#caught in a blizzard masterlist

[skzdust]

Hotel Showers

SMUT. MINORS DNI.

This fic was a request from @chanchansgirly (here) and part of my 500 followers celebration! The request was prompt #1, only one bed, with Chan, NSFW!

I hope you all like it!

Summary: Y/n and Chan get stuck in a very cold hotel room together... and there's only one bed.

Pairing: Bang Chan x Flustered!reader

Includes: only one bed trope, handcuffs, fingering, cumming inside (PLEASEEEEE USE A CONDOM IRL)

Word count: 1.9k

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife,

@hyunjinsjeans, @somethingkindazainy, @silverstarburst, @atzlordz, @jeonginsleftcheek

Network:@mirohs-aurora-society

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!!

Masterlist

-----

“Seriously?” You blinked at the desk attendant.

He smiled back at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid the blizzard’s got us more crowded than expected. The only room we have left does just have the one bed.”

You sighed. “Just give me the key.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walked back over to Chan, key card in hand. “Sorry, it looks like they’ve only got one room left, and it only has one bed.”

Chan smiled. “Oh, no worries. It’s just one night.”

“I can sleep on the floor if you want. Or in the chair. Those hotel chairs are surprisingly comfy sometimes. I mean, sometimes they’re just not, but, like, this one will probably be fine.” You found yourself rambling.

Chan laughed. “Y/n, if you’re okay with sharing the bed, that works for me.”

“Oh—okay.” You could feel your cheeks reddening.

He turned towards the elevator. “Lets’ go.”

You went upstairs to your room, and you pulled a book out of your bag to read while Chan was in the shower. You tried to stop yourself from thinking about that shower, about the water running through his hair, down his shoulders, over his abs, and lower…

You closed your book with a sigh, opting to doomscroll instagram instead.

The water turned off, and a few minutes later Chan opened the door. Thankfully for your sanity, he was wearing a shirt. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You smiled. “Okay, I’ll just be a few minutes.”

You went into the bathroom. It felt strangely intimate, erotic, almost, to be in a bathroom filled with the steam from Chan’s shower.

You started your shower before you realized you’d left your body wash in your suitcase. You resigned yourself to hotel soap before seeing Chan’s little blue bottle on the shelf. He must’ve left it there.

He probably wouldn’t care if you used it, right?

You carefully squeezed some into your palm. It smelled good, masculine and clean.

You got out of the shower, dried off, and put on a T-shirt and sleep shorts. You regretted your decision as soon as you stepped out of the now even steamier bathroom. “My God, it’s cold.”

Chan laughed from where he was sitting under the covers. “I was just messing with the thermostat, doesn’t look like it’s getting any warmer in here.”

You gave a short exhale. “Of course.”

Chan patted the sheets beside him. “Here, it’s warmer in bed.”

You got in bed with him, burrowing under the blankets. “I guess a little bit.”

“Can I help?”

“Can… can you help?” You were confused.

“Can I touch you?” Chan’s smile was soft. “Just to help warm you up.”

“Oh… um, yeah, please.”

Chan reached towards you, pulling you into his arms and cuddling you close to his chest.

You were sure he was able to feel your heartbeat, because you could feel it all over your body, especially between your legs.

“Are you comfortable?” Chan whispered.

“Yeah, I’m really comfortable.” You pushed your head into his chest. “You’re warm, Channie.”

“Channie?” He laughed.

“I— sorry, I just, like, a nickname, you know, like, how, like, friends call each other nicknames. You know, like friends do?” You rambled.

“Y/n, calm down. You’re allowed to call me Channie. I would even go so far as to say I like it.”

“Oh.” You could feel your cheeks going hot.

He paused for a moment. “Wait.” He helped roll you over, so your back was flush against his chest. You could feel yourself growing wet at the manhandling.

He pushed his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply. You took a shuddering breath of your own at how his lips brushed your skin.

“Did you use my body wash?”

“Um… I forgot mine, I didn’t think you’d… mind.”

“I don’t… mind, exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I think it’s hot more than I think it’s a problem. Which is, in and of itself, a problem.”

“Why?” You breathed.

“Because we’re sharing a bed… catch my drift?”

“I think you need to spell it out for me.” You shifted, angling your hips against his crotch. You could feel a bulge forming already.

He hissed. “Y/n, don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing.” You whispered. “I mean it.”

You squeaked as Chan flipped you around again, and you were met with his piercing gaze. “You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

His hand drifted up the inside of your thigh. “How do you want it?”

You were a little taken off guard. “Want it? I— uh, inside me, I think.”

He laughed, then brought his lips up to your ear to whisper to you. “I mean, do you want it rough? Want to worship me? Want me to put you on a leash and choke you like a dog? Do you want me so bad you’d do anything for me?” He nibbled on your earlobe, and you shifted with a whine. “You know, if you’re into that.”

“Yes, Chan.”

“To which one?”

“All of it.”

He smiled, and you were caught off guard by his wide, ray-of-sunshine grin. “We’re gonna have fun. I’ll be right back.” He got off the bed, and you shivered at the sudden loss of his heat.

He shuffled through his luggage before pulling out a pair of leather handcuffs.  You didn’t even want to question where he’d gotten them or why they were in his suitcase. “You want these?”

Your eyes widened. “Ye-yes, Chan, I do want those.”

“Good girl.” He murmured, climbing back onto the bed. “I’m gonna tie your hands to the headboard, okay?”

“Yes, Channie.” You held out your hands. He guided you to lay back, and he fastened the cuffs around your wrists and then clipped them around the headboard. You tugged a bit at them, and you moaned when they didn’t give.

He just sat in front of you for a moment, watching you watch him.

“Beautiful.” He eventually mumbled. “Lift up those hips for me, and we’ll get your shorts off.”

You nodded, lifting your hips so Chan could slide your shorts and underwear off. You were soaked, and Chan dragged a finger through it before licking it clean. “Damn, all this over me just touching you a bit?”

“I— I mean, before, the shower, I was just thinking about— um, about nothing.” You stopped before you could make a complete fool of yourself by admitting to picturing him naked in the shower.

It was too late for that, though. Chan raised an eyebrow. “Were you thinking about me in the shower?”

You swallowed. “Uh… maybe.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You want me more than you’ve been letting on, don’t you?”

“Uh… maybe.” You said again.

His eyes raked over you. Once, then again. “Can I finger you, sweetheart?”

You felt a wave of heat rush through you, and you were hyperaware of your heartbeat again, pulsing through you. “Yes, please.”

He circled one finger around your entrance for a moment before beginning to press inside. You whined.

He paused. “Something wrong, baby?”

“No!” You squeaked. “Nothing’s wrong! Keep going, Channie, please.” You breathed the last word, and you were unsure for a moment if he’d even heard you until he hummed.

“Please sounds so good coming from your mouth, baby.” He all but purred, pushing his finger in all the way.  Your eyes rolled back, and a broken moan fell from your lips. “Say it again.”

“Please.” You whispered. “Another finger, Chan, please.”

“You’re asking so nicely.” He added another finger, as requested, and you arched your back off the bed.

“Fuck.”

“Can you take another?”

“Yes.”

He added in a third finger. You felt so deliciously full of him, and you absently wondered if his cock would fill you up as good.

He pulled out his fingers and licked them clean, keeping eye contact with you the whole time. His tongue lewdly lapped at his long fingers, making wet noises.

You moaned. “Please, Chan.”

He paused to raise his eyebrows at you. “What are you begging for, hm?”

“You.” You said honestly. “Want you, um, deep— deep inside me.”

“Shy all of a sudden?” He dropped his hand to your pussy, rubbing at your clit. “I’m gonna be deep inside of you in just a second, sweetheart.”

You pushed your hips into his hand, and he laughed. “Greedy little thing.” He pulled away to take off his shirt and pants, leaving him completely naked on the bed in front of you.

“Fuck.” You whispered. You’d known he was muscular, but he was absolutely gorgeous like this, sculpted like he’d been made by Michelangelo.

And his cock… he was big, and he was hard, and you wanted him so badly you were practically salivating.

“Can I fuck you now?” He whispered, his hands hovering over your hips, waiting for your consent.

“Yes, Chan, please, yes.”

You watched as he lined himself up with your dripping hole. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

You put your attention to his face as he pushed inside, at the way his expression went slack as he went deeper and deeper inside of you. You tried to reach up to touch him, but the cuffs rattled loudly.  Something burned inside you. The restraints were turning you on.

His eyes snapped open. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just… it’s hot, not being able to touch you, while you touch me all you want.” You said shakily.

He smirked. “Good, that’s the goal.”

“Can you fuck me now?”

He pushed your hair back from your desperate expression, gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Yes, sweetheart.”

He started to rock back and forth, and it took a bit of adjustment before you found a position that was comfortable, but when you settled into it, it was heavenly. Chan’s cock hit spots inside you you didn’t even know existed, and you were soon seeing stars. You gently moaned with each of his thrusts, the sounds of his skin on yours and your moans and his strangled noises filling the room. Chan was so good at this, so good at figuring out exactly what your body needed.

Chan changed angles one more time, and you were suddenly crying out with every motion inside you. “Fuck, Channie, that’s so good, don’t stop!”

“I’m not gonna stop, sweetheart.” He grunted, his hands beginning to feel up your chest. “I’m not gonna stop. You feel so good around me, so warm, so nice and tight, fuck.”

You whined, glad you were being good for him.

Eventually Chan’s movements grew animalistic; his thrusts shorter, tighter. “I’m gonna cum, sweetheart.”

“Inside!” You moaned. “Cum inside, Chan, please, please, Chan, please— oh!”

You could feel him cum inside you just as your own orgasm hit, and you twitched through it while Chan collapsed on top of you.

Both of you were drained. Chan unclipped the handcuffs and took them off, and you cuddled under the blanket. “So cold.”

“It is.” Chan wrapped himself around you. “What do you say we take another shower, together, to warm up and clean off?”

You nodded, snuggling into his chest. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

“That means we actually have to get out of bed, you know.”

You gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: lust & rage

masterlist

cw: cheating, angst, violence

Life with Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t always hell—at least, not in the way most people would think.

It was the week before Christmas, the storm outside relentless as the blizzard pummelled the city, driving everyone indoors. People sought refuge wherever they could, and for you and a couple of friends, that place turned out to be a small, crowded pub. Not the kind of place you envisioned yourself drowning your frustration in after failing your finals, but it was warm, and it was shelter. 

Inside, the pub was alive, the air thick with the clinking of glasses, the low hum of laughter, and the heavy scent of liquor. But none of it reached you. The world felt muffled like you were hearing everything from underwater. The weight of failure pressed down on you—your head aching, your thoughts scattered. You sat there, elbows on the bar, hands cradling your skull, staring at the worn wood beneath you like it was the only thing in focus. Your friends’ voices faded into the background as you swirled your drink absently, too tired to care.

And then, he sat next to you.

The shift in the air was immediate. You didn’t even need to look up to know that someone had taken the empty chair beside you. You could feel it—the heavy presence of someone who didn’t just occupy space but commanded it. 

When you finally allowed yourself a glance, your breath caught in your throat.

He was... imposing. His hair was a shade of pink that shouldn’t have worked but did—a pale salmon that contrasted sharply with the cold, dark mood of the pub. Tattoos snaked down his arms, intricate patterns that seemed almost alive, and multiple piercings gleamed on his ears, brows, and lips, each one a mark of rebellion or defiance. He wore a grey work jacket that hung off him with careless perfection, his broad shoulders filling the fabric in a way that made the jacket seem almost too small. 

He was a giant—physically overwhelming. Even sitting down, he towered over you, and there was something about the way he carried himself that made your pulse quicken despite the gnawing exhaustion inside you. The man wasn’t just hot—he was magnetic, a force of nature.

When he finished speaking to the bartender, his gaze turned toward you. His eyes, dark and steady, locked with yours in a way that felt almost predatory, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t playful—it was knowing, like he could see right through you.

“Take a picture,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, “It’ll last longer.”

The words hit you like a challenge. The cocky, effortless arrogance in his tone made you bristle, and you instinctively rolled your eyes. The remark was as predictable as it was infuriating, and yet, you felt a flicker of something—annoyance, attraction, or maybe something darker. 

Rather than answer, you turned back to your drink, your fingers absently twisting the straw in your gin and tonic, trying to ground yourself in something that felt less intense. Something you could control. But there was no escaping the pull of his presence. He was impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from.

"Name's Sukuna," he said, his voice a smooth drawl, effortlessly rolling the words off his tongue with an edge that felt like it was meant to unsettle. "What's yours, doll?"

The word doll hit you like a spark, irritating and almost condescending, but there was something in the way he said it—slow, confident, not asking, but claiming—that made you hesitate. You wouldn’t know it at the time, but soon enough, that simple pet name would become something you wanted to hear, something that would reverberate through your mind long after the moment had passed.

You shot him a look, dark and calculating, the tension in your chest rising. Was he worth indulging? There was a part of you—curious, cynical—that wondered if you’d end up walking away from this with nothing more than a quick, filthy fuck. But then there was the other part of you, the one that couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was dangerous in ways you couldn’t yet comprehend. A hot creep, sure, but a creep all the same.

“Don’t speak all at once,” he quipped with a lazy grin, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he settled in beside you, his presence filling the space like it was meant to consume it. He then turned to the bartender, thanking him for the drink that slid over to him with a familiarity you didn’t quite understand.

You turned away, your gaze shifting to your friends, who were so wrapped up in their conversation they hadn’t even noticed you slipping into this exchange. Typical. That left you alone with him, trapped in a game you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to play.

“No, no, let me guess,” Sukuna continued, his voice lowered as he leaned forward, the smirk on his lips widening into something almost predatory. His eyes were sharp, calculating. “Ten bucks says I won’t get it in two minutes.”

Your lips twitched in a mixture of scepticism and intrigue. Ten bucks? You didn’t have the energy to humour this game, but something about him—his confidence, the way he looked at you—made it hard to resist.

"I’ll have you know, I’m exceptionally good at name guessing," he added, his tone dripping with an arrogance that, oddly enough, intrigued you even more. "And I’m incredibly observant."

“Wow. And humble, too,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing as you swirled the drink in your hand, allowing the cold liquid to serve as a grounding force against the heat rising between you.

He took out his phone, his fingers moving with deliberate precision as he set the timer. 

—

The next few minutes stretched on like a game of cat and mouse, his guesses rolling off his tongue with ease. But there was a subtle tension in his words, a challenge in his tone as if he were testing you with each name. You could tell—each name, you suspected, belonged to some girl he’d slept with before. A litany of beautiful faces, a history of conquest. 

BZZ BZZ BZZ

The timer beeped. Two minutes up.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, the sound raw and frustrated as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders tensing with defeat. You watched, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. There was something almost refreshing about seeing the cocky facade crack, even just for a moment.

You stifled a quiet laugh, your gaze flicking to him as he peeked out from behind his arms, his eyes locking onto yours.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious note now, a sense of genuine curiosity seeping through the casual bravado. “You gotta tell me now.”

You leaned back in your stool, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. For a split second, you let yourself enjoy the power of the moment—he was waiting for you now. You were in control. You made him wait.

Sukuna groaned, rolling his eyes at your teasing, but there was an undeniable edge of anticipation in his gaze. He was dying to know, and it made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Yn,” you said softly, the smile that curled at your lips really this time. It wasn’t just a name anymore. It was something personal—an introduction to who you were, who you’d be, when this night was done.

Sukuna clicked his tongue, clearly not expecting the answer, but his smile never wavered. “Pretty name,” he murmured, his voice low as he took another swig from his drink, eyes lingering on you in a way that felt more like an invitation than a compliment.

“Chivalry doesn’t dismiss the fact that you owe me ten bucks,” you said, your tone lighter, almost teasing. You crossed your legs, the motion fluid, as you watched him carefully.

His grin widened, but there was a hint of something darker in it now, a promise of things yet to come. “Right,” he muttered, standing up and patting his pockets as if checking for something important. His movements were effortless, his confidence spilling into every small gesture.

“Aah, shit,” he cursed suddenly, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I think I left my wallet back at my place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. The room, the noise, everything seemed to fade away as you processed the invitation behind them. There was something about the way he said it—casual, sure, but laced with an unspoken challenge—that made your pulse quicken.

“Are you coming?” Sukuna stretched his hand out toward you, his fingers curling slightly like he was giving you the space to choose. 

Your eyes drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to calm. The streets were now dotted with people, but the lampposts lit up with twinkling decorations, bathed the city in a soft glow that made it all seem... different. More inviting. 

Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to subside. The wind had softened, leaving behind only the whisper of snowflakes gently falling from a cloudless sky. The world outside seemed suspended in a hushed stillness, as if nature itself had taken a breath, waiting. The streets were dotted with people now, wrapped in coats and scarves, moving with purpose, but there was something ethereal in the air—like the weight of the storm had shifted something within the city, had made it feel more alive, more real.

