. Which made him laugh. Then they were talking about their parents, their friends, the great movies he still wanted to do, the artists she still wanted to have a piece in the gallery.

It was reaching nearly six pm when they finally looked at the clock on their phones. Three hours they had sat there, like nothing had changed. He excused himself to go to the bathroom and she stared off into the distance, watching a couple walk down the street in each other’s arms and blinking back tears of the memories of them doing the same thing, on the same sidewalk, seemingly forever ago.

“Thanks for paying.” She smirked up at him once he returned. His eyes widened.

“How -”

“That’s what you always used to do, go to the bathroom and pay on your way back to the table, so I wouldn’t even offer.” He looked down at her for a beat and then smiled.

“Of course, both our mommas would beat my ass if I didn’t pay.” Kelvin put his phone into his pocket, grabbed the to-go back with her items in it, and had to shove his other hand into his other pocket to keep from offering it to her. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”

She got up from the table and his hand hovered over the small of her back as he led her through the dinner crowd and to the sidewalk. They walked close, feeling the heat from each other’s bodies, her gifted purse held in both hands in front of her to keep from reaching for his too. Their laughter followed them down the streets.

“I got a new painting for above the couch. It looks gorgeous when the sun hits it as it’s setting.” She didn’t have to explicitly invite him up as they approached the door to the familiar building. He just followed her in, entering the elevator and pressing the button, like second nature.

The apartment had not changed much since he had moved out. He’d been so in love with the loft when they’d moved in together, the floor to ceiling windows, the little spare bedroom that had worked as an office for them both, especially during COVID. They would get their work done, cook dinner together and often, sit on the balcony and talk for hours, just as they had done today. Eventually, after they finished eating, Nevaeh would round the table and sit on his lap, so they could watch the sunset together.

Now, he stood in the living room, admiring the gorgeous painting. It was a group black men and women, seemingly in heaven with halos on their heads, walking on the clouds. She’d been right, the sun hit the piece in a way that made the halos shine almost. It damn near brought a tear to his eye. She was standing to his right and that same setting sun gave her her own halo effect. He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

She could feel his eyes on her but she was hesitant to turn and look back at him. He was too good at that, looking deep into her eyes and making her weak in the knees. But she almost couldn’t help it, twisting her next so their eyes met. Then he leaned in, his hand coming up to her chin, and their lips connected.

Nevaeh let out a small whimper as the kiss grew. His hands moved to cover the sides of her face and her own landed on his back, her nails lightly digging into his shirt. There was such a sense of familiarity, of knowing how to move their heads and hands and lips. One of his hands slipped down her face and down the front of her throat, fingers ghosting over her cleavage and coming to wrap around her waist. Kelvin felt her shiver at his touch and smiled into the kiss, pulling away for a minute.

“Did you bring me up here to seduce me? Hmm?” He bent at the knees a bit to trail kisses along her jaw and down her neck, taking his time to suck at the skin along the side. She rolled her eyes, at first at his question and then in pleasure. She worked to speak without moaning.

“I barely had to even say or do anything to get you up here, sweetheart. It seems like you wanted to be seduced.” She brought her arms up to wrap them around his neck and sighed contentedly at the work he was doing on her neck.

He chuckled before running both of his hands down to her ass, massaging it for a couple of seconds. Oh, he missed this shit bad. “You are absolutely correct, babe, as per usual. I needed this shit.” Kelvin slipped his hands underneath both cheeks, onto her thighs, and lifted Nevaeh up which elicited a squeal from her. He walked them over to the couch, sitting himself down so she was sitting on his lap and could feel the bulge in his pants. He kept one hand on her ass as he slid the other up her dress, feeling the smooth skin of her thigh and tracing the line of the thong sitting on her hips.

When he brought his hand over to her pelvis, he kept his eyes on her face as he gently felt the wet fabric. Nevaeh’s eyes glazed over and she closed them, moaning while biting her lip. He kept two of his fingers over her covered clit and let her rock her hips against them, the friction sending shockwaves of pleasure up her spine.

“That feel good, baby?” Kelvin asked. She nodded and made a breathy ‘mhm’ sound, beginning to breathe heavily. He did too, matching her and letting his mouth fall open, taking in every minute way her face changed. After another minute, he pushed the fabric to the side and used his thumb rub over her clit while his thick digits slid down her soaked slit to its entrance. There, he slipped them in and her moan this time was music to his ears. She let her head fall back, a hand gripping his shoulder tightly as she grinded down more on his hand, her chest heaving. Kelvin took his eyes off her face to watch her breasts straining against the cups of her dress. His other hand was on her hip now, helping her to rock down on his fingers so he had to make do.

His teeth pulled on one cup and then the other, watching her spill out of the dress and he pulled one of her nipples in his mouth. Sucking, nibbling, on the peak while still using his hands to guide her toward her climax, which he could feel was around the corner at this point. He knew her, knew that her thighs trying to close up on him, her fingers digging into his shoulder, her head tilting slightly to the right - she was minutes, if not seconds, away from cumming on his fingers. He picked up the pace.

“Kelvin, Kel - oh my God, Kel, please!” Nevaeh rolled her hips down, feeling the oh so familiar tightening in her stomach. She hadn’t cum like this in a long time, not without the help of a little toy in her bedside table. She began chanting, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Don’t stop, please don’t stop, Kelvin!”

“I ain’t stoppin’, don’t worry baby.” He moved his mouth over to her other nipple, using his thumb to alternate between rubbing her clit and pressing down on it. Then, he inserted a third finger into her and he knew he’d done it. She stopped bouncing and dug her nails in so hard he just knew he was gonna have marks in his skin. Her mouth dropped open as she rode out her orgasm, looking him in the eye as he continued to move his hand inside of her.

After she had finished twitching on top of him, he removed his hand from beneath her dress, the loss of contact making her whimper. He sucked his fingers into his mouth and she felt her clit jump. Kelvin carefully pulled her off of him and then stood up, pulling his shirt off while she unzipped her dress and threw on to the other side of the couch, along with her soaked panties.

“Unbuckle my pants, baby.” He commanded and Nevaeh immediately reached up to do as she was told. Once the belt was undone, she popped open the button and unzipped him, his hard member stretching at the fabric of his briefs underneath. “Pull them down, both of ‘em.” And she did, letting his dick jump out of his underwear and hang heavy in front of her face. She could literally feel her mouth watering, for the love of all that is good in this world, this shit was ridiculous.

Taking back a bit of control, she gazed up at him, making direct eye contact as she wrapped her fingers around his thick base and guided him into her mouth. His mouth dropped open again, in pleasure, watching her take him all the way to the back of her throat and then back out again. She repeated this one, two, three times before she began to move faster on him, sucking him loudly like she knew he liked it. He was genuinely surprised his knees hadn’t buckled underneath him, her eyes still on his face as he moaned and groaned, watching his dick become covered in her spit. His hand had come to rest on her head and, eventually, when he felt his balls begin to tighten, he pulled on her ponytail to get her off of him.