More inviting.

You looked back at your friends, who hadn’t noticed your absence. You could slip away. Nothing to keep you here anymore. And yet, with him, there was something else pulling you, something that dared you to step into the unknown.

Without a word, you stood up from your seat, feeling the cold air rush back as you let go of your reservation. You slid your hand into his, the warmth of his fingers wrapping around yours, steady and sure. You didn’t need to say anything more—your choice was made.

Tonight, you’d follow wherever he led.

—

The first year you were together, it felt like you had stepped into a dream. He was everything you had hoped for—thoughtful, romantic, and effortlessly charming. Surprises came without warning: spontaneous dates that made you feel like the centre of his world, gifts that were carefully chosen, and random “just because” flowers that seemed to say more than words ever could. It wasn’t just love; it was a feeling that everything was right—secure in a way you had never known before. You believed you had found something real, something lasting. Hell, you thought you would marry him. You were so sure, so convinced this was the one. It was the first time you hadn’t laid awake at night, haunted by doubts and the weight of tears you couldn’t wipe away. This was different. It seemed like everything was too good to be true.

And you were right.

By the second year, things began to change, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. He started pulling away. The sweet surprises stopped; the gestures that once felt like an outpouring of love vanished. The kisses, once soft and lingering, became hurried, almost perfunctory like he was counting the seconds until he could pull away. The warmth that had once been in his touch turned cold. The embraces you once lost yourself in now felt like an obligation, a quick fix to mask the distance between you. The affection became transactional. You had to beg for even the smallest effort, pleading for scraps of the love that had once flowed so freely. Every conversation became a minefield—one wrong step and the explosion would come. You were walking on eggshells, never sure which version of him you would get. Was he the man you fell in love with, or the stranger who barely acknowledged you? It was a constant game of hot and cold, and no matter how much you tried to reach him, everything began to feel meaningless. You were drowning in a relationship that had gone numb, a hollow shell of what it used to be.

And still, you made excuses. You kept thinking it was just a phase. He was stressed, maybe. Maybe it was work. Or maybe it was you. You blamed yourself. But deep down, you knew—you knew something was breaking, unravelling.

And then, one night, it broke.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t civil. 

“What the fuck, Yn?” he snarled, rage flooding his voice the moment the words "I think we need to break up" left your lips.

“Kuna,” you choked, the once endearing nickname coming out like they were torn from your throat, “you’ve been pulling away for months. I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried so many times to fix this, to fix us. And it’s not working anymore. We’re just—broken. I think we’re both fucking sick of each other.”

The air thickened with tension. He didn’t speak at first—just glared at you, his fists clenching. And then, the rage came, raw and explosive. Dishes flew across the room, smashing against the walls, lamps were torn from their sockets and thrown with a force that made you flinch. The furniture was upended like it was made of paper. His anger consumed him as if the entire apartment had become the battleground for something far darker than either of you had anticipated.

Each fight, each breakup, grew more intense. It was a spiralling chaos you could never control, and the more you tried to resist, the worse it got. The pattern was becoming so familiar, that it almost felt predestined. The violence wasn’t always physical, but it was always there—volatile, unpredictable, suffocating. The way he raged, the way he destroyed everything in his path… it was terrifying, and yet, you couldn’t look away. 

You had to wonder—how had you let yourself get here?

Looking back, it was almost laughable, how he’d react like a child throwing a tantrum when things didn’t go his way. But in the moment, there was nothing funny about it. You were terrified, not of him hurting you physically, but of what would happen if you didn’t walk away fast enough. You were afraid of the unpredictability, the way his temper would shift on a dime, the silent threat that always hung in the air after the storm.

You tried to stand your ground, but the arguments always ended the same way: one of you crying, and it was always you. Always you who broke first, always you who ended up storming out of the apartment, not knowing where you’d go, only that anywhere was better than being there, trapped in that suffocating tension.

And without fail, you found yourself at the pub—the same damn pub. The one place that somehow always called you back. You never meant to end up there, but it became a place of comfort ironically . And just as predictably, he’d show up—hours later, sometimes days—but he would always come. The silence between you would stretch, and for a moment, it was like the storm had passed. But it never lasted. You both knew it, even as you shared a drink, even as you spoke about nothing and everything at once. There was no going back, no fixing what had broken. Yet neither of you could seem to let go.

A few hours later, or maybe a couple of days—it didn’t matter. He’d show up, like he always did, with that look in his eyes, the one that both broke you and made you want to beg him to stay. The same pattern. The same broken promises. It was like a script you couldn’t escape, a loop that kept tightening around your chest.

And you couldn’t escape.

—

You gave him a second chance. No. You gave him multiple chances. And with each one, you convinced yourself that this time would be different. That this time, he would change. You clung to the hope that his empty promises would turn into something real. You told yourself you could forgive, told yourself love could heal the wounds, told yourself that maybe, just maybe, he was worth it. And for a while, you believed it. But now? Now, you were just a shell of the person you used to be.

Every lie, every broken promise, every moment of disappointment had chipped away at you until there was nothing left but the remnants of a relationship that never truly existed. And now you were standing at the edge of it all, staring into the wreckage of your love, heart heavy with everything you had given, everything you had lost.

It had all been a lie. A beautiful, painful, suffocating lie. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You found yourself standing in the kitchen. The kitchen. The place that once radiated warmth and laughter, where the two of you had shared quiet mornings, intimate dinners, and whispered confessions under the soft glow of dim lights. The place where, at one point, you had felt like you were home. Now, it felt like a cold, hollow cage. The warmth was gone, replaced by something sharp and empty. Every inch of the space felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of things unsaid, the things you couldn’t take back. It felt like the walls themselves were closing in on you, trapping you in this suffocating lie.

And there he was. Sukuna. Standing in front of you, avoiding your eyes, like he always did when the truth was too painful to face. You were done pretending. Done waiting. Done hoping. You were sick of the excuses, sick of being the one who always gave, always forgave. 

Sick of him.

The anger bubbled up inside you, but beneath that anger was something worse—something darker. It was the raw ache of betrayal, the gut-wrenching reality that you had loved someone who never deserved it. And you were done. Done. 

"Sukuna," your voice trembled as you forced the words through the tightness in your throat. "Look me in the eye... and tell me you’re not cheating on me."

The words felt like a knife to your chest, like you were forcing yourself to bleed. But you needed to hear it. You needed him to admit it, to look you in the eye and lie to your face one last time, so you could finally stop lying to yourself.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, his gaze darted to the side, as if searching for something—anything—to avoid this moment. But you wouldn’t let him. You wouldn’t let him. 

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally lifted his eyes to yours. And for a split second, you thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. This time, he would tell you the truth. This time, he would finally be honest. 

But instead, he reached for you. Slowly, as if he thought you might pull away, his hand hovered near your face, before gently cupping your cheek. The touch was familiar, but it was wrong. It felt like it belonged to a stranger, to someone you no longer recognized.

“Doll," he said, his voice so quiet, so soft, as if he thought it would make a difference. “I promise you; I’m not cheating on you.”

I’m not cheating on you. 

The words echoed in your mind, hollow, meaningless. You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But how could you? How could you possibly believe anything he said when everything in front of you screamed the truth? How could you ignore the thousands of lies, the betrayals, the coldness, the distance? You had been drowning in his lies for so long, pretending to breathe, pretending to live. And now? Now, you were suffocating.

You tore his hand away from your face, your breath ragged, heart racing with fury and heartbreak. This time, you wouldn’t let him play you. You wouldn’t let him lie his way out of it. You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you unlocked it. You scrolled through the messages, through the photos—the undeniable proof of his betrayal with her, the woman who had once been your friend. The woman who had smiled at you laughed with you, shared stories with you, all the while hiding behind your back, betraying you in the most intimate, unforgivable way.

You shoved the phone in his face, your fingers trembling, forcing him to look at the evidence. You didn’t care if it destroyed him. You didn’t care if he was about to cry, or if he was going to beg for your forgiveness. He had destroyed you. He had broken something inside you that you couldn’t fix, and now he had to face the consequences. You deserved to be seen. To be heard.

He stared at the screen, his face going pale, his eyes flickering between the images and your face, trying to process the weight of it. But it was too late. You were already done. You had already given him every chance you had.

“Doll... I can explain—” 

Explain?

You couldn’t even hear the rest of his words. Your body trembled, the rage and hurt burning in your veins like fire, the tears you had been holding back for so long finally spilling down your cheeks. "No," you spat, your voice breaking but stronger than you had ever felt before. "No more. No more fucking excuses, Sukuna. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are, how much you love me, how this time it’s going to be different. We’re done. We’re fucking done. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. I don’t care. I’m done."

The words came out in a rush, and it felt like your heart was being torn in two, but it was also the most freeing thing you had ever done. You had to say it. You had to cut the ties, even if it hurt, even if it destroyed you. Because staying would have destroyed you even more. 

And then… silence.

The kind of silence that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came after a fight, the silence that came before reconciliation. No, this was a different kind of silence. A suffocating, crushing silence that screamed of finality. It wasn’t him trying to fix things. It wasn’t him begging you to stay. 

It was him, standing there, in shock, with nothing left to say.

“Do you really want to break up, Yn?” His voice was almost too calm, too detached like it didn’t matter either way to him. As if you were just another fight, another issue to be swept aside. The words tasted like poison on your tongue, the way he said them—like he had already convinced himself that you wouldn’t do it. That you wouldn’t walk away. That you wouldn’t leave him. 

Was he really this fucking dense, or was he just pretending? 

The anger inside you flared, hot and vicious. You’d given him so many chances—too many—and he still never got it. How long were you supposed to wait for someone who didn’t care enough to fight for you? The truth cut through you like a blade. You tried to steady your breath, to force the words out without cracking. 

But the pain, the bitter disappointment—you couldn’t hide it.

“I would have to be drugged to stay with you,” you whispered, each word feeling like a nail in your chest.

It wasn’t just the end of a relationship—it was the end of you. The person you were before him, the person you tried to hold onto, was already gone. He had drained you dry, and now, there was nothing left but emptiness.

He didn’t even flinch at the words. Instead, he tilted his head, the same indifference in his eyes that had been there for so long. “Like... how much?” he asked, his voice almost playful, like he was still trying to make a joke out of this—your pain. Your heart breaking right in front of him. How could he be so blind?

You couldn’t stand it anymore. The way he dismissed you. The way he made you feel like everything you said and felt didn’t matter. The way you’d sacrificed yourself for someone who could never even give you a fraction of what you deserved. 

Your breath hitched in disbelief. He really didn’t get it, did he? How empty his words were, how little they meant. 

You scoffed, the sound rough and bitter in your throat. “Like how much?” you repeated, voice trembling, but with all the venom you could muster. “You make me fucking sick.” 

With those words, you grabbed your suitcase, the weight of it making your hands tremble, but the finality of it all felt like a relief. You didn’t even look at him when you walked out the door. You couldn’t. If you did, you knew you’d break. And you weren’t going to do that. Not anymore. 

This time, you didn’t run to the pub, desperate to escape the silence of your thoughts, hoping he’d come after you. This time, you didn’t wait for the inevitable apology, the hollow promises that meant nothing. You weren’t waiting anymore. You were done. 

This time, you had somewhere to go. Somewhere he would never find you. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that was all yours.

And it was with them. With Maki, Nobara, and Panda—your real family. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t judge. They didn’t offer empty comfort. They just were. They were there when you needed someone to scream at the top of your lungs. When you needed to break down and let it all out without worrying about how you looked, or what they thought. They let you rage, let you cry, let you feel everything that had built up in you, until you couldn’t carry it anymore. 

For the first time in ages, you didn’t feel small. You didn’t feel like you were nothing. You didn’t feel like you had to fight for someone to care about you. They didn’t need you to prove anything. They just loved you. And that was enough.

But even now, after all of that—after all the love, after all the care—they couldn’t make you forget. How do you forget someone who carved their name so deeply into your soul? How do you dismiss the absence of someone who was once everything to you? Someone you gave all of yourself to, and in return, they took it, slowly, piece by piece, and gave you nothing in return? 

How do you stop hearing his voice in the empty spaces between your thoughts? How do you stop seeing his face in the places you used to find peace?

It’s not something you can just erase. You can’t just close your eyes and forget. Over time, you learn to live with it. To keep going, even when it feels like a piece of you is missing. 

But his name—his name was a curse that you couldn’t stop hearing. 

It would always be there, lurking in the background of your thoughts. The way he’d looked at you, like you were never enough like you were just something to be discarded when it became inconvenient. The way he’d said your name, not with love, but with contempt. The way he’d never fought for you never gave you the kind of love you’d deserved.

You would carry that curse with you. And maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest part of all—knowing that no matter how far you ran or how many people actually loved you, you would always hear his voice in the back of your mind. And you would always wonder why, after everything, you still couldn’t forget him.

backstage!

• the girl that sukuna cheated with was one of yn friends with her the night she met him…. taking name suggestions in the comments.. #OPP

• yn & sukuna were together for i think almost 4 years but on and off after the first year

• but they moved in together like 5 months into dating so that factored into why yn kept going back (she just like me😛)

• so the timeline is she dated sukuna, met the party girls, broke up w sukuna (for good) and THEN moved in with the party girls

• dunno where that bitch is that kuna cheated on us with probably dead in a ditch courtesy of panda or nobara or both of em

• now I need a gin and tonic after this chapter…

• this would’ve been posted earlier but i was cosplaying as choso…. sorry..

• thank you mitch @.sandwhitches 4 the last bit of dialogue #kudos (she will not see this)

a/n: aaaand i’ll see u guys next week! whoop back on schedule (kinda) are you guys proud of me? are you? are you? this chapter was the hardest to work on because there were so many essential points to hit. but i hope you enjoyed some sukuna lore! this has been in the works for a while. only 5 more chapters left guys!!!!! we are nearing the end….

taglist: @shokosbunny @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @burnishingbagels @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @standcom @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm @syxoki

*if i can’t tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[littlexdeaths]

𝕚𝕥’𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣…

hello everyone! i wanted to throw together a fun little writing game to get everyone in the holiday spirit! ❄️

anyone is welcome (and encouraged) to play!

this game will begin on december 1st!

rules: please pick one (or as many as you’d like!) of the prompts from the list below. it can be with any character in the stranger things universe. you can spice things up, keep it fluffy or make us cry, whatever your heart desires! all i ask is you finish and post all of your works by midnight on december 24th!

and the most important rule of all, have fun!

i can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with, so please tag me in all your lovely creations!

and use the tag the #thetwelvedaysofpromptmas 🎄

also a little shout out to both @undead-supernova and @uglypastels for helping me come up with some of the prompts ♥️

⋆⁺₊❅. day one: snowed in or caught in a blizzard

⋆⁺₊❅. day two: whatever you do, don’t feed it after midnight

⋆⁺₊❅. day three: you’re stuck chaperoning the annual snow ball with your nemesis

⋆⁺₊❅. day four: mistletoe mayhem

⋆⁺₊❅. day five: meet the parents…with a twist

⋆⁺₊❅. day six: battle of the christmas decorations

⋆⁺₊❅. day seven: you need a last minute gift, but man that salesclerk sure is cute

⋆⁺₊❅. day eight: snowball fight

⋆⁺₊❅. day nine: a very merry hellfire

⋆⁺₊❅. day ten: ghosts of christmas past

⋆⁺₊❅. day eleven: you find mysterious tracks leading away from your window in the freshly fallen snow

⋆⁺₊❅. day twelve: spending christmas/christmas eve in the ER

i will make a masterlist of all the promptmas fics as they are posted, so be on the lookout for that.

happy writing! ♥️

bonus prompts:

⋆⁺₊❅. a crowded room, friends with tired eyes… i’m hiding from you and your soul of ice.

⋆⁺₊❅. i’ll be so blue, just thinking about you…

[inkedinshadows]

ACOTAR Masterlist

Last update: 12/25/2024

Fic recs: @readinshadows

Hello and welcome 🌸 I'm Yenni (or Yen), I'm 22 and I'm Italian! At the moment I write only for Azriel, but maybe in the future I'll write for more characters, who knows. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here and if you want to chat, I'm always up for it 🩷

If you want to know me a bit more, see my introduction post ✨️

💖 --- > Fluff

❤️‍🩹 --- > Angst

❤️‍🔥 --- > NSFW

🌼 --- > personal favorite

Azriel

A Helping Hand ❤️‍🩹🌼 (completed)

The bond snapped for Azriel the moment he saw her, thrown into the Cauldron with Elain and Nesta. Now, he wants to help her as she struggles to cope with what happened.

Echoes of the Bond - part 2

Where You Belong 💖 - part 3

Unraveling Truths ❤️‍🔥 - bonus scene

What Truly Matters ❤️‍🩹

After the war, Y/N has fallen into an unhealthy routine of training and pushing everyone away. But Azriel had enough of it and wants to know why she’s doing it.