“How do you want me, baby?” She asked, breathing heavy as her hand slipped up and down his length. He bit down on his lip before gently pushing her back on the couch, which was low enough to the ground that he could get on one knee and be able to line himself up with her sopping center.

Kelvin held his dick at the base, as she had done, and tapped it against her clit a couple times, listening as she moaned quietly. “You need me baby?” He looked back up at her, watching her bite her lip, nod, and ‘mhm’ again. He shook his head. “Ask me nice.”

“Please, Kel, please fuck me.” She whimpered with no hesitation, bringing her hand to rest on his stomach, tracing the abs there. “Fuck me, baby, you the only one that can make me cum right?”

“Yeah?” His voice was low and gravely as he slid into her, both of them moaning immediately. She had forgotten how much he could fill her up, especially now as he slid in all the way so her clit was touching his pelvis. Her eyes rolled back at the sensation. “None of them other niggas filling you up like this, baby?” Hmm?”

She would’ve answered but he began to rock in and out of her, his hips taking on a rhythm that had her eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. His arm stretched out above her head to get a grip on the back of the couch and Nevaeh wrapped her legs around his hips. Her hands settled on his hips, feeling him push into her over and over again.

His name fell from her lips over and over and over again. He was groaning quietly, muttering about how tight she was, how wet she was, “fuck I missed this shit” and “I still fuckin’ love you baby”.

“I love you too, yes, please, faster.” She answered back and he picked up his pace, letting his arm fall as he pressed his forehead against hers.

“You still love me, baby? Huh?” He pressed a long kiss to her lips, their tongues dancing for a moment before she let out another moan when his fingers reached down to rub her clit once more. “Say it again.”

“Yesss, I love you baby. I love you Kelvin, I love you so much.” There were tears in her eyes, both from pleasure and from whatever emotion he was drawing out of her with his words. This was not how she thought lunch was going to go today.

“I love you too.” He groaned out, kissing his way back down her neck as he began to rub her faster, piston his hips into her with more roughness. “Cum for me, baby, come on.”

She didn’t need much more encouragement, tightening her legs around him as she wailed out during her orgasm. She stars behind her closed eyes, pressing her hands tightly against his back. Kelvin followed soon after, his hips stuttering as he came in her, her name whispered from his lips into her neck.

He still moved inside of her, slowly, until he finally pulled out of her. They both moaned together again and Kelvin rolled over to lay half on the couch as she did, both of their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breaths. He eventually lifted himself up, picking up her still trembling legs and putting them on the couch as he walked over to the bathroom. Nevaeh listened as the water ran and then he walked over with a warm rag, wiping her down gently, something he had done hundreds of times before, just not in a very long time. She got up after he sat down and rushed to the bathroom while he waited for her, smirking at the wet spot on the cushion where they’d both been minutes ago.

“I just got this shit too.” He looked up at her as she sauntered over to him, bending over to pick up his discard shirt and slip it over her head.

“My bad. I’ll get you a new one.” His hand settled on her thigh as she stood between his bare legs, looking down at him with a small smile.

“We should talk about this.” She muttered. Kelvin nodded, standing up as he did so, before picking her up bridal style.

“Oh definitely. We can do exactly that ... over breakfast. Tomorrow.” He carried them toward the stairs leading to the bedroom upstairs. “For now? I got some shit I gotta take care of. Make up for time lost. I’m thinking I gotta make you cum for every month we spent apart?”

Nevaeh’s jaw dropped. “Thirty orgasms, oh my God, are you trying to kill me?”

“Well twenty-eight now.” He laughed and through her shock, she couldn’t help but to laugh too. “What can I say, I missed you baby. I missed you bad.”

#kelvin harrison jr smut #kelvin harrison jr fanfic #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr x reader #kelvin harrison jr x oc #kelvin harrison jr x black oc #black reader #black!oc #black!reader #black!writer #❥ 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 、one shots .

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sleep-drunk-kitten · 1 day ago

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➜┆ ↻ 𝙐𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙁𝙞𝙡𝙚 ⟳

╰➤┆Source {drabble-series-their-silent-i-love-yous}

╰>┆🗁: 𝙅𝙚𝙤𝙣 𝙒𝙤𝙣𝙬𝙤𝙤 𝙓 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

╰⪼┆LATEST UPDATE: 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙮... 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚

「⋆˚࿔❛❛𝓢𝓸, 𝓲𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓽𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴, 𝓼𝓲𝓽 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓘, 𝓽𝓸𝓸, 𝓪𝓶 𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮.❞⋆˚࿔ 」 ~ R. Arnold

Everything below the cut is NOT proofread

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

⋆˙⟡ I forgot who said it or where I even heard it from, but I remember seeing a compilation of clips where Wonwoo would seek out his members, laying on top of them or leaning on them. These clips were paired with text explaining that one of the members had said that Wonwoo is like a cat. If you just wait, he’ll come to you when he wants attention.

⋆˙⟡‬ Based on this, and what I’ve observed of him in my short time as a baby carat, I believe it’s safe to say that Wonwoo would be the type of person who would really value quality time.

⋆˙⟡ ‬You may not always wake up at the same time, but your morning routines slot comfortably around one another. Moving through each other’s space with an ease that can only come with familiarity. He swears it throws his whole day off if he’s deprived of your presence in the kitchen, his hand sliding over your waist when he moves around your sleepy form. Pressing a kiss to the top of your head just because he can (and because he wants to hear your giggles).

⋆˙⟡‬ The rest of the day forces the two of you apart. Classes, work, family matters, doctor’s appointments, meet-ups with friends; it’s never consistent. But no matter what his plans are–whether his day is marked by crisp blue skies or sudden torrential downpours and broken umbrella–his favorite part of it will always be coming home to you.

⋆˙⟡‬ It’s nothing grand, really. He walks through that door and looks around, pulling his shoes off with a groan, shedding the day in layers. Jacket. Socks. Bag. Watch. All of them gradually dropped in their designated spots as he searches for you.

⋆˙⟡‬ More often than not, he’ll find you in the game room, curled into your pink and white chair with a half finished bowl of your favorite snack off to the side. He leans against the doorframe and watches you for a moment. Feeling the last layer of tension roll off his shoulders as the glow from your fairy lights makes you look so soft and comfortable.

⋆˙⟡‬ When he finally snaps out of his you-induced stupor, he walks over to greet you. Turns your chair a little so he can give you a little kiss on the forehead, muttering that he needs to go wash up, quietly asking if you’ve had dinner.

⋆˙⟡‬ Once he’s warm and clean and fuzzy round the edges, the rest of your night goes more or less as it always does.

‪‪⋆˙⟡‬ Your desks are placed right next to each other, a smaller table which serves as a snack station dividing the space neatly.

⋆˙⟡‬ Playing your favorite games side by side.

⋆˙⟡‬ Laughing and throwing the small plushies you have lined up on your desk when you happen to be playing one together.

⊹₊⟡⋆‬ Sometimes you’ll sigh and shut down your computer, tapping Wonwoo over the snack table to get his attention. One look at you and he knows exactly what you need, adjusting in his seat so you can slide onto his lap and rest your head on his shoulder, listening to the faint sounds of clashing metal and dramatic music leaking through his headset as his heart thrums against your cheek.

⋆˙⟡‬ There are days when the reverse happens. And its you who has to shift to accommodate the chair rolled in next to yours as Wonwoo drapes himself against your side, quietly watching you play as his hands trace sleepy patterns against your skin.

⋆˙⟡ But there are days where the two of you just exist, too. Where you’ll curl up on a beanbag behind him reading or working on a project. Where he’ll lay sprawled out on the floor with his laptop, catching up with the anime you’d introduced him to last week.

⋆˙⟡ These evenings mean everything to Wonwoo. It scares him a little to admit how much he’s come to rely on them to get through the day. Because sure, you’re a great listener, and so is he. You both talk things out and vent to each other often. But not every problem needs to be spoken about. Not every burden and heartache can be soothed with words. Wonwoo knows this. He used to believe that learning to live with those small wounds and bruises was just part and parcel with being alive. He’d accepted that.

⋆˙⟡ Until he met you.

⋆˙⟡ Something about being with you. Being near you. Holding you against his chest and pressing his lips to your hairline… something about you felt like home. And he knew not-so-deep-down that he’d be lost without you now he’d had a taste of what it meant for his heart to feel light and whole and so full of affection he worried sometimes it might burst.

⋆˙⟡ He couldn’t face a single day without you.

⋆˙⟡ Lucky for him, you felt the same.

✦•···················•✦•···················•✦

Hihiii~ back from the dead yet again to post this little drabble (˶◜ᵕ◝˶) might make a habit of it since longer fics seem to drive me to the brink of insanity lately, and I really do wanna write and post more (ㅠ﹏ㅠ)

first time writing for wonwoo or seventeen in general haha, so would love to hear your thoughts and feedback ฅᨐฅ

@everyonewooeverywhere

#kiki writes things ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡#seventeen #seventeen x reader #wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fanfiction #wonwoo seventeen #wonwoo drabble #wonwoo fluff

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tricoloreddango · 1 day ago

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☆Glass Breaking☆

Chrollo Lucilfer x female reader

Second and last part to [link]. I recommend reading first part to make a sense of the story.

contents: angst / slight manga spoilers / childhood trauma / Chrollo has an identity crisis / mentions of suicide / non-con attempt (only in a nightmare and as a paranoia) / non-consensual touching / mentions of violence / manipulation / generally suggestive.

Do not read it if you’re a minor or uncomfortable with mentioned topics.

Word count: 8.7k

The hotel suite you were made to stay in was all silent, ignoring the occasional buzz of the AC keeping the place cool. The place was all modern, but with some darker and raw design that wasn't helping your current mood. You doubted it was paid for in the first place as well. No, for someone like Chrollo or other members who sometimes visited, it was much easier to get rid of the person that rented the suite, take over once that person is disposed, and protect their identity at the same time.

Said Chrollo was gone somewhere again, having left without telling you much, as he’s been doing so the entire time of your stay here. It’s been few weeks after he’s taken you with him, with it signalling the start of your new way of living. Every question about his whereabouts were dismissed with a wording too general for you to make a specific guess, unless his leaving was for more trivial reasons such as shopping.

Even just the idea of doing something as simple as shopping felt odd when you thought of Chrollo, now that you’ve learned Chrollo isn’t Eric and that Eric was a completely different person in his being anyway. For all you were not told, he might as well be killing someone during his current disappearance. Probably was.

However, his absence was beneficial to you, or so you assumed. Only then you were able to try to spot any of the smallest details that could let you get out of this place, and today, was meant to be another of your escape attempts. You were now standing near the dark grey door leading out of the hotel suite, ready to discover the mechanism of the electronic lock as another thing on the list of crucial to your leaving details. You didn't plan to go much further than to the reception to ask to call for help; rather you'd make someone working here try to reach out hunter association right away.

Only for your dream to be ruined. You froze in your stand, your hand falling off of the handle when you heard a cheery voice behind you, one you didn’t expect to be heard; not today. You thought you were alone in the suite, deducing that with its quietness.

“Here you are, snooping around again,” Shalnark said with a mock disappointment yet his voice stayed as happy as always. Perhaps to him, your attempts were nothing but childish (and rather adorable, condescendingly), amused that you thought you’d be able to leave. A random and nenless woman, surrounded and known by the wolves aroud her, should only choose to submit to her current situaton.

“Boss wouldn’t like hearing about you trying to find a way out, for…” Shalnark paused, pretending to think of the right number as if he didn’t know it immediately, “… fourteenth time this week!”

You turned around with a sense of unease. You should have known that your moves would have been watched around people like them, people like Chrollo. You were still not entirely sure what the roles of Phantom Troupe members were exactly, especially when they were mostly assigned to simply watch you while Chrollo was gone; not to mention they'd been evading any more serious concerns you had.

Their superiority over you exerted itself in the fact that it was hard to tell each time another troupe member was in the chamber as their moves were too quiet to be spotted to an amateur like you, or even hunters. You could be in another room, just a wall between, and you'll be unaware someone has entered.

You looked at blonde haired young man, wondering what should you say. It wasn’t that being caught again stressed you—it was simply being in presence of members like him that made you anxious, knowing about many crimes the Phantom Troupe was accused of. Especially when, regardless of how many escape attempts you had, so far, there was no consequences for you—somehow. Maybe they all found them that funny and pathetic they didn’t even take you seriously.

“Chrollo also does things I don’t like yet he doesn’t consider my opinion on that,” you said defensively, crossing your arms. Your words made Shalnark laugh. Yep, you really were an entertainment for the public at this point.

“You’re always so sarcastic, no wonder boss likes you so much!” he giggled, but then stopped for a moment, as if catching himself in some forbidden act. “Don’t tell him I said that though.”

Your eye twitched at the mention of Chrollo “liking you.” You well remembered his given reasoning for forcing you to be the part of his life, and while you tried to make the sense of his wording back then, it still sounded like a mental talk today. This reasoning wasn't enough excusable to drag you out of your own life anyway. You didn’t want to be liked by Chrollo if this is what being likeable by him means. Were you that much of an odd person to draw his interest? You found yourself common in and out. The sarcastic speech was nothing but you being unable to keep your frustrations to yourself, not an attempt at being sassy.

“And why is that?” you asked with curiosity, wondering if Chrollo happens to have a weak spot Shalnark could have just implied; something to use. “Boss is just trying to be all cool and mysterious, you know. I don’t want to ruin his image!” he teased you, not giving you any serious answer in the end.

Next, his hand was on your back as he led you back deep inside the suite, and into a living room with a good view of the city and spacious couch and glass coffee table, tall ceiling, cement walls—all interior in same gloomy colors. You were pushed down onto the black leather couch, and being shoven a remote into your hand. “If you’re really that bored, just watch some movie.” As if you didn’t have enough of them already. “I have some work to do,” Shalnark announced and disappeared into one of the rooms in the corridor. But before he closed the door, he shouted back at you, “And don’t move anywhere, I will know you did!” The door was slammed shut.