Nights and Days ❤️‍🔥🌼

Azriel and Y/N are on a mission in Illyria, but while they go from one camp to another, they're caught in a snow blizzard and are forced to find shelter in the closest inn. Thanks to the shadowsinger, there's only one bed.

Little Rainbow 💖🌼

When you can’t comfort your baby daughter, you bring her to her dad, who always manages to calm her down.

Play It For Me 💖

You hear music coming from somewhere in the house, and when you go to investigate, you find something completely unexpected.

Lazy Mornings 💖

Azriel really loves to wake up next to you.

Red or Black

Cassian insists on helping his sister out when she needs to choose an outfit for a date.

Random Azriel headcanons

Kinktober 2024 (multi-character)

Azriel Appreciation Week 2024

Acotar Gift Exchange 2024 (Elriel)

Lovely dividers (here and in my posts) by @cafekitsune

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.

Word count: 8,100

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

August 1st

Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).

August 5th

Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.

August 6th

An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.

August 12th

Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.

It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out. 

You’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that you’re aware of… and they’re all different. 

They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If there’s any sort of pattern to them—anything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop it—you can’t see it.  There’s nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.

The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, you’ve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors. 

With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog that’s always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when he’s seemingly preoccupied by something else—reading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sitting—you can always tell that he’s keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move. 

Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits. 

Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, you’d banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel. 

It’s made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something he’s not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you: 

“Why are you still going into a job you hate when there’s only two months left?”

This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag. 

Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last. 

The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, you’re not ready to bet on the world ending just yet. 

“Miguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I don’t want to be unemployed when that day comes. I’m not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, you’re gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.”

For once Miguel doesn’t seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place. 

"Fine."

You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously. 

Okay, that’s… different.

In all the mornings you’ve repeated this argument, this is the first time he’s simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work. 

There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just don’t know what it is yet. 

By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula you’d painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly. 

It’s the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. He’s probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner. 

There’s a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. It’s your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations. 

And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers. 

“Are you busy?” she asks. “I just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.” 

She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.

Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.

This stupid motherf-

“This is Mickey O’Hara,” your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didn’t even know she knew how to simper.) 

Has Miguel gone insane?

What is he playing at?!

He didn’t even bother to change his name properly!

And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! He’s dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

“Mickey is our newest hire,” your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. “He's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.”

After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go. 

He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.

A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.

Before the week is over, he’s gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that can’t even make coffee for shit.

Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like he’s doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in. 

"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."

Then there’s the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene. 

He’s maddening and distracting. 

Still, you can’t be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than you’d initially thought. It’s a danger zone of death traps. 

One morning when you’re in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelves—the ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safety—suddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports. 

Then there’s that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadn’t been there for all of these incidents, you’d be a goner. 

Another upside is that it’s also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies. 

Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash. 

With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost… fun. 

If there wasn’t a cosmic executioner’s ax looming over your neck, you don’t think you would mind spending every day with him like this.

You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst. 

You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is. 

“Malo! I don’t understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and it’s too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results in–” 

You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise.  

The previous day's near death experience—an electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine started—also wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data.  

Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguel’s head if he doesn’t shut up.)

Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and there’s a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger he’s saving you from, but no… He’s just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen. “Enough,” he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, “I can’t watch you keep doing this when it’s so simple to automate.”

You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is. 

True, he can’t seem to work the office printer, but he’s a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s able to automate Excel spreadsheets. 

It doesn’t take him very long at all. 

Within minutes, he’s finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows. 

You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.

Before you have a chance to react, there’s a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.

The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you. 

Then you’re sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if it’s uncomfortable, Miguel doesn’t show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.

The patch of skin burns and stings, but you can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like there’s liquid fire simmering in your veins. 

“You okay?” he says, his voice right in your ear.

He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.

He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting. 

“Better?” 

Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and – god, is he close. Too close. 

Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when you’re crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow. 

Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity. 

“I– um– ah…” You’re not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird. 

Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across. 

Oh god. This probably doesn’t look great, does it?

You’re sitting on a co-worker’s lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.

Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks. 

You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but there’s spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat.  You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.

You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter. 

How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed?  And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag?? 

You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.

Not just any pamphlet. It’s yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.

Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.

You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like it’s been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but it’s not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.

Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguel’s on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the world’s biggest duckling. 

“Cielo, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesn’t show. 

You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you. 

"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you.  His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.

There’s a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth. 

Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.

It's a literal star map.

She gave you a location.

You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses. 

Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.

The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride attraction. 

You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead you’re holding it still in the air. 

Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this? 

‘The universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.’

Isn’t he just going to think you’re nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?

"We can still leave," Miguel says. 

The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.

You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,” you answer. 

His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly. 

There's no answer.

Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, there’s a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens. 

No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room. 

It looks deserted. It’d be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in. 

You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, he’s already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall. 

“Can we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?” Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to. 

A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room you’re in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture. 

A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once he’s made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him. 

"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?

"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The man’s voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks. 

You pop out your head from behind Miguel’s side. "We’re here to see Doctor Strange." 

At the repeated mention of Strange, the man’s formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features. 

"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."

"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and there’s that contempt rumbling in his voice again. 

"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."

Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if he’s not even here?

"I need help,” you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange can’t, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me." 

Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.

"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."

You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map. 

"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."

Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.

“I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“Sanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what you’re telling me.”

Oh thank god.

You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain what’s been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment,  the unnatural phenomena and the universe’s escalating attempts on your life. 

Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak. 

When you’re finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.

"I have an idea,” Wong says cautiously, “I could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with,” 

“What does that mean?” Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone.  

This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment he’s stepped into this place he’s been on the edge (even more so than usual).

“What does a ‘Multiversal Divination’ entail?” he continues, “Is that some magical mumbo jumbo that’s going to hurt her? Because if so we’re not–”

“I’ll do it,” you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong. 

Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt. 

“Please, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.”

Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.

His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.

Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. They’re vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.

You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.

In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, you’re sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally you’re covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life. 

There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.

Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.

It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. There’s pandemonium inside your head.

Then everything slows to a crawl.

The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.

Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time. 

The sky isn’t blue, nor is it gray. It’s a pink and an abnormal purple, a color you’ve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. There’s an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?

There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.

In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.

"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."

The ground approaches. 

"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.

Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.

Then everything does stop. 

No images in your head. No noise in your ears.

Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.

Then you hear a thud.

It's loud and close and real.

You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isn’t moving, not even blinking!

"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars. 

"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and it’s only then that the fury in Miguel’s eyes seem to abate. 

"What's wrong with him?” you ask, bending down Wong’s limp body on the ground. “Is he dead!? Did you kill him?” There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.

"He's just paralyzed."

"He’s para– What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"

"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."

You glance back at Wong. He’s still worryingly still. 

“Is there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"

"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didn’t use that much venom... It’ll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that he’s still alive. “Do you, um… Do you want me to help you up?”

“He’s not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,” Miguel interjects from behind you. “Moving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the way”. 

What the actual fuck!?

You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wong’s waist, “Well help me move him so he can be more comfortable.” 

At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.

"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. “Miguel, you can’t just–” you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words. 

"I'm sorry,” he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. “You looked like you were in pain".

Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance. 

“It still doesn’t make it okay. You can’t just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition. 

The two of you sit in the silence. 

Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.

The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse. 

Miguel had said that didn’t he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didn’t succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.

It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.

After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again. 

"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."

You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you. 

“No, you stay there! Don’t move,” you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies. 

You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt. 

“This has happened in other dimensions,” Wong tells you. “And if we don’t stop it, our universe will be destroyed.”

“How do we stop it?” you ask. 

“The universe wants you dead. It won’t stop until it achieves its goal.”

Your stomach drops. 

“So in order for this to stop… I need to die?”

There’s a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguel’s red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders. 

“There is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you don’t have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.” 

“Are you threatening her!?” Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didn’t hear him move, he’s right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety. 

Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest. 

You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguel’s never bitten you. 

“I am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.”

You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you that’s speared with arrows.

"What if we went… somewhere else?" Miguel asks.

For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. “What if we left this universe and dimension?”

The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.

Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. “That might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But… This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.” 

Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. “Is that something you would want?” 

What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?

“Yes.”

“One month’s time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.”

Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans. 

By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. He’s lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But you’re groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what you’re hearing or seeing. 

There’s murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand what’s going on. 

He’s having a nightmare. 

Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like he’s in pain. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that you’re closer, you can make out words in the sounds he’s making. 

“Quiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,” he keeps murmuring. 

He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.

“Shhhh, It’s alright.” you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.

“Quiero quedarme conti–”

"Hey, hey, Miguel,” you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you can’t soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, “It's okay. Wake up."

This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight.  

“What’s wrong? What’s–”

“You were having a nightmare,” you explain to him. 

He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily. 

“Shit, did I wake you?” he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, “Sorry.” 

Silence blankets the two of you, and you don’t know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to rest–truly rest–after the day, week and month you’ve both had. You don’t want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.

“You could come sleep on the bed with me,” you offer, “That couch is nowhere near big enough for you.”

"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."

"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well.  I should have asked you before.  I'm surprised your back isn't already killing you—that sleeping position looked painful."

His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.

"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."

Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.

You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it.  

He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.

Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. “You okay?” 

Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears. 

 “Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”  

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesn’t he? 

“I’m just tired,” you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing. 

Miguel doesn’t push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow. 

The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldn’t be crossing as of late. 

You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment. 

“Go to sleep,” Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise. 

You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder. 

There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed. 

"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.

"I can’t fall asleep,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. “Can you talk? It might help me sleep."

He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.

"What's so funny?"

"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.

"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.

You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know he’s been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you. 

"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown." 

He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until he’s staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces. 

"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesn’t reek of piss. Oh, and there’s not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there." 

His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."

The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think it’s probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.

"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."

He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft. 

“I'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly. 

“How?” you wonder.

His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. “Not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just open up a portal like last time?”

He shakes his head. 

"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension.  But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport me—and only me—through the multiverse."

He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you don’t pull away. 

"I wasn't thinking last time. We can’t take the risk of winding up back in the void.” 

He’s mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.

"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."

You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.

"Can we modify the watch?"

"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm. 

"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesn’t work. The power source isn’t powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. It’s how we ended up in the void.” 

Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like you’re taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but that’s what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe. 

"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance. 

“I won't let you get hurt this time."

…‘this time.’

The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.

Miguel is talking to you, but you don’t think it’s you he’s thinking of when he says the words.

He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that he’s not really doing any of this for you. 

It’s not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. It’s not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of  you go out for dinner. It’s not you—has never been you—that he’s seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention. 

You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.

He must have really loved her. 

There’s a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles that’s found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter. 

Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except it’s not you. 

It’s her. 

Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life and– And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!

Except… she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.

She’s dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesn’t go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self. 

God that’s fucked up. 

Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[yiiyiiwrites]

❄️| Snowball fights |

Summary: Azriel enlists the help of Balto, the winter fox to try and snag the win of the annual snowball fight. (The bat boys telling you what happened on their return). Winter!reader x Balto x batboys.

[Balto fic]

[winter solstice masterlist]

The crunch of snow and the pitter and patter of claws on the decking drew your attention from your book. You marked your page and closed the cover, setting it down.

You heard Balto’s yap before he lunged into your lap, book sliding down the side of the cushions. His fur clumped with ice, but the tinge of red staining his chin and trailing down his chest had you scrambling off the chair.

“What happened, boy,” you said, kicking the knitted blanket tangling your legs and pulled your snow boots on. Balto circled your ankles, matching your steps as you walked down the pebbled path.

The coppery tang of blood grew stronger, your gaze scouring the compacted white snow in search for a red trail. Too focused on finding the source, you’re startled as a large shadowed figure loomed over you. Dark wisps invaded your vision and you sighed, leaning back against the familiar warmth and firm chest.

“Is that for me, Angel?” Azriel’s lips brushed the curve of your ear and his gloved hand trailed up your chest between your breasts. Fingers tapping the erratic beat of your heart.

“Stop copping a feel and get in the cabin!” Cassian yelled in the distance, “blizzards heading this way.”

You elbowed Azriel in the gut and spun around. “You oaf!” You snapped shoving his arm as he tried to reach for you. “Balto came back covered in blood! I thought something had happened.”

His hazel eyes soften, the deep line between his brows disappearing as he caught your flailing hands in front of him. “Everything’s fine, just a minor teething problem,” he said, his gloved hand cradling yours in his as he guided you back into the cabin.

The heat hit you as soon as you entered the hallway. You searched every inch of Azriel’s body, dipping your head to get a peek of his face. There were no signs he’d been harmed, but he was pretty good at acting like he wasn’t in pain that your assessment wasn’t helpful.

Azriel knelt down before you and untied your boots, palm cupping your calf as he helped you remove them. Your fur coat slipping down your arms, Azriel hanging it on the hook.

“What do you mean minor teething…” you didn’t need to finish your train of thought as you turned to enter the large open plan room. A gasp fell from your lips.

Cassian stood beside the dining table, blood sticking the leather to his thigh. A gaping flap of fabric hung loose and you held your hand to your nose as an earthy stench stung your nostrils the closer you got.

“Get that thing away from me,” Cassian said, pointing towards you. It wasn’t till you followed the direction of his finger did you realise he was talking about Balto.

The white fox ever so slowly padded across the room and laid down in front of the crackling fire. His head resting on his paws, onyx eyes on Cassian and tail flicking as if he was waiting to play.

“Gods what is that smell.” You fell back a step, pinching your nose and trying not to blink.

Hot breath fanned against the side of your face. “Had to make a herbal pain reliever, don’t ask,” Azriel whispered behind you, but he remained a step away that you wanted to stumble back and close the distance.

Rhys and Azriel seemed to enjoy whatever had gone on. A smirk playing on their faces, shoulders shaking as they fought back their silent chuckles.

“You lost then Cass?”

Cassian scoffed, “that bloody menace popped out of the snow and bit me.” He slapped a wet cloth to the open wound on his inner thigh. He sucked in a breath, pressing down on the tender spot and clamping his eyes shut for a second.

“You did step on his tail,” Rhys added, petting the top of Balto’s head as he collapsed into the armchair by the fire.

Balto huffed, his head turning to you and he flicked his tail as if asking for sympathy, but you raised a brow at the mischievous fox. He must have thought he was playing too.

“His jaw locked, took both of these idiots to get him off.” Cassian threw the cloth across the table, his fingers dipping into a jar of soothing balm and pasting it on the now visible teeth marks on his thigh.

“Least he didn’t jump a bit higher, brother,” Azriel chuckled, his arm draping over your shoulder as he pulled you closer. His shadows skimmed the nape of your neck and curled beneath your braided hair, the cool whip of wind making you shiver.

Rhys laughed, his gaze flicking down at Cassian’s hands guarding the sacred spot between his legs as if he expected the fox to attack on command. His wings shuddered at the thought.

“I’m sorry Cass,” you said slipping out from under Azriel’s arm and walking to Cassian. You pushed him back gently guiding him to lean against the table. You peeled back the torn fabric of his fighting leathers, fingertips close to inspecting the teeth marks, but cool wisps pushed your hand away.

It was the first time he’d bit a member of the inner circle, well apart from Azriel. Balto seemed to warm to Cassian and Nesta instantly, so you didn’t think he meant to do harm, only wanted to play in the fight like the boys.

You swatted the shadows away swarming your vision. The curved row of wounds standing out against Cassian’s bronzed skin. You winced the moment your eyes fell on the two sharp canines that still wept with blood. Those would take a day to heal, whereas the rest would be gone in a couple of hours.

“You did step on his tail,” Azriel said, pulling you back by your elbow. You smiled against his arm as it wrapped around you again and pulled you flush against him.

“Don’t know why you’re laughing,” Cassian shot back at Rhys, the flames dancing in his gaze. “Warming your cobblers? eh.”

Azriel’s chest rumbled, you felt your whole body shake with his laughter. Even cassian couldn’t keep a straight face. You glanced up at Azriel, brows furrowed as you waited for one of them to explain.

“Rhys took a swim, he tripped over Balto and slammed into the frozen lake.” Azriel smirked, a stray wisp dove for the white fox and it curled around his bushy tail. If you didn’t know any better they’d be whispering praises to the fox.

Limping to the kitchen, Cassian pulled a crate of beer out of the cooling box and set it down on the table. He threw a can to each of them and flicked his open, chasing the foam before it could roll down his hand.

“So who won then?”

The two Illyrian’s in front of you groaned, Cassian crushing his can in his hold and flinging it to the table to open another.

“I did,” Azriel said, his arm retreated from you and he fell back into the sofa. His arm hung over the back of the seat, wings twitching as he looked up at you and leant his head back. “Looks like you owe me, Angel.”

Dammit, you shouldn’t have made a bet against him. You’d be talking to Balto as soon as you got home.

Will have some more winter!reader fics coming soon up until Christmas :) hope you enjoy and thank you for reading/interacting - Yiiyii

[winterarmyy]

Plot Twist | Part I

An arranged marriage with mafia!bucky.

Run-through: I just need to get this out of my system. Most of arranged marriage mob/mafia!au I've read has a strong/bratty reader. And a really mean/asshole Bucky. Which is absolutely fine btw but its getting repetitive for me. I wanted to see a reader who's actually soft but fierce when she wants to be. And Bucky who is generally cold and seems to be married to his job but notices small things that the reader do, thus subconsciously started to care about her. They don’t hate each other, nor do they are infatuated. I don’t know if this exist, so I decided write it myself just in case. Enjoy!

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III* (end) | Extra

Words: 1.1k++

Pairing: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: just fluffy and wholesome stuff here. Nothing graphic or explicit.

P/S: I like to write in 3rd pov btw. There's a few mentions of y/n sometimes too. Beware of the grammar mistakes, English is not my first language. This might be 2-3 parts type of fic, so tell me what you think so far.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

“He's late.”

The soft clinking sounds of his rings colliding with each other and onto the dresser woke her up from her deep slumber. Though her body remained still, her mind continued to wonder,

“Late. Again.”  She thought.

The sound of fabrics rustling about hinted her of what was happening beyond her closed eyes. The shut of the bathroom door confirmed her speculations.

“So, what if he came back home late? Why does it concern you?” She questioned herself.

Only a fool would believe if she said that she didn't care at all about the whereabout and well-being of this man. He is her husband after all.

Six months ago, she stood on the alter with that man. They swore an oath. They sealed the kiss. He was hers and she was his.

James Buchanan Barnes; Bucky was what he preferred to called. He is what every man wants to become, and every woman wants to be with.

An Adonis of a man; impossibly tall, 6'5"; body armored with thick layer of muscles. Bucky is huge, that if he trapped her against the wall, she might just see the resemblance of him to a grizzly bear. His dark hair flowed just above his shoulder and his steel blue eyes were as cold as his personality.

Though she wouldn't compare him to a frozen blizzard during the winter, he was more like the first day of snow, when the white flakes started to fall.

Cold enough to make you shiver and warm enough to lure you out but most importantly, obscenely beautiful.

However, of course, the main reason of the marriage set up by her father was not because of how beautiful he is, but to fulfil his hunger for power. As if the territories that their family has wasn't enough, her father arranged this union to extend his reign.

Y/N protested at first but knew better than to fight against her father. Being raised in such family, at a very young age she learned to think always ahead; pass the emotions and intuitions. What's the rational and logical way to solve a problem.

Took her a week to wrap her head around the matter, research about Barnes and go through the agreement between her father and her then husband to be. Barnes had listed some main demands regarding the union and although most of them were about their business, but one particular demand had caught her attention.

“After marriage, the couple must be faithful to one another. Any romantic/sexual relationships prior must be severed/resolved immediately. Failed to do so will result to termination of the contract.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” She thought.

Not that she was in any relationship at the time, and all the research result to possibly positive outcome. So, in the end, she complied.

Which then explained why she was sleeping in Bucky's bed six months later.

“I know you're awake.” Bucky's gravel voice startled her internal thoughts. She could feel the indentation of the mattress on his side of the bed, the fresh and clean scent wafting from him. She nearly purred from a sniff of it.

She slowly opened her eyes as if she was trying to peep and god what a sight to see after a restless sleep; Bucky's idea of pajamas was basic pants and nothing above and Y/N didn’t know what to feel about that. Does she hate it? Absolutely not. Does she like it? Well, he is easy on the eye indeed.

The room was dimly lit, but she could see his slightly damp hair; it looked longer than it is dry. Her eyes followed the outline of his body leaning against the bed. The soft light reflected on his metal arm particularly follows the gold lines decorating the dark surface.

She often had intrusive thoughts of tracing the lines; what would it feel like against her fingertips. Does he feel anything? Is it cold? Will it feel good? 

“You do know that it’s a waste your time to wait for me, right?” He huffed a heavy breath. She could hear the fatigue in his sigh.

And how does Bucky know that she waited for him before admitting her defeat to the drowsiness? Somehow, Bucky always managed to know things, to the littlest matter, even when he’s million miles across the world.

Just like when she found a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bed a few months ago. The day before she received it, her copy was drenched in coffee; a young woman bumped into her in front of the café she often visit. He was in Russia that time. “Was it Clint? Did he tell Bucky?” she wondered.

“Whoever said I was waiting for you?” She scoffed, yet if the room was well lit enough, Bucky would’ve seen how playful her expression was.

He hummed a deep voice, “Hmm.” there’s a hint of doubt in his tone.

Y/N quickly follow her previous sentence, “I was simply enjoying my reading, that I lost track of time.” She shifted to face him and tucked herself further into the blanket, hiding the lower half of her face as she looked up at him. She wondered if he could tell that she was smiling just from her eyes.

Bucky’s gaze remained still on her, as if he was trying to reach into her soul, before he leaned closer to peek on the book on the table. Pride and Prejudice written on it.

He chuckled, which was rare. At the least the real ones are.

Of course, she had seen him smile and laugh countless of time. Especially during those gala they often attend. But those were just another set of armor he wore on a daily basis.

Bucky tried to bite back a smile, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, “Lost track of time, huh?” Yet, somehow Y/N can hear the smile in his tone.

“A good read?” he asked as if he did not know why his wife brought up about the book. She never said anything about the gift; not a thank you or a complaint. 

She simply cherish it in her own way. He heard from Clint that she rearranged her whole bookshelf just to make space for the book he gave her. Maybe this was her way of saying thank you.

He had been giving her books every week, since.

She pulled the blanket away from her face, lips curled into a genuine smile, “Always.”

Bucky preened to her reply before suddenly, “Okay, enough chit chat. It’s late.” he said almost monotone sounded, as he made himself comfortable under the blanket.

Before she could overthink of what went wrong, why the sudden drop of chemistry; that was when she felt his hand roamed to find hers. Bucky brought her palm closer to his face, she could feel his hot breath against her cold skin. 

He leaned his lips on her palm, leaving a soft and tender kiss as he mumbled, “Goodnight, doll.”

Rush of red shades bloomed on her cheeks, before caving into the feeling of his stubble on her hand. She gently caresses the side of his cheeks, hoping it soothes him to sleep. 

The corners of her lips curved upwards into a smile, "See? Like, the first day of snow."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: It’s my first fic so... share your thoughts? ily 🤍

[jamdoughnutmagician]

A Very Merry Munson Christmas (Fluff)

@littlexdeaths shared some festive prompts for the twelve days of promptmas and I really wanted to try and write at least a few short fics for some of the prompts.

Day 1:Snowed in/Caught in a blizzard.

When a snow storm sweeps across Hawkins, and your plans to fly out to visit your family for the holidays are thrown out of the window, Eddie does his best to bring his family to you.

Word Count:835

Masterlist // Eddie Munson Masterlist

*divider by @strangergraphics

“I just don't want to upset your parents babe, I mean, this is the first Christmas we're spending together and we were supposed to be staying with your family!”

It's true, you had made plans that this year you would be flying out of Indiana with Eddie to be with your parents for the holidays. It would be the first time that you were going to introduce Eddie to your parents. Of course, they already knew about him, given how much you talk about him whenever you're on the phone to them. But this was going to be the first time they had met him.

Or at least it would have been.

“Eddie, there is a blizzard sweeping through Indiana and the rest of the midwest right now. There are no flights. The only way we're getting out of Hawkins is if Santa flies us there on his sleigh.”

“But your parents are going to-” he starts, already worrying about what your parents are going to think of him.

“-But nothing. I’ll call them and I’ll tell them everything. We can speak to them together. They’ll understand, I promise.”

“But-” he tries again, but you’re quick to silence his worries with a soft kiss pressed to his lips. 

“Eddie, stop worrying, and who knows! We might be able to reschedule it and fly out to see them on new year's!” 

Sure enough Christmas day rolled around, and despite knowing you weren't going to be able to see your parents for Christmas this year, calling them just wasn't the same. Sure,  they were so completely warm and understanding, and reassured you that if the weather held out, you and Eddie were more than welcome to stay over new year's, but it didn't stop you from missing them. 

You rolled over in bed to find Eddie’s side of the bed empty. Touching your hand to the empty space where you expect to find your boyfriend, you're met with the cold press of the mattress. 

Just as you're about to sit up in the bed, the bedroom door swings open, and Eddie, dressed in a soft grey tank-top and red plaid pyjama bottoms, his wild hair pulled back into a little bun at the nape of his neck with a few soft strands falling down around his face, steps into the bedroom holding two steaming mugs.

He hands one of the mugs off to you as he places a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart.” he says with a lazy smile pulling at his pink lips. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Eds.”

“Drink up that coffee and come with me to the living room, we’ve got presents to open!” he smiles with that happily wild smile.

You let him lead you through to the living room, where the rainbow fairy lights illuminate the room in a soft colourful glow, and the tree in the corner of the room stands proudly, adorned with your’s and Eddie’s combined collection of unique Christmas tree ornaments. The scattering of a few presents sat underneath the tree, ready for you and Eddie to exchange them between yourselves.

You reach underneath the tree to give Eddie one of his carefully wrapped presents, but he lays a soft touch to your arm, as if asking you to wait for just a moment.

Looking down at his watch on his wrist quickly before his eyes flick over to the front door.

And then as if perfectly choreographed there’s three distinct knocks to the front door.

“You should probably answer that.” Eddie says, giving you a soft smile.

You go to answer the door, and immediately you are met with the weathered, yet kind expression of Eddie’s Uncle Wayne. 

Wayne was someone who you felt an immediate kinship with when Eddie had introduced you to him, something about his hard on the outside, yet soft on the inside demeanour reminded you very much of your own father, and when he saw how much Eddie loved you, and you loved Eddie, it seemed only right to welcome you into his life with open arms.

“Ed told me you were missing your family this Christmas, and whilst I may not be your family, you’re in my boy’s life and you make him happier than I’ve ever known him, and  I’ll be damned if I let you be sad on Christmas day, missy.” and although he wasn’t know for his physical affections, he wasted no time in giving you a warm hug.

“I couldn't take you to your family, but what I can do is bring my family to you.”  Eddie smiles brightly, happy to have two of his favourite people surrounding him this Christmas.

“Come on in, we were just about to start opening presents, and there’s real a big one right here with your name on it, Mr. Munson.”

It may not have been the Christmas you had planned, but it ended up being the one of the best Christmases you could ever have hoped for.

@penguinsandpotterheads @abitchyouhate @mrsjellymunson

@userchai @rebelfell @ali-r3n @eddiesxangel @seatnights

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

[yourlittlebunnyy]

blizzard -azriel x selaene

masterlist

this little fic can be read alone or as a little prequel of a court of shadows and darkness ♡

summary: Azriel and Selaene share their first kiss.

warnings: fluff

wc: 1.3k

enjoy💙

Azriel knows Rhysand's sister; he knows who she was. He saw her once, an infant in her mother's arms, and never again.

Now Rhysand's mother, their mother, no longer lived with them, and although she visited them often, she never took Selaene with her. It was up to her brother to update them on her condition though: Selaene is strong and healthy, her wings big and fast, her beauty equal to that of the Moon itself.

The only thing he remembers about her are her violet eyes.

Eighteen years after her birth, now that she has finally come of age, it was Rhysand himself who introduced her to his brothers, asking them to help train her. To protect themselves.

When Azriel first lays eyes on Selaene, his breath catches in his throat. His own shadows seem to admire her gently as they dance around her. Azriel tries to call them back, but they are too delighted by the little Selaene.

She is introduced first to Cassian, who offers her a smile full of mischief and touches her hips a little too much when he embraces her, causing a twitch of Rhysand's nose. Azriel, internally, also has a similar reaction, and he does not understand why. He dismisses the thought believing it is because he already sees her as a little sister to protect. But oh, how wrong he is.

When the heir to the Night Court introduces Azriel and Selaene, he finally has a chance to look into those two purple pools full of dreams and life. She does not recoil from his shadows or disgust at his scarred hands, and he offers her a genuine smile, the rare kind. They seem to observe each other for years on end when a cough, Cassian, he realizes, interrupts them. He wants to roll his eyes at his childish behavior, but he restrains himself. He silently escorts Selaene to the small cabin where the three siblings live, and seats her while he stays to listen to her talk to Cassian. He remains silent, seemingly disinterested, but he is listening to every single word that comes out of the young girl's mouth, wanting to hear more, more, more.

A deep friendship is born between Selaene and Azriel, different from that between Cassian and her, who joke like two brothers.

No, between her and the ShadowSinger there is something more intense, more complicated. It doesn't escape the eyes of Rhysand how the two exchange glances that they think are discreet, only to blush whenever they are caught. Or how their hearts beat slightly faster every time they accidentally brush against each other.

As jealous as he is of his sister, he knows Azriel would treat her well. Azriel has always loved with all of himself, and he knows that with Selaene it would be the same.

The night when everything changed, however, was when during one of the usual blizzards of the Illyrian steppes. Azriel had to seek shelter in the cabin where Selaene and her mother live. He knocked several times, and when no one answered, he decided to enter anyway.

The young Fae, who was surrounded only by the melodic sound of the piano and her own voice, heard neither the knocks on the door nor the male enter.

When Selaene sings the little songs she so enjoys writing, she sees and hears nothing but the music - she is in love with it. And she certainly does not expect visitors, her mother is not home, and now that she is finally alone she can give some vent to her emotions by singing.

Azriel freezes just as he enters upon hearing Selaene's angelic voice and the sweet symphony of the piano. His feet move before he can stop them, and he follows that delightful sound until he reaches the living room doorframe.

He lays eyes on the figure of the female, dressed in a thick wool sweater from her brother and nothing else, playing and singing and giving all of herself as she does so. It strikes a part of his heart he did not know he had. The shadows do not control themselves, and they wrap around her and dance between the tiny fingers that move the keys. She does not notice, too absorbed in the music.

Azriel does not know what to do, but he cannot take his eyes off her in any way. Her voice, she...

He doesn't want to admit it out loud, he doesn't even want to admit it to himself, but the ShadowSinger is falling madly in love with Rhysand's sister.

And today, after seeing her so... bare. So free of masks, in an intimate moment with herself -- he is no longer sure he can hide it. He has to leave, or he might do something stupid, and Rhysand might kill him.

But she decides to open her eyes at that very moment, the notes of the piano slowly fading to an end. And that's when she notices the shadows moving around her.

She has never been afraid of them; that is another thing Azriel loves about her.

She laughs as she savors the feel of the cool wind they leave on her skin. Moments later, she realizes that Azriel must be somewhere nearby if they are here. And indeed, as she turns to take a look around the room, she finds him there, eaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, an indecipherable expression on his face, and his usual shadows around to give him an enigmatic look.

"Azzie! How did you get in?" Selaene asks positively surprised. He smiles at her before approaching her. He is a little unusual, she thinks, he is different than normal. He seems agitated under that mask of indifference.

"There's a blizzard outside and I thought I'd ask for shelter here, I knocked and no one answered. So I went inside and ... well, I found you." He tells her as he gets closer still, closer than he ever has. The young girl's heart beats faster and faster, and she hopes he can't hear it. But, of course, he can.

"I didn't know you could sing." He tells her, and the way he does it, slightly whispered, as if they are talking about their little secret, pleases her. It makes her realize that she would like to share all these little secrets of hers with him, and she would like him to do the same. She trusts him with her own life.

"I ... yes, sometimes it helps me release negative emotions." She answers uncertainly, laying bare a part she had never told anyone, not even her brother.

"You are very good, Selaene." He tells her getting even closer, and the Fae can feel his warm breath on her face. His hazel eyes look at her so intently that Selaene is convinced he can see right through them. She responds with a shy thank you.

He approaches her again, his lips brushing hers, and with his breath mixed with hers he asks her, "May I?" And he is so sweet, so full of affection that it is the Fae herself who kisses him, leaving him slightly surprised. She has never kissed anyone, and it takes a couple of seconds to get her bearings, but Azriel holds her up and guides her into it, causing them to pull away breathless but happy. Selaene can swear that their hearts beat at the same rhythm. The male holds his hands over her face, while she holds them on his shoulders. They look into each other's eyes, an awkward silence between the two, before they burst out laughing in each other's embrace.

"My brother will kill you." She tells him with her face hidden in the crook of his neck, still giggling.

"He can try." He pinches her side affectionately, causing her to pull away with amusement.

"Ow!"

"Do you want to sing?" She looks at him surprised.

"Can you sing?"

"Of course, I am called ShadowSinger for a reason, you know."