The suite was quiet again, but this time, every second felt like an anticipation for something. You didn’t remember the last time you felt truly calm, as your “hostage” situation had you stay stressed out. You missed your life, you missed your aunt, but above all, you missed your autonomy and feeling of safety.

Yes, your life wasn’t glamorous working as an IT worker all day, neither was your pay. There hadn't been much to look forward to that you didn’t do already everyday. But you had a choice and such ability makes people who they are, as that’s how they express themselves; and at least you weren’t dealing with a deadly group of criminals. You were still unaware of Chrollo’s intentions with you (besides “I want to understand you” talk), not sure how far he’d go in hurting you, but expecting the worst just in case—hence your ongoing anxiety.

The silence was killing you, so you turned on the tv. Switching between channels back and forth, you didn’t find anything interesting, but you stayed on news channels for few minutes, hoping to see a report about yourself. You didn’t. It really got you thinking of multiple theories. Was your aunt uncaring about your disappearance? Or, did she report it, but you just weren’t that important in eyes of public to be put on the news for people to know? Or even worse, was she forced to be silenced, perhaps with violence? Chrollo promised to not hurt her as long as you comply, but you couldn’t believe him. Secrecy leads to mistrust, mistrust leads to resentment.

A random commercial channel stayed on when you shoved your head back against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. So much boredom was forced upon you. Chrollo took you outside, knowing you’d be both an annoyance and resentful if he keeps you inside all day, but you never had a full control of the choice where and for how long. You felt more like a dog being walked, and it’s not as if you enjoyed his presence much. You liked Eric from before whole Chrollo reveal, but he was an illusion of who Chrollo truly was.

Another thing was the cause of your kidnapping. Normally, women are kidnapped to be tortured, raped, killed, trafficked or as a hostage. And you instead were living a, somewhat, normal life. With occasional affection Chrollo expressed towards you, it felt disgustingly domestic too.

You could never feel safe regardless, due to how powerless you were. Not even a hunter, not even a nen or knowledge how to learn it you possessed.

You were getting lost in thought until a voice shook you aware again. Twice in a row wasn't good for your health. “A penny for your thoughts?” the voice teased gently.

You immediately sat up straight, seeing Chrollo has returned and was standing inside the room. You were really going to get a heart attack with these people soon!

“Chrollo, what the hell,” you grumbled in annoyance, to which Chrollo chuckled. He was eyeing you bit intensely, liking what he’s seeing, though not in a suggestive way really; you weren’t wearing anything other than a simple sweatpants and T-shirt anyway, unless he foud you desirable like this anyway. He was content with having your person here, especially when you were making his fantasies come true. “I don’t think I’m to blame here. You looked zoned out.”

“I wouldn’t hear you enter even if I wasn’t.”

Chrollo only smiled in amusement, before he walked towards you and sat down on the coach next to you, with a space between you two thankfully. You tensed up impulsively, and even that small wriggle got his attention. Looking sideways at him, you noticed he was dressed up rather casually today, not betraying any location he had spent his time at—just some black jeans and black long sleeve, all mysterious and... You suddenly laughed as you remembered Shalnark’s words. Perhaps the blondie was right.

Chrollo looked at you in curiosity, not at all offended, merely curious. “You’re laughing, something I don’t see often. Care to share why is that?” he said with interest. Looking at him, you switched from laughing to a sigh. Should you really say what Shalnark told you? “Someone described as you trying to be all cool and mysterious,” you said through a snicker anyway.

His eyes widened, but just slightly; there was no embarrassment or anger either. “Shalnark, you mean?” he assumed. When you nodded, he couldn’t help but ask, “And do you find it to be true?”

You didn’t know if the question was meant to be tricky, meant to see how far your disrespect could go, but you went with honesty as always. “Well… you do act all mysterious. You’re also annoying to me, since you hide so much from me.” Yet you fell into your own trap by answering him, as the question made you thought of your current position and your tone was getting heated up. “When will you finally explain everything to me—” you wanted to add angrily, but all of the sudden, Chrollo pulled you onto his side.

His right arm held you close to him, wrapped around your waist, and he ignored you trying to squirm away. He leaned forward to grab the book from the coffee table, one he left behind before leaving today, and leaning back, he looked at you again. “Let me go, Chro—”

“Calm down. You were stressed out lately, so let’s refocus your mind elsewhere,” he said way too calmly for your own emotional state. You felt nothing but gaslit by him; considering he didn’t even address your concerns and with that, acted as if there’s nothing bad going. You had a lot to worry about, having been literally kidnapped.

Any further protests you had, Chrollo kept holding you like this until you finally stopped trying to get away and cursing him, all resigned as he was more stubborn than you. Only then he opened that damn book, left handed too, and started reading aloud for some reason. His arm pressed you even closer to him, with your head forced against his shoulder. You wanted to ask him what he’s doing, but you gave up on the idea, knowing this infuriating man wouldn’t answer you. You really couldn’t handle a man like him—you, always honest, inquiring and expressive; and him, all nonchalant, secretive and confusing.

The further confusion led you to finally look down at the book’s pages, trying to understand him at least through the stories he was reading. Of course you heard him say same words aloud, but you preferred to read yourself. You didn’t even realize when you now were focusing on the story yourself, your mind finally quiet for once in the spread of last few weeks.

‘It was of course nothing to worry about, he accepted the setback only because he was looking for a fight. If he stayed at home and carried on with his normal life he would be a thousand times superior to these people and could get any of them out of his way just with a kick,’ you read. Kafka.

Following with the flow of the book wasn’t that easy, considering you tended to consume books that are easy on the mind as a form of relaxation and not classical literature, but you tried your best. Your another effort was you trying to understand Chrollo, wondering if the book was picked based on its quality, or if it had an even more significant meaning; all without realizing you were giving him exactly what he has wanted the entire time. Understantment and exploration, job forced on you.

Chrollo glanced at you for a second, you all so prettily unaware, and back at the book’s pages. Leaving you confused and uninformed about his intensions and actions was a key part in making you understand him. If you aren’t provided an answer, you’ll look for an answer yourself, with that you’ll be going through a natural process of getting to know Chrollo—a catalyst he has created for you. He could have told you things about yourself, but not only he did not understand everything about himself, your thoughts about him were meant to be more deep should you be forced to think for yourself.

Not to mention a possible attachment. Sometimes you sparked a bit of possessiveness in him as he doubted he’d like any man being so intimate with you. You were his to explore and he was yours to understand.

Reading along with Chrollo eventually put you under a spell of nothingness on your mind, especially that his voice was smooth and calm enough on your ears with them involuntarily soaking in the sound, and you were finally shifting your attention somewhere else than your problem. You didn’t even question his method of calming you down anymore... or his intensions.