[stayteezdreams]

12 Days of Christmas 2024 - Masterlist

Daily fic posts from December 14th to the 25th!

A/N's: Warnings are posted in each individual fic. Everything is a Gn!Reader Insert.

(12 Days of Christmas 2023 Masterlist)

Status: Finished

December 14th: "Christmas Spirit"; Wooyoung x Reader (fluff/comfort) You and Wooyoung have a cute Christmas movie night together at home to get yourselves into the Christmas Spirit.

December 15th: "O' Christmas Tree"; Beomgyu x Reader; (cute/comfort) You and Beomgyu decorate the Christmas Tree together.

December 16th: "White Elephant"; Vernon x Reader (cute/romantic) Your friends decided to switch up the rules to your game of White Elephant. Instead of winning a mystery gift. You win a date with someone else in the circle.

December 17th: "Distraction"; Joohoney x Reader (comfort/cute/fluff) After having a bad day, your boyfriend decides to distract you from your thoughts by starting a snowball fight.

December 18th: "First Snow"; Hyunjae x Reader (cute/fluff) They say if you witness the First Snow with your crush, you are destined to be together. Originally mentioned as a childhood superstition, Jaehyun took it to heart.

December 19th: "Holiday Party"; Boss!Lee Know x Reader (romantic/mature/pining) During the company Holiday party, your boss decides to give you a present in private, finally addressing the tension between you.

December 20th: "Ghost of Christmas Past"; Hongjoong x Reader (angst/romance/pining) Due to circumstances neither of you could control, you and your first love were forced apart, never to see each other again. Or so you thought. Until one Christmas, years later, when fate decides to cross your paths again.

December 21st: "Peppermint Kiss"; Minghao x Reader (cute/mild humor) When you take the advice of Minghao's friends to force him to look at your friendship differently, you accidentally initiate a game of cat and mouse.

December 22nd: "Blizzards and First Dates"; Barista!Eric x Reader (cute/fluff) During a snowstorm, you get stuck inside a cafe. Much to your surprise, its just you and the cute barista stuck by yourselves.

December 23rd: "Masquerade"; Changkyun (I.M) x Reader (romance) While attending a Christmas masquerade, Changkyun meets someone who steals his heart. But what does he do when they disappear at the end of the night? (Cinderella-esque au)

December 24th: "Secret Santa"; Hoshi x Reader (humor/cute/little angst) For years, someone has been leaving you presents at Christmas, and you never knew who it was. This year, you caught them in the act.

December 25th: "Christmas Comfort"; Han x Reader & Stray Kids & reader (angst/comfort) You expected to be spending this Christmas alone, left with your own thoughts and loneliness. But your boyfriend and best friends have a surprise for you.

[thecapricunt1616]

Promptober Day 3 👻

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭) : “We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well.  “Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: AAA Welcome to Promptober day 3 featuring our loves Syd and Carmy! No smut this time, but I haven't written them in a minute so I wanted to warm myself back up with some cute fluffy fluff! I hope you enjoy 😊 Reminder that you can view my schedule & masterlist for this celebration right 🦇here🦇! You can also view the same for my 2024 Kinktober celebration right 🎃here🎃! If you'd like to be added to the taglist, just comment on the according masterlist & I will add you going forward! 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2K 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Fluffy fluff, only 1 bed trope, Swearing, Anxious Syd & Carmy haha 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐤𝐚-𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬

“Jesus Christ this fuckin came outta nowhere” Carmy mutters. The windshield wipers on their rental car were going as fast as they could, but he was still having a hard time seeing the road. 

“Carmy I told you this was a bad idea! Were literally gonna spin out and die. I knew it was gonna snow!” Sydney huffs, turning down the radio more because she had anxiety that Carmy wasn’t seeing as well with that as a distraction. 

“We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well. 

“Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. 

He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right. 

They had come to Italy for some new culinary inspiration, but also to put in a special order for a certain type of cheese that you couldn’t have shipped by the company so Carmy was going to vacuum seal it and buy a special bag for it to take it back with them. 

It wasn’t that that she thought was fucking crazy, it was going to a town that was famously known for its Skiing 2 weeks before thanksgiving. Meaning winter was just starting to pick up, and they’d likely get caught in a blizzard. 

As much as Carmy tried to convince her that per the weather app it was just going to be bitterly cold the week he had planned for them to go, Syd had a bad feeling that the weather would take a turn for the worse and they’d get caught in a blizzard, and per usual- Syd was right. Thankfully in the distance, they saw lights indicating a business of some kind. 

“Oh thank god. Were stopping.” She said more as a statement then a question, if she was honest with herself it sounded quite like a demand.

“Yes Syd, we’re stopping” Carmy sighed a bit. Not because he was upset with her, but because she proved him wrong - yet again. There was a light above the sign that read “Columbina Albergo” Carmy wasn’t too good at Italian, but he quickly understood the hotel to be called Little Dove Motel. 

It made his heart skip a beat, how romantic could a motel be. A dead one at that. There was only 2 other cars there, and the place wasn’t the most slightly- but it would do. “Alright I guess…uh. Yeah let’s go get a room I guess? I’m sure they uh have…double beds” Carmy said as he turned off the car and pulled up the hood of his white hoodie and opened the car door. 

The wind nearly stole Sydney’s blood orange and floral patterned scarf and she quickly grabbed it walking quicker as Carmy held the door open for her. 

“Buona Sera!” The woman at the counter chirps and Carmy nods politely. 

“Buona sera! Uhh… unaaaa…” he thinks for a moment trying to recall the bit of Italian he’d brushed up on before they came over “ah! Per favore, Una letto matrimoniale” He said and the woman nodded pointing to the sign that read it was €30 per night. He dug out his wallet and handed over 3 €10 notes and she put it in her register before grabbing the hanging set of keys with the room number and handing them over 

“Grazie, Buonanotte” she said and Carmy nodded, turning to Syd and handing her the keys 

“It’s room 11, I’ll bring your stuff just go warm up s’cold out there” he said, opening the door for her again. Even though it was freezing, she felt her cheeks flush with heat at how gentlemanly he was being. 

“Yeah send me into some random motel room where there could be a killer lying in wait?” She teased, heading down the row of rooms to find number 11. 

“You have a big mouth. Just scream an' I’ll come running don’t worry” Carmy mused, unlocking the rental car to gather the suitcases. By the time he got to the room, Syd was sitting on the single full sized bed with a teasing smirk. 

“You need to brush up on your Italian more, Chef” 

Carmys cheeks heat to a deep shade of pink, looking around the room to see that there was no  couch, just a small arm chair and he sighs deeply, rubbing over his face and tossing his pillow on the floor 

“You can have the bed” he muttered, tossing her her backpack and she giggled a bit

“What- scared I’m gonna touch you? We can put pillows between us if you want” she said and he raised his brows, looking at her in slight disbelief. 

“No- no m’not scared just…I dunno if you’re seein’ someone I wouldn’t want my girlfriend sleeping with her business partner” he said before he could think and he rubs his chin nervously as she started cracking up. 

“Yeah. No im not seeing anyone, but also don’t go saying you slept with me on this trip, I don’t want that rumor on my name” she teased as she opened her backpack, grabbing her pajamas “I’m gonna call the bathroom first, so…just call me when you’re changed I guess” she said and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. 

Carmys heart was thumping, he could have sworn he had requested a room with a double bed, and the office hours listed on the door said they had made it just in time before she closed for the night - so no switching. 

He quickly tugged off his jeans and hoodie, putting on a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, pulling the sheets back and getting the pillows situated. Carmy had a crush on Sydney since he’d met her, but of course, with his testy past with relationships - he was afraid that persuing someone he held so dearly to him would quickly end up in explosive flames. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, Sydney was in a similar panic, currently asking herself if she should keep her bra on, because it was like - respectful or whatever, or if she could be comfortable and take it off. She weighed it in her head for a good 5 minutes before hearing Carmy clear his throat and say 

“Uh- Syd n-not rushin’ you- jus’ wondering if you wanted to watch that movie still?” He called through the door. 

She quickly decided it would be better to just take it off so her back wouldn’t hurt in the morning and quickly puts on her old childish gambino shirt and a pair of sofee sleep shorts and opened the door “yeah- yeah” she swallows thickly when she saw that Carmy had a clear dick print in his grey sweats. 

“Okay- cmon” he patted the bed next to him, grabbing his laptop from his bag and resting it on his lap as he turns it on. 

She sits next to him, criss cross, her knee draped over his thigh because they were so close. Carmy felt as if his hands were shaking, Syd felt as if her heart was going to fly out of her chest at any moment.  It was going to be a long night.

Fin

Tag List: @carmenberzattosgf @daysofyellowroses @mouseymilkovich @gallaghersgal @carmybrainworms @l4long-winded @babyspiderling @southsideserendipity @djlnkaled

[yaut-jaknowit]

Can you please write Older yautja x f reader. Like a really big old yautja cheif. The reader is native american (not that it matters) and an overly energetic girl. Very fluffy n cuddly. Reader is whining about the cold and snuggles up to the elder n gets a little frisky he's grumpy but willing to help out. Thank you!

Pet names: Girly, little one, my girl, etc

Kinks: softdom, possesive, breeding, mild somnophilia

Hold You

Pairing: Woftik (Male Yautja) x AFAB Reader

Warnings: SMUT, softdom, possesive Yautja, breeding kink, light size kink, knotting, light aftercare, P in V, soft sex, fluff, use of very feminine pet names. You know the drill people lol

Word Count: 4516

Summary: Yautja Prime is a large planet. It sits in the designated zone for life to sprout. And life easily thrives all over the place. Even when a bitter cold takes over the poles. Woftik lives there with you. Life is great. Until the frozen lands are swallowed with a blizzard. All the two of you could possibly do was wait out the storm with each other.

Author Note: I'm so sorry this took a bit to get to. I had gotten caught up with a few self-interest writings. I do promise, I'm working on the ones that people have requested. Also, I do love all of your requests guys!

Masterlist

Ao3

In the middle of the equator and the poles of Yautja Prime, it had weather closer to earth. Closer to said poles, an actual four seasons will cycle every year of the planet. Though rare, some Yautjas will live up towards the poles. A select few clans have laid down claim to vast, cool plains of barren lands and ocean.  

Off of the top of your head, you could remember the clan Woftik was part of and another his clan was affiliated with. Nacht Klinge and Snoq are the clan names. There were two more, you believed that survive in the colder climates. Truly, you didn’t mind the cold as much, enjoying on some days. While on others, you snuggled up to your Yautja and napped content.

Today was no different. A blizzard had wiped the Nacht Klinge clan off of the map currently. It was far too dangerous for even a Yautja to step foot outside without being lost. There wasn’t nothing out there worth the risk in the first place. Food, water, entertainment, warmth all bundled into one place. No one could drag you out there if they wanted to.

That meant, you found yourself pinned to Woftik’s meaty side. One of his thickly corded arms thrown heavily over your shoulders. Just the weight alone had you trapped. Woftik wasn’t moving anytime soon. It seemed, neither were you.

The Yautja had his eyes closed, ears open, and body sagged into the couch. Your little warmth wasn’t attentive but it had him satisfied. He let loose a rumble that vibrated across the expanse of his torso. You giggled and squirmed in your spot, unable to move much.

As time went on, the fire that Woftik had built sometime before, had dwindled. With the harsh cold threatening to breakdown the door and environment you lived in, you felt the crisp, frosty air biting at your exposed skin. Despite the blazing heat warming up your side, it wasn’t enough to hold it back. Your body was raked with a shiver. That caught Woftik’s attention.

His dark, almost black, brown eyes opening and flicked down to you. You gazed up at him with doe eyes. “It’s getting cold,” you explained and trembled again. It wasn’t on purpose.

Old Woftik grumbled, not out of annoyance, just a noise he regularly makes and lifted his arm off of you. His heat fleeting away the moment he did. This was an open opportunity though. You leaped off of the couch and raced over to the fireplace.

Orange, glowing embers produced heated that fell over your goose bumped skin. At this distance, the cold was chased away once more. You reached next to the mantle and grabbed three chopped logs, as much as possible. They were carefully placed on top of the dying fire. Next, you mindfully leaned in, still a safe distance away and gently blew.

It helped stroke the ember, pushing oxygen towards them. They grew bright with flames flickering to life once more. Those flames licked up at the logs a few times as you did this over and over. Until the logs finally caught the fire and burned. You smiled to yourself and stood back up. With one move, you pivoted around to face Woftik.

The elder was the spitting image of tranquility. Arms hanging on the back of the couch, legs spread far wider than necessary. His head leaned back and exposing his throat to you. Not a single muscle was tensed or twitching. Softly, his chest rose and fell with quiet breaths. You didn’t let your smile fade at the sight of him.

Instead, you skipped up to him. Woftik made a noise that kept solidifying his growing age. His Adam’s apple bobbing with the sound. You took the initiative to climb into his lap and straddle his wide waist.

Woftik didn’t move a muscle. Your hands touched at his midriff before sliding up to his wide shoulders. For a male, this Yautja was massive in mass and height. He rivaled a few females that live among his clan. Yet, Woftik’s color has been adapted to his environment over decades of living here.

An off color of white painted his skin. Though white was considered a curse among many of the clans that lived towards the equator. For him, it was a gift. To hunt and live in a climate this harsh and deadly required skill and great camouflage. Maybe that’s why he’s chief of the Nacht Klinge clan.

Similar to all of his kind, he was only adorned with a loin cloth – albeit thicker. The bulky size of him kept him far warmer than you in this kind of weather. Another adaptation for the climate. If he were outside when the weather was normal, a furred covering would hang from his shoulders. Woftik would wear shoes as well. It was too cold for him to go bare foot like the rest of his kind at the equator.

In the safety of Woftik’s dwelling, he sat almost naked and lax. You wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your chest against his. A short purr vibrated from deep within his barrel torso. You quietly laughed and shook your head.

With the newly rebuilt fire rewarming the house once more, you softened against Woftik. One of his massive arms encircled your form. It kept you snug to him. You release a sigh of content, a hidden smile gracing your features. Barely above a whisper, you mummer, “love ya, ya big giant.” Woftik’s arm flexed just a hair. You felt it though and didn’t let your turned up lips fall.

The temperature continued to drop throughout the day. It sapped up your heat, even your own Yautja started to feel that annoying bite at his heels. He threw his other arm over you, encasing your frame. You canted your hips to scoot forward, to somehow press yourself into his skin. Maybe, somehow get underneath it to steal all of his warmth.

You stuttered with a gasp at the accidently stimulation of your clit skirting across Woftik’s loin cloth. An all too familiar heat bloomed over you features. A new fire sparking to life deep within your stomach. You whined and snuggled deeper into him. This time, you grounded your hips down on purpose. Your eyes rolled back. Woftik’s deadly claws poked into your feeble flesh.

Now, with the feeling starting a fire across your skin, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. It would help keep you warm in this weather, fire or not. You let an arm fall from around his neck and settled on his navel, nails lightly scratching. “Woftik,” you softly cry his name before picking up your head to look at him in the eye. He was already peering down at you, mandibles tense. You had started a gentle fire, not the one in the fireplace.

“What do you want, little one?” he muttered lowly and bent down the best he could. His face was close to yours. You felt the warm, moist exhale flutter over your features. He was close enough to make out the texture of his dark eyes. Darker than usual as need grew within them.

A heavier blush blanketed your cheeks at the name he called you. One he didn’t let fade. Woftik shifted his hands to engulf your hips. With those limbs, he forced you to grind up against him. You sucked in a sharp breath of air between your clenched teeth. “I asked you a question, girly.” You keened quietly and ducked underneath his chin to hide in his neck. But the white Yautja wasn’t gonna let that happen.

With a hand, he pinched your jaw and softly brought you back out. “Little one,” he spoke with a hardened, lax tone. You couldn’t help your hips jutting forward, knocking your clothed cunt against the slowly growing bulge in his pants. Woftik squeezed your chin for a moment before untensing.

“You,” you quietly stated. Woftik was eating this up like a hungry, starved man. From the usual bouncing, talking ooman on daily basis you were, to this. Such a nervous, needy, little ooman, embarrassed about asking for something so normal.

The old Yautja rumbled a noise of thinking. His dark eyes never leaving yours. “You already have me,” he stated a fact. Here you were, plopped on Woftik’s lap, humping against him like a needy little girl.

You keened with a pathetic whine and finally met his eyes. They begged for him silently. They were filled with emotions, flooding them fully. Woftik used a thumb to rub along your cheek bone. Your whole body went slack in his hold. “Yeah, I know. Such a good little ooman for me. Will you let me take you?” he whispered into the cooling living room. “I’ll keep you warm and safe with me.”

How could anyone say no to him when he speaks like that? Woftik was the best person – alien or not – you’ve ever met. His hands were gentle each time they laid on your feeble skin. His words always had you smiling or keening. His eyes had yours captured each time they met.