But whether you learned something new about Chrollo… you noticed he wants you to enjoy same books he does, as he has occasionally stopped for your sake so you could catch up after needing to reaad some line multiple times; he also liked physical contact more than verbal communication, as his fingers were absently rubbing your arm. And…

“So you’re ambidextrous?” you finally asked after good quarters of break from speaking due to reading. Chrollo turned his head to look at you, also enjoying the little weariness in your voice. Good, you were getting relaxed. “You noticed, huh? It makes things easier, when…” He had to stop himself here, realizing it’s too soon to tell you about his ability. Its existence would propably only scare you further, should you realize how much he can hurt you with it if he chooses to. Regardless, he looked somewhat satisfied that you found out a detail about him. A small detail, but it meant you pay attention to who he was.

“When?” you asked with a raised brow, wanting him to finish his thought. “When I work,” he said simply.

Hearing ‘work’ was like a sudden whiplash. You now were self aware again, having realized you were getting so comfortable in his presence, forgetting he’s a literal murderer and monster. More awake, you tried to get away from him again, which he didn’t let you, no matter how little the space in his arms felt compared to the huge living room or how much the leather squeaked under your protests.

“Don’t struggle, I won’t hurt you,” he said calmly, but his big grey eyes, so empty to observe when looking at them, watched you like a hawk. Chrollo didn’t derive any sadistic pleasure from observing your distress yet it couldn’t be said his intentions were innocent in their nature either—to him, observing a humanity he was lacking that you didn’t, was a show greater than many. It was something you could describe as finding enjoyment at your expense in the end nonetheless.

“But you already are!” you rebutted, your voice now both angry and anxious, “You think I’m not hurt by this situation already? I don’t want to be here. I want to be home.” The situation of his eyes remaining on the same hunt for your emotions made you feel patronized and frustrated with how little Chrollo took you seriously

He didn’t speak for few seconds, looking at you intensely, weighing your words. No hint of pity or sympathy you would have wanted for your comfort or hope. “And what is home to you, exactly?” he finally asked. How infuriating it was to hear, when he was trying to twist it into some psychological or philosophical conversation. You wanted for him to acknowledge your feelings, not to play with them!

“Chrollo, I don’t want to talk to you like this,” you said seriously. "I'm not a psychiatric patient."

“Answer me the question and I’ll answer one of your questions,” he proposed. Your eyes widened at the sudden deal proposal. Not that it shouldn’t be a bare minimum for him to answer questions, if they were about things that concerned you, but if he wouldn’t do it any other way than through gaining something himself first… It was your sole chance. “A-any question?” you asked hopefully.

“Any,” he responded immediately. You couldn’t believe he’d actually promise that, because the question you could ask can be the most invasive and reavaling there is possible. “But why would you want that?” you asked with suspicion. “Didn’t I say it when I had come to visit your aunt?” ‘Visit’ felt condescending and downplaying to you, considering the nature of what happened that awful night. Your aunt on the floor… you never got a chance to see if she’s truly okay afterwards, but you tried to remember what he said exactly.

“It means you are mine and you will be for a while, (Y/N),” he said intensely. “And I plan to make you understand me, and understand you as well.”

And membering it again appeared unpleasant to you. Your face frowned at the thought. You got the message though. “So you’ll answer any question about yourself because you want me to understand you. But you also make me guess everything, so why would you suddenly allow me to know something, anything as well?” you said confused, and now you look frustrated instead. Can this man be any more unpredictable?

“That’s true, but I’m doing this as unfortunately not everything can be guessed. More specific events or opinions, I don’t think even you would have guessed,” Chrollo stated with a small smile, and his fingers now played with the ends of your hair. He noticed it was getting drier upon the forceful and stressful conditions… he’ll ask someone to buy you a better conditioner than the hotel offered. “Tell me what you consider home, and I’ll answer any question, no matter what it is.”

You exhaled shakily. You could bullshit about what home meant to you, giving some pretty and warm answer, but you knew he would see through you. Or rather, he did so already—he must have noticed at some point, that your memories responsible for a process in what made the idea of home to you weren’t happy. Your entire being screamed “something happened to me so I am a bit bitter and not trusting”. What stopped you was the fact that being so vulnerable was extremely scary, not just because it’s Chrollo you are supposed to say this to, but especially because of this argument anyway. Not that your trauma wasn’t easy to speak about for any reason.

“Home to me is…” you started unsurely, and didn’t like how more intense his gaze became, as if staring inside your entire being, “…a nice fantasy, but I don’t think I’ve truly ever experienced home to be the way I’ve wanted it to be,” your voice was shaky.

“That’s rather vague. I still don’t know what home is to you, just that it’s not the way you wanted it to be,” he said bluntly, crushing your heart a little. How can he be so emotionless in the face of you baring yourself to him?

“What?” you moaned out in distress. You couldn’t take the tension anymore and decided to blurt your definition quickly, “Home should be a safe place for me but it never was. My parents, they both were terrible people, one narcissistic and other absent, so I never had that home as I had to raise myself! I didn’t get any warmth or affection so home is nonexistent to me! Are you satisfied now?!” you shouted the last part. It was a miracle you didn’t cry yet.

Chrollo’s face was painted in a small surprise, his eyes rendered more lively too, and eventually, he nodded as if considering your answer to be acceptable. Inside, he felt satisfaction from having you reveal another part of yourself. “Thank you for telling me that. Now I can tell why you’re always so honest yet insecure.”

Your mouth opened in shock, and your hand was flying straight at his face. How dare he treat your experience as something more akin to experiment than you speaking up about your trauma? Rather than caring about your feelings, he was making them to be an observation for his own enjoyment.

To which Chrollo caught your hand with ease and kissed the palm of it instead, something that to you seemed as an attempt to further patronize you. He then held your hand tightly in his, on his lap, not letting go no matter how much you tried to pull it back. His palm was bigger than yours and even more stronger, leaving yours locked in this prison.

“You’re getting so heated over this. I just find what I said to be truth… not to mock you, but to understand you.” You were getting allergic to the word ‘understand’, but Chrollo’s face truly didn’t carry any mockery; instead he rubbed his thumb against your palm soothingly, as much as he can be affectionate. “Eric” was affectionate too, but it was a play. Chrollo wasn’t faking this affection, no matter how new it was for him to be expressing it.

“I don’t want to be understood by you. That’s a shitty reason to kidnap someone for! I think you’re the last person to be able to understand me. You’re just so…” you said through gritted teeth, but your eyes were becoming teary. “Uncanny feeling?” he replied for you, saying exactly what you’d say. “See? I do understand you,” he said calmly, his face showing some eagerness for you to agree with him.

And you wouldn’t. “Predicting my next move isn’t exactly knowing or understanding me! It’s just observing repeated behavior and making conclusions, and speech isn’t that hard to guess!” you protested with passion.

Chrollo laughed quietly, shaking his head. “But I was right about honest and insecure, wasn’t I?” You fell silent. He was right and it made you naked yet resigned, having you finally relax somewhat in his hold with his arm around you. It hurt. Chrollo was hurting you but no matter what you’d do, he’d make you like a fool and say he just wants to know you. He was good at attacking your weakest points.