Your head was quick to nod. “I want you, love. Please, keep me warm.” To sell the whole show, you shivered, partially fake. Truly, it was dropping in temperature inside of his house.

Woftik grumbled a noise of old age and content before letting his hands skirt underneath your shirt. The blazing heat that radiated off of his skin left a hot trail of the skin he touched. As much as you wanted to hide in the safety of his neck, you didn’t want to part from his eyes. You searched through them and found all the love he had for you stored within them.

“Then, you’ll have me.” One of his hands roamed north before settling over the swell of one of your breasts. You sighed softly at the feeling. The hand on his navel scratching once more. The thick muscle there rippled at your touch. He didn’t let that distract him and run a talon mindfully over a pliant nipple. It immediately had blood rushing to it, growing hard underneath his administration. “Your body knows who I am, doesn’t it?” Your empty cunt clenched at his words.

A warm, short gush of slick dampened your underwear. A new flush of blood brushing over your cheeks. You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore and found the ground more interesting. “Sweet girl, look at me,” he called out to you. In return, you whine and kept your chin tucked down. “Come on, let me see your pretty eyes.”

Relenting, you lifted your head, eyes finding each other. “There’s my girl. I can smell you thick in the air-hey don’t look away now. There you go, keep your eyes on me. You smell like heaven.” Your heart thundered in your ears, almost drowning out his words. It stuttered in its bony cage. How could he talk… fuck you.

“Now, lets get these pants off of you.” Woftik helped lift you up and off of his lap. Your legs trembled at first when you added weight to them. With him right there though, he kept you up and removing your leggings at the same time. His arms flex with use of his muscles. Your lips pressed together, eyes roaming over him.

Once your leggings were tossed to the side, you shivered at the biting cold and leaped into Woftik’s lap. Without hesitancy, his large arms encased your form once more. You hummed at the skin-to-skin contact. “Hm, you’re so warm, love,” you muttered against the giant wall of muscle your head was laid on.

With your shirt still on, Woftik slid a hand underneath and had it returned to its original spot. A groan sounding from the back of your throat. His moves weren’t harsh or demanding, gentle like a waves lapping at a shore.

His free hand slipped between the apex of your plush thighs and cupped your moist core. A gasp tore at your throat from the sudden move. Your spine curved to pressed your hips more against him. He rumbled a chuckle and palmed at you. The move rubbed over your soak clit as his fingers teased your folds. One move and he could be buried inside of you. Yet, the Yautja didn’t let that happen. His digits just stayed still like a statue.

A whine built up in the back of your throat. “Love, I need more.” At your begging, Woftik rested his thumb on top of your nub. Immediately, your muscles tensed and waited impatiently at his next move. When he didn’t, you took it upon yourself to hump against him. The former embarrassment slipping away from you like water. “Fuck, like that. That feels so good.”

Woftik felt pleasure wash over him in a heady amount, soaking into his bones. Despite a want to move that hand coated in your slick, the Yautja pinched at your nipples instead. This distracted you from jerking your hips, you bit at your bottom lip.

Now, he took it upon himself to start a slow, mindful rubbing over your clit. The sticky slick coating your cunt easily allowed for him to pass over your nub. You released your lip with an airy cry, hands clawing at his exposed shoulders. The cold forgotten about now. A wall built to deter it away from the safety of your Yautja.

In tandem, your hips rocked against Woftik’s hand, further increasing the pressure. The Yautja watched, raptured with the way you moved with a desperate need. Your eyes hooded over, bottom lip captured between dull teeth. You were heavily breathing through your nostrils before you started to pant.

He let his upper hand abandon your breast to skim up to wrap firmly around your neck. Your eyes snapped open to stare wide at him. With a thumb, he stroked your jawline. “I didn’t say stop, pretty girl,” he huskily whispered. Your eyes rolled up. You didn’t realize you had stopped moving until he said something. You didn’t waste a second to begin again. A new fever rushing into your veins.

“That’s it,” he growled lowly. You squeaked, hands grasping at his skin. It had to be the combination of everything. Him, his noises, his body, his warmth, his hands, everything. It was affecting you. His last encouragement was the final nail in the coffin.

Your back arched, chest pressed up against him. A hardy gasp tore at the back of your throat, causing a cracking sound. “Fuck!” you spat out and refused to still, jutting your hips without rhythm till the end. A new gush of fluids coating his massive hand between your thighs. Despite the Yautja forcing you to look at him, your hooded back over. The bliss ebbing away from the blood that filled your veins.

When you officially slumped against his broad form, head resting on his shoulder. Woftik dragged his lower limb from between the apex of his body and lifted it in front of his alien face. From the corner of your heavy eyes, you watched as the Yautja licked your juices off. You mewled while humping, horny at the display.

Woftik grumbled his elder noises of content. “Hm, always so good for me.” Then, the Yautja tilted his head back to gaze down at your loose form. “Do you know what you do to me, little one? Do you know how hard you get me? How desperate you have me right now?” If you had a sober mind, the blush coating your cheeks could be from him.

All you could do for the moment was make a pathetic sound from the depths of your chest and bury your face in his neck. “Oh no, no, no. You don’t get to hide away from me now. I want to watch you come on my cock next, sweet girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you groaned into his neck without thinking. Your body tensed a second after those words had left your mouth. Had you just said that?

The alien in front of you rumbled his low laughter. “That’s what my good girl wants, doesn’t she?” You forced yourself to bite at your bottom lip. At this point, it has had to bleeding or rubbed raw. After all the times you’ve constantly agitated it. A part of yourself would be surprised if it wouldn’t hurt in the morning. “Come on, tell me that you’re my good girl.”

Your hips rolled subconsciously. That’s when you felt a bulge in his pants. Without meaning to, they moved against the bump you had felt. Pleasure shot up the length of your spine all over again. With the combination of him calling you his good girl and the proposition of what’s to come, your walls clenched emptily.

“Your good girl,” you whined. You needed him now.

One moment, Woftik had you on his lap. The very next second, you were slammed onto your back on the couch cushions, legs spread wide. The oxygen in your lungs forced out at the sudden pressure. Any sounds of surprise couldn’t reach the air. But there wasn’t a hint of fear in your eyes as you stared up at the lumber giant above you. Woftik had you pinned to the couch, calm as ever, gaze locked onto you. One hand was wrapped snuggly around your throat. His other had found its way to your navel and gently held you there.

With his lower limb, he retreated it to pull off his pants. They were moved down enough for his cock to spring out and slap against him navel. A thick bead of precum leaking from the head, dripping down the length of him. Such an alien look to him that’ll have you always satisfied.

His size matched his body. Thickly corded and large. A vein ran down the side before disappearing where the noticeable lump of his deflated knot. He was a bright, neon green, just like his blood. At the sight of him, your mouth watered.

Your eyes lifted up to find his nearly black eyes on you, heavy with lust. Without even needing to say a word, you knew what he was asking of you. “Fill me, love.” Woftik didn’t need to ask again. With one hand, he lined himself up with your dripping cunt and pressed forward.

The head of his flat head popped inside before he stilled. Both of you relished in the delicious feeling seeping into your veins. Your head leaned back with a keen sounding from you. “You feel so good, little one. So tight and I’m barely inside of you,” he groaned and forced himself  to still for your benefit. Past interactions have taught him well.

Woftik was gentle, mindful on his actions until his hips finally kissed your inner thighs. The two of you cried out, heads thrown back at the same time. His hands squeezed temporarily. Before the one on your neck slid up to tangle in your hair. He tugged on the strands to force you to look at him again. “That’s all me, little one. Pauk, yeah. So pauking tight around me.” That lower hand touched your navel again and pressed down. You harshly gasped.

With a newfound energy, Woftik snatched one of your hands and pressed it to your navel. He preformed the same action as before. Your eyes widened, unable to look away from his dark ones. You felt the giant twitch inside of you. You could feel him with your hand, deep inside of you.

“I’m so far inside of you. So deep. I’m inside of your womb. I’m going to fill your womb with my seed. Breed you so full of me.” For a lumbering giant, he knew how to use words for his advantage. You throbbed, walls barely able to even move with him inside of you. “Pauk, I love when you do that. You love the way I’m so far inside of you.”

Yeah, you most definitely do. He’s ruined you for anyone else. And it wasn’t just the sex that convinced you to stay with him. He may have been an ass in the beginning, but he was the best thing you had back then. You were glad to have stayed with him, through the dangers of his life.

“I do. Now, fucking pound me,” you demanded and wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down. His warm breath fell over you at each exhale. One deep inhale filled your lungs with his earthy scent of wildlife and nature and salt.

He didn’t need to be told twice at the order of his mate. With one pull of his hips, almost removing himself from you, he thrusted forward. The slap against your thighs wasn’t harsh or painful by any means. This was the beginning after all. He wants to savor the moment for however long he possible could.

On the other hand, you were loving every, single second. His girth pressed every crook and nanny inside of you. You were seeing stars, despite the vanilla pace he usually sets up.

Woftik’s tresses fell around you in a curtain of light green. With the leftovers of your sober mind, you turned your head and captured the end of one of them with your lip. Woftik slammed his hips particular hard against you. It sent your body sliding up before he pulled you back down flush with him. “Do that again,” he begged and partially draped himself over you. His weight kept you trapped.

At his request, you suckled on the end of the one you caught. Woftik grounded his hips hard into you, only thrusting them while holding you down to the couch. It had your clit scrapping across his pelvis. You squeezed like a snake around him at the harsh stimulation. He yowled and shuttered above you, a beautiful sight before you. You felt that familiar heat blooming back into your chest.

The Yautja didn’t speed up but kept the punishing harshness of his hips snapping to you. He fell to his elbows, chest to chest with you now. You were completely pinned between him and the couch. There was nowhere to go. Not that you wanted to leave anyhow. This is where you wanted to be. This is where you are meant to be.

You keened a particular thrust that had you seeing stars. Your whole body shuttered, walls fluttering around him. Woftik snarled huskily above, mandibles clicking wildly. “You’re mine to breed. Mine to fill. Mine to love. Mine to pauk.” Your hands clawed at his back, probably not leaving any sort of marks. Yet, the alien shuttered as if you had hurt him.

“All yours, love. All you-oh!” He firmly rewrapped his hand back around your throat, once he had realized it slipped away. Woftik watched the way your eyes rolled back up into your head, eyelids hooded. You squeezed him once more, dragging him closer and closer towards the end.

His growing knot kept catching on your entrance, almost locking him prematurely inside. As much as he wanted to stop anything from preventing a smooth thrust, he was too far gone. He used the muscles that lined his broad back and waist to keep slamming his hips against you. There wasn’t anything that could pull him away from you. You were his. Through and through.

With the slight increase in his rough pounding, his skin rubbed against your erect nipples. Bliss was thrumming throughout your whole body. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You were soaking in it with your mate fucking you into the living room couch. The harsh, winter cold no longer a problem from the heat the two of you generated. No fire was needed for fiery love you held for each other.

One particular slam had you sobbing, body threatening to curl into his blazing body. “That’s it, little one. Be my good girl, come for me. And I’ll fill you with my seed as you’re mine,” he praised into your ear. Harsh clicks following afterwards. He cursed in his own language, losing his ability to speak ooman for the moment.

A body splintering orgasm pushed you right off of the edge. Everything went white, body tense and writing against Woftik’s never ending moving form. There was static in your ear. The only thing you could hear was a far off scream echoing in your ears. Your throat started to burn, vibrating for some odd reason.

Then, as your soul returned, you realized it was you who was making that noise. The rest of the air in your lungs left and forced you to sputter for more oxygen. You were panting, roughly and rasping inhales. Sweat dotted your half naked form. The shirt that hung off of your shoulders was sticking to your skin like an uncomfortable second layer.

You tried to gather your thoughts for a second only to feel a painful slap meet your thigh. If it wasn’t for the strong body pinning you down or the sturdy hold clasped around your throat, you would’ve been thrown far up the couch.

An all too familiar pressure burst inside of you, locking. You keened at the feeling, back arching off of the couch. Woftik’s snarl vibrated across the expanse of your skin. His native language falling off his alien tongue in heady mouthfuls. Your name cried out like a prayer along the words.

With a shaky, weak hand, you cupped his lower jaw. This had him opening his eyes, hooded and heavily to stare down at the mess he made of you. He purred thickly once he did.

There was so many emotions swirl inside of those gorgeous eyes of his. Not just the lust or subdued hunger for you. No, the affection he has that stems from deep within his soul shone through. You felt yourself completely soften at the sight.

The limb on your throat shifted to mirror your action. Woftik leaned forward and softly knocked his forehead against yours. “You did so well for me, sweet girl,” he breathed in to your ear, breathing faster than usual. You smiled up at him with a tilt of your head. “Yeah, you did so pauking good for me.”

Now, the blush blanketing your cheeks wasn’t from your exertion or former embarrassment. It was due to his new words. Instead of shying away, you kept your gaze on him. “Thank you, love. That was amazing, just like you.”

Woftik tensed before sputtering. You giggled softly at his reaction before rewrapping your arm back around him. He relaxed in your hold and let the moment carry on. Until you felt the dreading cold nip at the skin exposed to the house’s air. You whined and wiggled underneath him. “Wof… it’s getting cold again.” There wasn’t much he could do until his knot deflated. So, you had to wait until then. Don’t fret, the Yautja ensured you kept warm underneath him.

[doormatty3]

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 6 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 5581

Éléanor woke up slowly, the soft light of morning filtering through the windows, casting a gentle glow across the room. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before remembering where she was—Patrick’s couch, wrapped up in his blankets, the memory of last night still fresh in her mind. A mix of emotions stirred within her: contentment from the quiet intimacy they’d shared, a hint of embarrassment from how things had played out, and something deeper that left her feeling warm and a little vulnerable.

The storm still raged outside, the wind howling softly, but it wasn’t as brutal as the night before. Snow had piled up high around the cabin, turning the world outside into a quiet, white wilderness. Éléanor’s gaze drifted to the couch beside her, where Patrick still slept, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath.

For a moment, she let herself look at him—really look. 

His shirtless body was sprawled comfortably under the blanket, and her eyes traced the lines of his muscles, now highlighted by the morning light creeping through the window. His chest was broader than she’d really noticed before, the pale skin dusted with a light covering of chest hair, something she hadn’t noticed in the dark last night. It curled softly, catching the flicker of firelight, giving him a rugged, masculine edge that made her pulse quicken.

His face was relaxed and peaceful, a stark contrast to the tension he’d carried last night. His lips were slightly parted, and his dark lashes cast faint shadows against his skin. Watching him like this, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets or the fire.

His stubble had grown more noticeable, the coarse hairs along his jawline now thicker, and a shadow of a moustache was forming, giving him an almost roguish appearance. Flecks of grey dotted his sideburns, and as the light hit his face, it gave him a certain maturity that contrasted with his boyish grin. 

She found it hard to tear her eyes away—so she didn’t.

Her eyes trailed down his body, taking in his flat, defined stomach and the curve of his hips. His boxers clung to him, riding low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. The blanket had slipped just enough to reveal the curve of his muscular thighs, and Éléanor’s face flushed as she caught herself staring.

God, he was so attractive.

With a deep breath, she slipped out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him. 

The wooden floor was cold under her feet as she padded towards the small kitchen, grabbing his sweater that lay discarded on the floor and pulling it over her head. 

She wanted to keep busy, to distract herself from the tangle of emotions still swirling inside her. Pulling Patrick’s pullover tighter around her, she began to rummage through what little they had left, trying to piece together some kind of breakfast. Eggs, a few slices of bread, some cheese—it wasn’t much, but it would do.

As she stood by the counter, cracking the eggs into a bowl and slicing up the bread, her thoughts drifted back to the events of the night before. The way Patrick had panicked, the way they’d calmed each other down afterwards, cuddling in the firelight. She couldn’t help but feel grateful for the way they’d handled it. It could have been awkward—embarrassing even—but instead, it had made her feel closer to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

As she mixed the eggs in a bowl, trying to figure out how to cook it without a stove, she heard a soft shuffle behind her. Before she could turn around, Patrick’s arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently back against his chest.

She melted into him, feeling the solid warmth of his body pressing against her back. His chest hair brushed against the back of her neck as he leaned down, his chin resting on her head and his breath against her.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, vibrating against her skin. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.

Éléanor smiled, leaning back into him, enjoying the easy warmth between them. “Morning,” she replied softly, turning her head slightly to glance at him. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, his hair tousled from sleep, but there was a soft smile playing at his lips.

He tightened his arms around her just slightly, pulling her closer. “What are you doing?” he asked and stifled a yawn.

“Trying to make breakfast with what little we have,” she said with a soft laugh. “But the stove doesn’t work, and I have no idea how to cook this without it.”

Patrick chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. “We’ll figure something out.” His gaze dropped to the bowl in her hands and then flicked back up with a crooked smile. “Or, we could just stick to bread and cheese. A low-maintenance breakfast.”

Éléanor laughed, the sound light and easy, and she felt the tension from the previous night fully dissolve. She caught herself blushing slightly, a bit embarrassed she hadn’t thought of that simple solution first. The eggs were wasted now, a casualty of their morning scramble, but she found she didn’t really mind.

“Honestly, that’s probably the best idea I’ve heard all morning,” she admitted, glancing over at the loaf of crusty bread and the wedge of cheese sitting on the counter. The simplicity of it, the way the fire crackled in the background, made her feel at ease. She let out a small sigh, comforted by the idea that life didn’t have to be perfect to be good.

Patrick’s smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. “See? It’s the small things,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so natural, so effortlessly caring, that it sent a tiny flutter through her chest.

She set the bowl down on the counter, the broken eggs an afterthought now, and reached for a knife to slice into the cheese. “Next time, I’m sticking to the basics,” she joked, her voice touched with a playful self-mockery and lingering embarrassment.

Patrick’s deep, warm laugh filled the small kitchen, wrapping around her like a favourite blanket. “No need to overthink it,” he said, his eyes finding hers, their familiar sparkle comforting. “It’s not really about the eggs or anything. It’s about mornings like this.”

A soft pause settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of a burning log. His gaze drifted down, a playful smirk forming as he tilted his head. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he remarked, his voice low and teasing. The brush of his lips against the side of her neck caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Éléanor felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but grin as she turned just enough to catch his eyes. “You didn’t exactly leave me much choice,” she shot back, the humour in her voice softening the air between them. “You were hogging all the blankets.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin as he nuzzled closer. “Fair enough,” he admitted, his breath warm and unwavering. The nearness was intoxicating, a blend of comfort and tension that made her pulse quicken.

For a moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in the golden glow of the morning sun filtering through the window. His hands rested gently on her waist, and fingers splayed as if to anchor them both at that moment. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against her back. It was an odd mix of domesticity and heat, standing there in his oversized pullover while he held her, both of them pretending that the night before hadn’t changed everything.

Reluctantly, Patrick let his arms fall, stepping away with a small sigh as he moved towards the table where he stretched, his body unfolding in a way that drew her eyes once more. His boxers clung to him, highlighting the sculpted muscles of his thighs and the curve of his back in a way that had her biting her lip. She couldn’t help but notice the way they fit snugly over his ass—tight, firm, and perfectly shaped.

His back muscles rippled as he reached for the ceiling, the light catching on the ridges of his shoulders and the faint sheen of sweat that lingered from the warmth of the room.

Éléanor’s pulse quickened as she watched him, a smile tugging at her lips before she turned to grab the simple breakfast supplies. Patrick brought the bread and cheese from the counter and placed them on the small, weathered table. She followed, carrying two mismatched mugs of instant coffee—more than enough given the circumstances of the power outage.

Patrick leaned over to stoke the fire, the crackle growing stronger as new flames licked at the logs. The warm glow cast long, shifting shadows that danced across the cabin walls, contrasting with the cold, pearly light outside. Snowflakes continued to drift steadily down, adding to the thick blanket that muted all sound beyond the walls.

They settled into the nook beside the fire, knees touching beneath the table, sharing the kind of comfortable silence that spoke more than words could. The flickering light played on their faces, illuminating the curve of Patrick’s smile as he passed her a piece of bread. Their fingers brushed, and a warm spark passed between them.

“So... the storm’s still going,” Patrick finally said, glancing out the window, his eyes following the swirling snow that danced in chaotic patterns against the glass—a sea of white that refused to calm. “Looks like it’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Could be worse,” Éléanor said with a teasing grin, her tone light, though her heart beat just a little faster. “We have food, warmth... and decent company.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips in response. “Decent? That’s all I get?”

“Well,” she said, the blush rising to her cheeks as she held his gaze, her pulse fluttering under his scrutiny. “I didn’t want to inflate your ego too much.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and rich, the kind that made her stomach flip. Leaning back in his chair, he looked relaxed, but there was an unmistakable spark in his eyes, a playful warmth that drew her in. “More than decent,” he corrected, his voice dipping into a tone that was both teasing and sincere.

Éléanor took another sip of coffee, cradling the warm mug in her hands as she glanced out the window at the snow piling higher in an attempt to stop the fluttering in her chest. “You know … This is probably the most basic breakfast I’ve made in years,” Éléanor said, smiling over the rim of her mug as she took a sip of coffee.

Patrick’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Hey, it’s perfect,” he said, the simplicity of the moment not lost on him. “We’ve got everything we need right here.”

The fire’s warmth settled around them, casting a golden glow that made the cabin feel cocooned from the storm. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was heavy with unsaid things, a shared realisation that the world outside had ceased to matter for now.

“I guess we’re lucky we even have this,” Éléanor said softly, her voice trailing as she looked back at him, their faces close enough to feel the heat radiating between them. “It could’ve been much worse.”

Patrick nodded, but his eyes lingered on her, darkening with an emotion that made the room feel warmer still. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m glad it’s you I’m stuck here with. You’re... pretty decent company .” The playful curve of his lips softened, revealing a sincerity that wrapped around her like a blanket.

He leaned forward, the movement deliberate, and brushed his fingers across her hand. The touch sent a spark through her, lingering even as he set her empty mug aside with care. When he turned back to her, his expression had shifted, eyes intense, as if he were trying to memorise every detail.

Patrick’s hand lifted, moving slowly until it cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw with a tenderness that left her breathless. Éléanor leaned into his touch, her heartbeat thundering in her chest as their eyes met, the distance between them shrinking with every second.

Neither of them spoke.

Patrick moved first, leaning in and closing the small space between them. When their lips met, it was as if a spark had lit a fuse. 

Éléanor’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer with an unspoken plea. He responded in kind, his arm wrapping around her waist with a sure but tender touch.

In a seamless motion, they rose together, the movement natural and instinctive, their lips never breaking contact. Patrick guided her backwards, steps slow and steady but charged with intent as they made their way towards the couch. 

Éléanor’s heart pounded in her chest, her body alive with sensation. Every brush of Patrick’s lips, every touch of his hand on her skin, sent sparks of warmth coursing through her, making her pulse race. 

Patrick gently eased her down onto the couch, his body hovering over hers as their kisses grew more urgent, more demanding, more desperate. 

The space between them seemed to evaporate as his hands moved over her back, tracing her curves with a mix of tenderness and raw need. His touch was everywhere —gentle but commanding, igniting a fire that blazed hotter with each passing second.

Éléanor’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, craving more. She felt like she was burning from the inside, her skin tingling with a fierce energy, like that fuse they had lit had finally exploded. 

There was nothing else—just him.

They broke the kiss for just a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as they tried to catch their breath. Patrick’s hands were still on her waist, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin, the simple touch sending waves of heat through her, stoking the fire that was already burning inside her.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was low, husky, each word a quiet rumble that made her heart race. His breath was warm against her lips, his question lingering between them.

Éléanor smiled, her heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and certainty. She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw as she looked into his eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady, filled with the surety she felt at that moment. “I’m sure.”

With that, Patrick’s lips were on hers again, the kiss deeper this time, more confident. His hand slid under her sweater, his fingers brushing against her bare skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth, arching her back as she pressed herself closer to him, her body responding to his every touch.

Patrick slowly began to lift the fabric, his hands warm and steady. Éléanor shifted beneath him, helping him peel it away, her skin instantly exposed to the cool air of the cabin, leaving her in only her panties. 

But before she could feel the cold, Patrick was there, his hands on her bare waist, his mouth covering hers in another slow, deep kiss. Before he lowered himself, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. His lips moved with a deliberate slowness, trailing down the sensitive skin of her neck and over her chest, each kiss drawing a soft gasp from Éléanor.

She let her hands wander across his broad shoulders, feeling the strength in him as he held her close, his body warm against hers. His lips brushed over the swell of her breasts, his breath teasing against her skin before he dipped his head lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses as he moved down her body.

The firelight flickered, casting golden shadows across the room, making the moment feel all the more intimate, as if they were the only two people in the world.

Patrick’s hands traced the curve of her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed just above the waistband of her panties, his breath warm against her skin. Éléanor’s breath hitched as his lips lingered there, his touch sending waves of pleasure through her. 

He kissed his way back up, capturing her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that left her breathless, his hands roaming over her sides. Then, with a smooth, almost teasing motion, he tugged at her underwear again before sliding them down and tossing them aside.

 She felt the cold air on her overheated, exposed skin, and her nerves thrummed in arousal.

Éléanor’s hands slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under her palms, her fingers grazing the elastic of his boxers. She felt his hard cock through the thin layer of fabric and was desperate to feel him, to continue what they had started yesterday. 

So she pushed his boxers down, leaving them both completely exposed, their bodies pressed together, skin against skin. 

Patrick looked down at Éléanor in the soft morning light, his features softened by the glow filtering through the windows. The shadows from the slowly burning fire danced across his sharp jawline, but it was the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered at that moment, that made Éléanor feel like she was melting beneath him.

His chest, broad and strong, rose and fell with steady breaths, but the tension in his muscles betrayed the restraint he was barely holding onto. 

Éléanor’s eyes dropped to his body, taking in the sight of him, her breath catching in her throat. He was perfect—every inch of him strong and toned, his cock hard and thick, standing proudly against his abdomen. She reached out, her hand wrapping around him, her fingers brushing over his length. Patrick let out a low groan, his hips pushing forward slightly into her hand as he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation.

But he didn’t let her linger there long. 

His fingers traced lightly over her skin, starting at her collarbone and slowly moving downward, exploring her curves as if committing every inch of her to memory. Éléanor shivered at the warmth of his touch, her body responding to the slow burn of his attention before her mind could even catch up. 

His hands, big and slightly rough, slid over her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with just enough pressure to make her gasp.

Patrick’s mouth followed, placing soft kisses along her collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing over her chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Éléanor arched into him, her breath coming faster as his lips closed around her nipple, his hand still gently kneading the other breast. 

The sensation was overwhelming—his warmth against the cool air of the cabin, the firelight flickering beside them, and the intimacy of his touch sending jolts of pleasure through her.

Éléanor’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body instinctively moving with his as he kissed and touched her with growing intensity. His hands roamed lower, brushing over her stomach and down to her hips, and then, with a firm but gentle grip, he guided her legs apart. The warmth of his fingers, firm but gentle, made her hips lift involuntarily, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Without a word, he slid his hand between her legs, his fingers finding her cunt wet. 

He paused for just a second, letting the sensation sink in for both of them. “Éléanor,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his fingers brushing over her sex with a soft touch, barely parting the netherlips but enough to feel her wetness. 

Patrick’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a low groan rumbled from his chest as he watched Éléanor gasping and her body trembling under his touch.

He slipped two of his thick, strong fingers into her cunt, pressing them in deep and curling them just enough to find that sensitive spot within her, the one that made her back arch and her breath catch in her throat. 

Éléanor moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders, her body reacting to every movement he made. The way his fingers curled inside her and the steady pressure he applied sent wave after wave of desire through her.

Patrick watched her closely, his gaze locked on her face as he continued to finger her with that perfect rhythm, his thumb now brushing over her clit in slow, firm circles. The pleasure was instantaneous, sharp, her hips instinctively lifting to meet his hand. Éléanor moaned into his mouth, her body trembling as he played her like an instrument he knew too well.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Patrick groaned, his voice barely a whisper, full of awe and lust. His thumb pressed against her clit again, his fingers moving in rhythm with the growing tension between them. Éléanor’s body responded instantly, tightening around him, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging into his skin as she urged him on.

 “Patrick…” she gasped, barely able to form words, her hips grinding against his hand as her body moved in sync with his. His fingers pumped inside her, slow but steady, the high building with each thrust. She felt his cock, hard and hot, pressing against her thigh as his thumb continued its relentless work on her clit, sending her closer and closer to the edge.

He could feel it too—the way her body tensed and quivered beneath him, the growing wetness that coated his fingers as he stroked her deeply, curling his fingers inside her just to hear that sweet gasp leave her lips. The sensation of her slick heat gripping him made his cock ache with need, and the way her body responded to his touch only heightened his arousal.

Éléanor’s hips bucked against his hand, her moans growing louder as she felt herself teetering on the brink. Patrick’s fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing firmly against her clit, sending her spiralling into a frenzy of pleasure. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she clung to him, her body trembling under the overwhelming sensation.

Éléanor’s hand shot up, tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was anything but gentle. Her lips moved urgently against his, her breath hot and uneven as she kissed him deeply, swallowing his groans of pleasure. She was so close, her body strung tight, every nerve on fire as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm.

And then he stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slightly, his thumb easing its pressure, leaving her right at the precipice but holding her there, not letting her fall. Éléanor let out a frustrated gasp, her body aching for release as she looked up at him in confusion. 

He cupped her face with his now damp fingers, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he kissed her again, softer this time, more controlled. “Not yet,” he whispered against her lips, his voice thick with desire but laced with restraint. He was holding back, savouring every moment, wanting to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

Éléanor’s body throbbed with need, every nerve alight with the desire for more, but as Patrick kissed her again, slower, deeper, she melted into him, letting herself get lost in the heat of the moment.

He started to move his fingers inside her again, slow and teasing.

She needed more, her hips rolling against his hand as she sought relief from the unbearable tension building inside her. But Patrick was in control now, his lips ghosting over her neck, the soft, teasing brush of his mouth making her moan with frustration and desire.

“Patrick, please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, breathless with need.

He lifted his head, his dark, hungry eyes meeting hers. 

A smile played at the corner of his lips, and he kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, letting her feel the heat of him. His free hand traced up her side, his fingers brushing over her bare breast, teasing the sensitive skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple again, making it peak under his touch.

Her body responded to every move he made, a slow, torturous build of pleasure that had her squirming beneath him. Patrick broke the kiss, his lips moving to her jawline, trailing hot kisses down her neck and over her collarbone. He paused at her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.

Éléanor cried out, her back arching, her body pressing closer to him as the sensation of his mouth on her breast and his fingers inside her drove her crazy. The combination of his touch, his lips, and the deliberate, slow pace was overwhelming, every nerve in her body alive and burning for him.

Patrick’s fingers curled inside her again, pressing against that spot deep within her, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her clit. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her entire body tensing as the pleasure surged through her in waves. She could feel the edge approaching again, that delicious tightness in her core building, but Patrick kept her on the brink again .

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back up to her lips, and she kissed him with a fierce intensity, her frustration and desire pouring into the kiss. Patrick groaned into her mouth, his own need evident as he pressed his hips against her, his hard cock rubbing against her thigh, spreading precum on her skin.

“Patrick… I need you,” Éléanor murmured, her voice a breathless plea against his lips, her desperation raw and unguarded.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his hand still working her slowly. His eyes darkened at her words, the intensity in them almost too much to bear. He kissed her again, rougher this time, before pulling his hand away, leaving her empty and aching for more.

Patrick’s fingers paused for a moment as he looked into Éléanor’s eyes, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. He pulled back slightly, the desire still strong between them, but his gaze softened, filled with a mix of hunger and care.

“I should grab a condom,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, breaking the tension just enough to pull them both back to reality, and the memory of last night flickered in his eyes.

Éléanor nodded, her chest still rising and falling quickly as she tried to catch her breath. “Yes… please,” she whispered, her body already aching for him to return, the intensity of the moment too much to wait.

Patrick reached for his wallet on the side table, his mouth curving in a small, knowing smile as he pulled out the condom, seemingly having placed it there sometime after last night, perhaps in a mix of preparation and nerves.

Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist as she spoke softly, “Let me…”

Patrick shook his head gently, his thumb grazing her knuckles as he held her gaze, his expression soft yet resolute. His eyes stayed on hers as he shook his head, his voice low and soothing. “No, it’s fine—I’ll do it. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it together if you touch my dick now.”

She watched as his fingers deftly tore open the small packet, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. His fingers brushed her thigh as he rolled the condom over his hard cock. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sight of him making her thighs clench together in anticipation.

Patrick leaned forward again, his body pressing into hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into her. His lips found hers, slow and deliberate. His hand, rough yet gentle, slid down her side, tracing the curve of her waist before his fingers brushed over the sensitive skin between her legs.

Éléanor gasped into his mouth, her hips instinctively arching towards his touch as his fingers explored her wet sex once more. He teased her, his thumb circling her clit with agonising slowness while his fingers slipped inside her, stretching her just enough to remind her of how much she needed him. 

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down her spine. Every inch of her body responded to him, the heat between them growing unbearable, her need for him nearly overwhelming.

Patrick could feel it, too, the way her body clenched around his fingers, her slick heat making his head spin. He groaned softly, the sound reverberating between them, as he moved his hand to guide his cock to her entrance. 