You moved to the next part of the deal, needing to switch the topic away from you; Chrollo was just a brute in your eyes. Expecting violence from him, instead you were given another type of cruelty.

“In any case, I answered your question. Now it’s time for me to ask you,” your voice was determined, something Chrollo liked. You were making yourself get to know him regardless of what your initial intention was. You were also so beautifully expressive and alive and not ashamed of that, again. He liked to think about your first few meetings and how you behaved back then.

“Go on, darling,” he said with a slight tease. Being called ‘darling’ so suddenly threw you off your game a lot, and you now felt both embarrassed and dreadful. He added more coil to the fire, “What? It’s not like we didn’t do worse things, did you already forget-” “Shut up!” you said, flustered; though more from anxiety. That one night you had before he had revealed his identity didn’t need to be reminded in this moment. Sleeping with your enemy, not realizing he’s one. The fact you felt good back then sounded shameful today, and abused your sense of pride.

Chrollo just wanted to throw you off your game, but you were back on track. “My question is…” you paused, not sure what you exactly wanted to ask. You had so many questions yet only one will be answered, so you had to prioritize the most crucial one. Your aunt, your future, who is Chrollo…

Chrollo tilted his head to the side, waiting for your question. His hand squeezed on yours.

“Okay…” you finally decided. “I want to ask you, why are you like this?” The surprise on his face was delicious to you, a rare moment for you to have control for once in this situation where you were defenseless, but it wasn’t a question to make because you were curious. No, you just assumed that this answer can answer many other questions you had if you are given a chance to understand him enough to read his motives; more beneficial than asking one specific question.

“I would have assumed you’d ask about your aunt or your situation, darling,” he chuckled. “Your question isn’t much specific either, but I guess mine wasn’t too, so I’ll humor you.”

Your legs tensed up, you were sitting your feet on your heels, as you waited in anticipation. You didn’t expect him to open up but you weren’t complaining—you only hoped his answer won’t be anything heavy and burdening for you to remember, as if you didn’t have enough struggle with him.

“There’s many things that can shape a person… but I guess, for me the main reason was growing up in Meteor City,” he said in thought, making you confused. You also were positively surprised he was telling you something so important. “What is that?”

Chrollo stared at you intensely, for a moment having few flashbacks from his childhood, before he spoke, “I don’t blame you for not knowing. Most people are not aware of this place’s existence and it doesn’t exist on official maps.”

Curiosity got into you. What can this place be, for it not being considered to be existing? There were so many undiscovered things on this planet, so many secrets, you wondered just how much he or hunters knew that you didn’t. Another thing to be frustrated about. Though, you were getting a general idea that something bad must have happened in Meteor City for him to mention. You didn’t interrupt, nodding as you were willing to hear him out.

Chrollo continued speaking in composed voice, “It’s a junkyard city. Thought it’s not just trash that’s dumped here—it’s people and strays too. In fact, you can leave anything here.”

Your hand tightened under his and you gasped in horror, making him smile more. Not knowing of a place like this was one thing, but to hear about its environment… you couldn’t bear the thought of people being placed on same level with trash here, disposable as much as garbage. “And you grew up here?” you asked for confirmation, trying hard to not show some sympathy. Yes, the story sounded awful and no child should have been placed in this city, and you could have guessed it shaped Chrollo a lot, but he was still a person hurting you in the end. It’s just that, a human with empathy would experience some volume involuntarily.

Chrollo nodded. He was drinking in your reaction, all fascinated about how you’re feeling about his life-him. You were forced to understand him more and more, but getting there on your own without intending to. “I grew up here. I’m not sure why I was put in Meteor City, or who my parents were, but I certainly never existed in official records. No one in Meteor City does. We’re as nameless as trash is. We are the ones to give ourselves our identities.”

“Is Chrollo just an idea then? The same way Eric was?” you muttered. His hand tightened on yours again. He liked your question, he liked you were getting close to him, he liked how insightful you were with him sometimes for those past weeks. You didn’t have a chance to speak for yourself in your childhood, but in return you have learned how to read others to make sure you’re not doing something wrong.

A skill delightful and lucky for him.

“I guess you could say that. I see myself in you more than I see it in myself,” he mused, his tone both amused and content with you. There was a lot of other things that happened in Meteor City and he wasn’t always so lost. Though it could wait. You’ll get there eventually, and maybe then you’ll agree you two make a full puzzle picture.

His body turned sideways to face you better, and he finally let go of your waist and hand yet put in up on your face instead. “You and I are not so much different,” he stated seriously. Your face scrunched under his words, not liking being compared to the mass murderer and what not (you didn’t know the full extent of his crimes). “I’m not a criminal nor a murderer,” you said with disgust. Chrollo just sighed, bit disappointed by such a black and white answer.

“Yet you still have other ways of dealing with what happened to you, not necessarily the healthiest type—” “What the hell did I even do?!” you said angrily. Surely your coping has been never on this level of debauchery.

“You speak so openly about your opinions and other things yet never about yourself. You’re just as closed as I am. But that’s not my point. You and I both have been denied of a place to call safe or grounding.”

That bastard. Your lips trembled now. Being forced to face your own trauma, the neglect, lack of care and safe environment, even some hint of sympathy towards him and people of Meteor City—you finally couldn’t handle emotions enough to leave them bottled up. “That’s not… it’s not the same anyway. At least I wasn’t living surrounded by trash. At least I went to school. At least I had food on my plate even if we struggled. I still had it better than you—”

“But it’s not only about material things, isn’t it?” Chrollo asked the most sensitive question.

In a sense, your childhood experiences were somewhat comparable. While you had parents growing up, and you had a place to stay, you never quite had a place you could have called home. It was being alone and betrayed and disappointed by everyone and neglected; regardless of what type of physical environment you were raised in.

Chrollo watched your eyelashes get wet enough to the point where the little crystals had to start falling down, like a paper towel that soaked in too much liquid and was dripping wet. He couldn’t cry easily, but it seemed you’ll cry enough for both of you. That living room suddenly felt very small, suffocating you, and Chrollo’s invading speech was swallowing you just as much.

“Yeah, I guess…” you stuttered through a sniffle, “I guess when I think about what happened in my childhood, financial struggle is the last thing that comes to my mind, even if it still existed. It’s the emotional neglect and loneliness that comes first… Items can be bought later in life, but anything else…”

You now no longer were controlling your sobs, and you didn’t reject Chrollo when he pulled you into his arms. His hand rubbed your back and he didn’t scold you for leaving snot on his chest where your face hid. He didn’t say anything, but you had a sense he did understand whether he pitied you or not. His words clearly meant that. You didn’t like being seen as someone of this level of inhumanity and cruelty, and yet, you unfortunately or fortunately had something to relate with. His chin rested on top of your head.

He didn’t know how to express or understand himself, so he looked for answers in hurting others and seeing what makes them feel more and less, depending on what he makes them go through. However, with you he didn’t need to be cruel. He needed to prod you to reveal your shame and things about yourself at best, and your history was similar plenty enough you ended up feeling for him when he couldn’t feel for himself.

When your cries were dying with your emotions being released, you felt sudden emptiness; all wiped out and forced to feel tired. Being embraced by another human, being given an affection you weren’t given much in your life, it was rather easy to fall asleep in his embrace. Working so tirelessly your entire adulthood, you didn’t even have time to make friends either. Close ones at least—since you didn’t like being vulnerable with others.

Chrollo didn’t count how much time has passed since he let you sleep against him. He only counted how many breaths you took and exhaled and how many times you snuggled closer against him. He even counted how many times his heart fluttered in a way alien to him.

Eventually, he carefully lifted you up into his arms and carried to your hotel suite’s room. A couch wasn’t most comfortable.

☆

When you woke up in your bed, it was Pakunoda sitting on it. The outside looked dark enough to be 10PM already, making you feel disoriented as hell.

Whenever you have seen Pakunoda during your forced stay with Chrollo, you felt as if her presence was most bearable among all members. You didn’t let your guard down fully though—all of them were, in the end, dangerous.

You slowly sat up on the mattress, removing the blanket from your body, feeling all hot and thirsty after the nap. Blinking away exhaustion, you looked at her silent form.

“Something’s up?” you asked, curious of her reason to be here. Perhaps it was dinner time, though late as you slept through it.

Pakunoda didn’t answer your question immediately. She pondered over her words to say for a moment, wanting to say something that has been weighing heavily on her mind lately. She wouldn’t tell you of her own jealousy, but she would tell you of her growing sense of pity towards you.

“You’ve made many mistakes, Y/N,” she said sternly.

“M-mistakes?” you asked with voice confused and nervous, but a sense of unease filled your chest. It had to be about Chrollo. Were you too careless?

“When Chrollo,” she didn’t even say ‘boss’ this time, “takes someone into his life, whether it’s a troupe member or you, he doesn’t let them go. You just gave yourself to him the moment you chose to accept him.”

“Accept him? I didn’t accept him!” you protested right away, now wide awake. How can it be said you accepted this man? He took your life when he took you, and he didn’t leave you any choice. He kept playing with you one way or another.

“You did. At least from his perspective. You certainly didn’t reject him,” she warned. “Chrollo gathers possessions by stealing, but he usually releases them by donating them to Meteor City. But it cannot be said for people. Items are just a thrill of chase, holding them isn’t as fun,” just like your aunt’s painting, “but people—he makes them loyal and they stay with him under their last breath. You are perhaps even more precious to him than any of us.” Pakunoda hid her disappointment about this.

Every word Pakunoda said, you had terror spread throughout your body. Your hand gathered the blanket, as you felt nauseous. Your ears didn’t want to hear that Chrollo might never let you go.

“H-how can I be more precious to him, when you’ve known him for years and I was here for just few weeks?” you stuttered from the nerves. Pakunoda sighed.

“Each spider is just a leg. Chrollo is the spider that is completed by the legs. But this is just Phantom Troupe Chrollo. There’s also inner him who’s always incomplete, or should I say had been that much incomplete. You must have been making him feel better recently as he seems to be in a good mood.”

“I’m supposed to be one who completes the real him then?” you sounded quite disgusted and disturbed. You (somewhat) handled understanding why he ended up doing what he’s doing, you handled feeling pity for him, you handled some comparison; but becoming the matching piece to him scared you. A man so ruthless, often cold even if still humane somewhere, one who stole not just you... you didn’t want to live with him nor become like him. “Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?” You had no idea how else she’d be able to refer to all that.

“I didn’t need to,” Pakunoda said seriously. “I know him better than everyone. I can notice him trying to provoke you everyday, craving a reaction for something he didn’t know how he should’ve reacted to,” she sighed. Pakunoda grabbed your hand just like Chrollo did before, but hers wasn’t strangling it. She looked at you with more softness too.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” your voice trembled as you wanted to cry again. “I want my life back.”

Sadly there was no answer.

“You don’t have to have it miserable as long-“

“Don’t even suggest that,” you hissed out. You knew she was trying to tell you the easiest thing you could do is give in, because Chrollo was not letting you go.

“I’m afraid that’s the only thing left for you, besides suicide. Though I doubt you would want to actually die; that is if you would even be able to. I doubt you have many chances to kill yourself,” Pakunoda announced with a small pity. She let go of your hand and stood up, leaving the room for you to think everything through.

You didn’t stifle down your tears. You thought about your entire experience: “Eric” coming into your life, sleeping with him, him hurting your aunt and kidnapping you; now Chrollo refusing to give you any answers, dragging you from hotel to hotel, not letting you go and finally, finding out you’re probably never leaving.

You remembered his words about him saying living with him must be better than working for shitty companies, and while it’s true he has made sure you’re fed and safe, you didn’t feel any calm here. It wasn’t about what he has given you, but about what he had taken from you.

You came to the final conclusion—there’s no way you could have stayed here. You had to get out somehow, you just didn’t know how to assure safety of your aunt—

Nevermind. You weren’t getting out of there. You didn’t want to have Chrollo end up killing Cynthia in spite. Any previous attempt of escape was dumb, you realized with guilt.

Crying yourself to sleep then.

☆

When you woke up in the middle of the night, you felt something warm and heavy against you, creating a breathing sound, behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to guess it’s Chrollo, especially with the cologne you have had time to memorize. The issue was you didn’t want to be held by him. You let him do it before, but circumstances were different. You tried to get out of his grasp to no avail.

“Go back to sleep,” Chrollo said, and his voice sounded rested enough for you to know he didn’t sleep before you woke up; most likely just watched you like a creep.

“No, Chrollo, let me go!” you trashed again. Useless. “What are you even doing in my room?”

“Technically, this room is rented by me-” “Stop being so literal!” It’s always like this. You couldn’t have told if he loved being literal or was simply nothing but being manipulative.

Chrollo only sighed and gently turned you around in bed so you could face him. You gulped in discomfort when your face ended up so close to his, since you both were lying on your sides and he held you close. You both couldn’t see each other that clearly, but moonlight falling inside through the hotel tower’s windows shone enough to make out your contours.

“I’m here because I wanted to. That’s all there is to it,” his voice carried a tease, meant to rile you up a little. Chrollo’s fingers brushed your hair away from your face, his whirlpools of grey marveling in how vulnerable you looked.

Chrollo can be and is a man of control, if he chooses to. With you, he didn’t want to and he couldn’t have, neither he needed to. That why his eyes landed on your lips. He has gotten a taste of them before he took with you, not to mention he has touched your entire body. It’s been weeks he restrained himself from doing more than touches meant to be more gentle and never fully intrusive, but even he wasn’t immune to desire. Desire not even meant to be entirely sexual, mostly driven by your entire persona he forced you to show; of course you were an attractive woman to him as well. Special included, as his attraction didn’t appear without right conditions. Physicality of a woman wasn’t enough for him to get involved.

“I don’t think I can wait. Or rather, I should not have to wait any longer, my love.”

Before you had a time to react or get away, quickly having realized his intention, his lips were on yours and he had you pinned down to bed.

Your scream was muffled by his mouth. Being under him, Chrollo’s hand ran under your shirt, stroking your belly and waist. His kiss was deep and eager, not denying himself for once. Having control himself was negative in an aspect of build up needed to be released upon you. The legs that tried to kick at him, his other hand forced bend to the side and hold down with an irop grip. When you cried out again, he shoved his tongue into your mouth.

When he finally withdrew to give you time to catch your breath back and collect tears in your eyes, them most expressive than ever, he spoke in soft tone, not matching his current cruelty:

“This is just the beginning of our journey, love. Until every breath you take is mine too.”

☆

You woke up with a gasp, sitting up on the bed immediately. Same cement walls, dark wooden floors, big windows and a horrendously sized wardrobe greeted you but there was no Chrollo. It was too dark to be morning yet, but you couldn’t sleep more anyway after a nap before. To make your mood worse, there was rain and storm outside and the sound of raindrops hitting against the glass was too loud for your panicked state.

You realized it was a recursion of a dream, being forced to wake up twice, once in a dream and then in reality. Chrollo didn’t try to force himself on you, but you were still terrified by the idea your mind would have come up with such a nightmare. A meaning was rather clear to you—your own mind was telling you all the control was taken away from you, and that Chrollo wanted to absorb you entirely. The nightmare also caused for you to have new fear instilled into you, making you wonder if Chrollo would ever turn this nightmare into a reality. This paranoia or perhaps a rational and logical thought, depending on how cruel he actually was, made you nauseous from anxiety.

Kicking the duvet off of you, you stood up on your feet, wincing at the coldness of the floor.

You left the bedroom, and walking through the hallway, you ended up in the kitchen to quench your thirst. You felt unease when seeing Chrollo who happened to be here as well, and you were for a second feeling like an actual victim of what happened in the dream.

Chrollo observed you for a while, burning the image of your sleepy form into his mind. You forced your eyes shut to protect them against a bright light and you were rather adorable and vulnerable looking when you were so sleepy and grumpy in the morning. Only to make you feel pierced through with his penetrating gaze, for what that felt like thousandth time in the span of past weeks.

Facing Chrollo not only after a nightmare, but also the conversation with Pakunoda was very intense and stressful. He was now even more scary to you than usual.

“Something’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft. Chrollo hasn’t gone to sleep yet; and he has appeared in the kitchen right before you, because hearing your noises of distress in the bedroom through his walls, he knew you’d come here for water. It was a perfect occasion for him to continue his game with you.

“I just had a nightmare…” you responded quietly. Gone was your usual neurotic attitude with him, replaced by meekness caused by your fears.

Chrollo approached you and you flinched when he put his hand on your shoulder, a gesture meant to mimic reassurance that he’s there for you.

“What was it about?” he inquired, massaging your shoulder. You were not ready to tell him or preferably you’ll never tell him. Not that he wouldn’t have a few guesses. Perhaps he’d even feel satisfied you thought of him in your dreams as well.

“Uh… I forgot already,” you lied, but you didn’t have enough care to worry about whether he’ll believe you. For once you didn’t want to be honest. For once dishonesty didn’t feel suffocating, even if being blunt was part of your personality. You couldn’t be vulnerable with Chrollo. You wanted to protect yourself.

Surprisingly, he didn’t question you. He simply nodded his head and said, “I see.” He then grabbed a glass and poured a water for you from the fridge, one all fancy.

You accepted the water and drank the coldness eagerly and the temperature helped you ground a little too. Chrollo watched you drink, especially your throat gulping down the liquid.

He took an empty glass from you and put in a sink, and looked at you again. “You don’t have to be alone tonight, you know.”

Your face frowned as a defensive mechanism, with you wanting to automatically say no. “You want me to sleep in same room with you?” you asked with discomfort. How could you do so after all you heard and saw in the last 24 hours? You were exhausted in way different than physical. You were worn out not even emotionally but spiritually.

“Yesterday you were sad too and yet you allowed me to comfort you,” he pointed out, but to you things were now different. You needed only few hours—the talk with Pakunoda and the nightmare—to be creeped out by his presence again.

“And? You wouldn’t give me any other choice anyway if I tried to protest,” you felt proud you came up with a perfect argument. Yes, you weren’t accepting his comfort, you were just resigned because he’d do what he wants no matter what you wanted.

However, Chrollo didn’t seem discouraged in any way. He’ll always be one argument ahead of you. “You felt safe enough to fall asleep in my arms—”

“I was exhausted!”

“Exhaustion didn’t stop you from forcing yourself to stay awake any other day,” he said calmly and you knew he won.

“I… I’m still not in a mood for this again at the moment. I just wanted some water and then I’d go back to sleep…” you argued again, but your hesitation was clear to him.

“In that case, why is your body shaking?” You stared in confusion, but when you forced yourself to focus on your body and not thoughts, you realized he was right. You were trembling and it wasn’t a chilly air in the suite as a cause. It forced you to realize the extent of how shaken up you were at this point. Your tremble became worse as now you were crying.

Chrollo didn’t say anything but he reached out for you and scooped you up into his arms. “Stop…” you said but it came out weakly. You couldn’t tell if you were just too tired to fight him or you were subconsciously craving the comfort.

As he carried you through the corridor out of the kitchen, you once again became enveloped by his warmth, strong and unshaken hold, and his perfume; though now less intense after a shower, but quality enough to stay after having his body washed.

At this point he might be conditioning you to feel relaxed by him anytime you’re distressed, with you recognized familiar sensations.

Chrollo moved you inside his room. To your surprise, it was much smaller than yours. He either wanted you to have a bigger space (how kind of him) or preferred them as a result of growing up in Meteor City. Albeit, the design of the space wasn’t much divergent from your own or the rest of the suite.

He then laid you down on his bed and placed himself next to you, before he pulled a duvet over you two, which also put you in an illusion of being trapped with him despite its warmth. Chrollo held you in his arms but mercifully enough to not do so too tightly, should you feel panicked in your sensitive and crying state.

Just like yesterday, his palmed rubbed you down your spine up and down; to your comfort without slipping under your shirt like it happened in your nightmare. All the same, the fear of him suddenly attacking and forcing you remained in your chest. Thankfully the rain was no longer pounding in your ears, but became a soothing background.

For Chrollo, he wasn’t sure how to comfort your feelings in ways other than physical. He would be able to do so with any other woman… the problem lied in the fact with them he was an actor. With you, he didn’t find a power within himself to pretend. Somehow, you were forcing an honesty out of him too.

He spoke when you finally stopped being so shaky and felt tired enough to close your eyes and fell asleep, “I really don’t want to ever let you go, Y/N.”

With these words spoken into the night and heard by Chrollo only, he knew if you were awake you’d be shaking again.

#yandere chrollo x reader #chrollo x reader #chrollo x y/n #yandere chrollo lucilfer #chrollo lucifer x reader #chrollo lucilfer x reader #cw noncon #cw yandere #☆—tcdwrites #chrollo x you

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