She moaned into his mouth, her body trembling with need. Patrick’s cock brushed against her again, the condom in place, and this time there was no hesitation—not like last night. His hand gripped her thigh, pulling her leg up to wrap around his waist as he slowly pushed inside her.

Éléanor’s sharp intake of breath echoed in the room as her body responded to the delicious stretch, her nails digging into his back as she pulled him closer. Patrick’s heart raced, his body trembling as he fought to maintain control, the feeling of her slick heat surrounding him inch by inch.

The sensation of him filling her, stretching her slowly, was everything she had been craving and everything she didn’t know she was craving. 

“God… you feel incredible,” he breathed, his forehead resting against hers as he pushed deeper, his cock sinking into her with slow, measured thrusts. He could feel every pulse of her body, every tremor as her walls gripped him tighter.

Her body responded instantly, arching up to meet him, desperate for more. But Patrick moved with deliberate care, easing into her slowly. Filling her inch by inch until he was fully inside her. He groaned against her neck, his breath ragged as he held himself still for a moment, letting her adjust to the feeling of him.

Éléanor’s hips rolled instinctively, urging him deeper, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Patrick, move,” she whispered, her voice laced with need as her legs wrapped around his waist. She was losing herself in the feeling of him, the fullness, the weight, the stretch.

He started slow, his thrusts gentle but deep, each one sending ripples of pleasure through them both. Patrick could feel the way her body responded to him, the soft moans escaping her lips driving him wild. 

As his pace quickened, he kissed her again, hard and desperate. His hands roamed over her body, one cupping her breast, kneading gently, while the other slipped between them, his fingers finding her clit again.

Éléanor gasped loudly, her body trembling beneath him as he worked her with expert precision, his cock moving in sync with his fingers. Every thrust, every touch, brought her closer to the edge, and Patrick could feel her body tightening around him, her breath coming faster, her moans louder.

He couldn’t hold back anymore, the pressure inside him building as he lost himself in the moment. 

His hips moved with a deep, driving rhythm, each thrust intensifying as his fingers circled her clit with relentless precision. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her gasps quickening as her body arched beneath him, her soft cries filling the room.

“Patrick… I—I’m so close,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate need, her body tightening around him as she felt the pressure mounting, ready to break.

Patrick groaned in response, his own control fraying as his movements became more urgent, his fingers working her with precision. He kissed her again, his lips crashing against hers as the tension in her body snapped with a particularly rough flick of his finger on her clit. 

Éléanor’s orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body arching off the couch as her walls clenched around him. She gasped his name, her voice trembling with the intensity of her release, her fingers gripping his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Patrick followed her, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final deep thrust, he groaned her name, his body shuddering as he came, the condom filling with his cum. His body collapsed against hers, both of them breathless and spent.

For a few moments, neither of them moved. The only sound in the room was their soft, shared breaths and the crackling of the fire nearby. Patrick slowly pulled out, carefully removing the condom and tossing it aside before settling back down beside her.

They lay in a comfortable silence, their bodies entwined as the room slowly settled around them. The soft, golden morning light spilt in through the windows, warming the space as they stayed close, wrapped in each other’s presence. Patrick’s fingers traced gentle, soothing patterns on her arm, and Éléanor let herself sink into the comfort of his steady heartbeat beneath her hand.

She felt like she could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet, unhurried happiness.

[larkspyrr]

chapter ix — and all i can breathe is your life (wc. 4.6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next (coming soon!)

reblogs are appreciated!

Lucy, the beautiful, loyal creature that she was, carried Wriothesley directly to you like a creature possessed, hooves stamping at the earth in a furious gallop.

She missed the trees closing in on either side of her by mere inches—whip-thin branches lashed against Wriothesley’s face and arms and chest, drawing blood wherever they bit into his skin. He didn't notice.

Finally, the lush green gave way to a barren little camp, and as Wriothesley slid out of the saddle, all he could see was you.

You were on the ground, cornered against an old tree with your legs pulled up against your chest, smears of blood on your neck and hands. Your hair and clothes were matted to your skin by something too light to be blood but too dark to be sweat. The unmistakable smell of gasoline permeated the entire camp, and Wriothesley suppressed a gag at the overwhelming odor.

Your eyes were wide with fear, but your brow and jaw set in defiance. Scared, but not cowering; not conceding defeat.

His eyes were drawn to a flash of light near the opposite treeline. Fire flickered from the head of a torch held by a man who was—who was fucking smiling—

Every part of Wriothesley's body thrummed with violence, his vision pulsing against his shoulder with glacial wrath. He felt frost gathering at his hands, the familiar frigid mist condensing into the unforgiving steel of his bespoke gauntlets. He basked in the weight against his hands, tightened his fists with the reassurance that he would never be unable to help those he cared about again.

He looked once more to you. To ground himself. To remind himself.

He stepped into the clearing.

The blizzard followed.

Wriothesley fought like you danced.

He was lethal; graceful. Beautiful. You had seen him in the ring, time and time again, but nothing could have ever prepared you for what he would be like when lives were on the line—your life. He was fluidity; he was raw power; he was precision and brutality. Those gauntlets you had only seen a few times before concealed the kind hands you’d come to know so well; channeling ice and snow and biting, savage cold into overwhelming waves of frigid righteousness. A one-man fortress, hewn from ice.

You gasped as a shaft of ice impaled the ground not far from where you sat, startling you from the viscous haze of awe and terror that clawed at your throat. It caught the sunlight, out of place, stark against the verdant green, glittering, wicked, and sharp.

Your eyes shot up. Wriothesley caught your stare for only a fraction of a second before sending out another cascade of ice toward the Treasure Hoarders, but the flick of his gaze to the shard told you everything you needed to know.

Wriothesley was giving you the choice. You were not powerless—not this time, not ever again.

Your heart hammered like a drum. You didn't hesitate, your body knowing what you'd choose before you had even consciously made the decision, darting forward of its own accord across the frosted grass. On shaking knees, you began sawing at the bindings around your wrists with hurried, cautious precision, freeing your hands to quickly untie the ropes restraining your ankles. With your movement unrestricted, you felt the first full breath fill your lungs in far too many fear-stained minutes, the cold air crisp and dizzying.

You were not powerless.

Paquette may have robbed you of your choice once before, nearly stripped you of so much more than that, but he could decay in the Abyss for the trouble; for believing that he could coerce and manipulate you into compliance. Into submission. Nothing would keep you down again. Nothing would keep you from standing at your rightful place: the world unfolding before you, the wind at your back.

This shard of ice was the reminder you needed—that you weren’t done, you were never done, not as long as you still had a way forward.

You leapt, diving for the brush, praying that the Treasure Hoarders hadn’t noticed you were loose as you turned all of your focus toward the dark thicket. You didn't so much as wince as thorn and bramble bit into the soft flesh of your palms and wrist; you continued patting through the tangle desperately, searching for—

There. Cold, hard Fontainian steel. Your fingers curled around the familiar hilt, feeling as your power rushed back to you like water from behind a collapsing dam, flooding all of your senses. All of your limbs vibrated with restless energy; with the hunger that had hounded you all your life, insisted that you were meant for something else than what you had been born for.

One look over your shoulder had you adjusting your grip and charging forward.

Wriothesley's eyes flared with surprise as you spun into the fray, knocking away the enormous claymore before it could make contact with his gauntlet. The woman wielding it nearly screamed in frustration as she beheld you, upright and furious before her, but just for a moment, your eyes were elsewhere.

You felt your face heat from that mere moment of Wriothesley's focus—of having those blazing eyes focused solely on you, a pride and a hunger reflecting right back, a perfect mirror of your own.

You stood firm by his side, sword drawn, and felt as though your soul was lifted on a brisk winter wind.

After some time, the clearing was finally quiet, the ringing in your ears replaced by roaring silence; your wrath now calmed to an echoing emptiness.

Your assailants hadn’t stood a chance. They attempted to regroup, to recover, but they could do nothing in the face of your joint onslaught, twin fangs of ice and steel. Quickly, so quickly, the five lay on the ground, unmoving. Dead or unconscious, you couldn’t say. You didn’t care. Bodies dotted the clearing; you could see some of their chests rising and falling in the stillness.

Over. It was over. Your body felt stiff.

You heaved but the air seemed to go right through you. Your lungs burned. You were unsure of how to loosen your fingers from the hilt of your sword. It seemed that your limbs had reached their limit for obeying your command, leaden in this bloody aftermath. Your eyes struggled to focus on your surroundings.

“Hey. You alright?” Wriothesley said from somewhere outside your blackening vision, voice muffled as though he were underwater; or maybe it was you who was submerged, somewhere deep and murky in the Fontemer. Everything was quiet, muted, sluggish.

Nausea roiled in your gut. You'd spent hundreds of hours sparring over many, many years. You'd fought harder battles than this in the ring, and yet this had been so unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

You had fought; you had won. But the adrenaline was gone. The thrill had faded. You were not dead. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn't breathe.

“Hey,” Wriothesley said again, slow and careful. There was a hint of something in his tone; worry, maybe? For you?

Why? You were alive, weren't you?

“Talk to me,” he said.

You were alive. Somehow. You were still alive.

Wriothesley had come. Even after you'd hurt him with open eyes and a shuttered heart, he'd found you. You had wanted him away, far, far away; you hadn't pulled your punches, repaying all the kindness he’d shown you with cruelty and dishonesty. You had aimed to sever; to break.

The look on his face had haunted you every moment since. The tragedy of your killing blow, the shattering of a promise. You had let it burn itself into your retinas, a reminder of the consequences for your myopic selfishness; for thinking that you could have it all, your family's happiness, your independence, and maybe even... maybe—

It was foolish. Impossible. Your waxen wings had been reduced to nothing more than drops in the sea, and you barreled down, down, down alongside them.

And here Wriothesley was, his good heart made plain with peace offerings disguised as spears of ice, and you had fallen in seamlessly by his side, happy to take even more that you were not owed; whatever he would give you.

Saved from the plummet you had earned yourself. You thought you’d never see him again. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

You fought to regain your composure, taking stock of what your senses were telling you—using them to center yourself. You were still covered head to toe in accelerant—a strangely alluring odor, thick and sweet. Your hands were frozen and shaking, your eyes wide and bone-dry. Slowly, your vision cleared bit by bit, and your eyes fell on a shaft of wood that lay beneath the reddened edge of someone’s coat. Charred but unlit; impotent.

You turned to further observe the camp and your eyes immediately fixed on the dark silhouette of the duke as his gauntlets clicked away in a flash of frost, faster than a blink. The wisps of blizzard that still remained dissipated as though the storm had never raged at all. A bird from somewhere in the wood began to sing again, life slowly creeping once more into the forest, unbothered by the violence that soaked the ground at your feet.

Your mind raced, spinning and spinning like a wheel in fresh mud. Wriothesley walked toward you, each step even and deliberate and you stubbornly looked away once more, but he was undeterred; his every footfall like a brand on your skin until he finally stopped, too close, not close enough, lifting his hands—when had he removed the fingerless gloves?—the bare skin of his scarred, freezing fingers sliding across your cheek, into the hair behind your ears; holding your face in his palms like you were something to be cherished, smearing the blood on your neck, your lip.

You allowed it. You swallowed the pulse of shame that threatened to overcome you, grappling with the instinct to flinch away from his touch, even as you craved for him to press closer, to drive his fingers into your jaw hard enough to leave a mark.

Your gaze flicked once more to the extinguished torch only a handful of steps away. The promise of death that had been smothered by a sheet of hail and rendered benign.

You screwed your eyes shut. You had been so close. So sickening close to—

“Look at me.”

His voice was quiet but calm; it was a command. A buoy in disquiet waters.

You exhaled. Reached for the salvation. Trusted Wriothesley to keep your head above water.

Your eyes finally met his.

His eyes—the exact same shade as the Fontemer—held yours, evenly, calmly; no further trace of the cold fury or the hurt or the defiance, only—

Archons damn it all.

Your free hand lifted to grip at his elbow, his sleeve bunched in your trembling fingers before you even realized you’d moved. He continued to hold your face, gently rubbing his thumb along the line of your cheekbone, beneath your eye, tracing a path so like the one that curved cruelly just beneath his own.

You breathed. He waited for you to speak.

“You're here,” you whispered. Your voice had never sounded like that; so hoarse, so quiet. The words scratched your throat.

Wriothesley’s eyes wrinkled at the corners, just barely. He held you afloat, kept you from drowning. “I'm here.”

You blinked, shaky breaths coming faster. Your rapid pulse had nothing to do with the fight. “Why?”

“Because—” he began, but then frowned and went silent, a clear, abrupt end to the thought he had started. You nearly winced as his hands fell away from you, your fingers flexing in his sleeve against your will, reluctant to let him go. You loosened your grip, letting your hand fall back to your side. You buried the ache. You didn't have the right to ask for any more than what he gave. You had already taken enough. “Because regardless of... everything else that's happened, I would never let anything happen to you if I could help it.”

Your face burned and you swallowed, wrenching your eyes away, already feeling bereft at the absence of his palms on your skin. You breathed, counting the steady ins-and-outs as you continued to regain control of your body. You scanned the clearing; eyes catching on the prone figures scattered throughout, the clumps of fabric mottled with dirt and blood.

“...Any dead?” you asked finally, dreading the answer and resenting your weakness for it.

Wriothesley scowled, looking up from the bandage he had been adjusting around his forearm. “...No. Banged up but alive. I figure the knowledge that they will have to deal with me for the foreseeable future should bring me satisfaction, but it does not.” He paused, eyes lowering to glare at the shallow cut on your neck. There was something like disgust on his face and you nearly recoiled at the sight of it. He stares at you for a moment too long before shifting his attention back to the camp. “Nothing I could do would ever be enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Wriothesley pauses and shakes his head, brushing off your question entirely; an unexpected surge of irritation rising in your chest at the dismissal, but you swiftly push it back. He cleared his throat, and you recognized the shift back to Warden. “Neuvillette will be here shortly and each will be taken in and charged in accordance with their crimes.”

“I…" you began, and then exhaled roughly. "Thank you. For finding me. I would have died if you had not.” You fidgeted under his frustratingly unintelligible gaze. "Your Grace," you finished awkwardly.

Wriothesley's expression shuttered and he sighed, turning away. You wanted to scream, to run for the hills, to shake him, to pull his face down to yours and erase that stony expression for good.

Wriothesley, on the other hand, seemed to not want much at all.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

You nodded, but then stiffened as a thought dawned on you—one you had nearly forgotten in all the chaos. Something you needed to do; to see for yourself.

“Wait," you started, your voice catching. You realized for the first time that Lucy had somehow returned, and Wriothesley was patting her snout, murmuring to her too quietly for you to hear. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, one dark brow raised. "Please, just... give me a minute?"

Wriothesley's brows furrowed but he nodded. “We can stay as long as you need.”

“It'll only be a minute,” you assured again, vaguely noting the flatness in your voice; the distance. Your eyes were fixed on the center tent. “I just need to be sure.”

Wriothesley followed your gaze and froze, understanding widening his eyes. He nodded again, more hesitantly than the first time, his cautious eyes trained on you as you stepped forward.

To the purple tent. To the table inside it.

To the folder.

You lifted the beige paper, let it fall open, looked at the documents within as they spilled out and across the hastily thrown rug on the ground. The untouched cot. The wooden table, bare but for the folder that had lain front and center.

Like bait.

The blood drained from your face. You had known, deep down; accepted it before the fighting had even begun, yet some part of you had still held onto the hope that the reality couldn't be so cruel. That this was just bad luck. That it was a misunderstanding.

But there had never been a job. There had never been any sensitive documents to recover. This task had had one goal and one goal alone.

Your death.

All of them. Each page. Every single one.

Blank.

“The trials are today.”

The sun was warm on your skin; the late summer morning bright and cheery and out-of-place. Flowers bloomed just beyond the confines of your sitting room window in every color imaginable, happy and vivid and blissfully oblivious to the turmoil swirling in your heart. You'd been sitting in the floral-printed armchair for hours, an untouched book buried in the folds of your dress on your lap. You couldn't recall the title; the genre, even. It lay all but forgotten as you stared out the window towards an opera house hidden behind miles and miles of burgeoning landscape.

“I’m not going."

“Oh, of course you aren’t,” Clorinde said imperiously. She huffed. “And what about your testimony? Don't you want justice for what that snake tried to pull?”

Your brow twitched in annoyance. “Of course I want justice,” you said, shooting her a glare. “I gave my witness testimony about Paquette in private to the Iudex. He said it was for my safety, but I also… I just couldn't stand to be put on display before the Court like that. To see them.” You scowled, turning your focus fully on Clorinde, abandoning your bitter vigil of the summer day that dared to be a summer day with no regard to your bad mood. “And I have nothing else to say about Thibeault besides the fact that he's a dick, which is already common knowledge. The only evidence we have against him is Wriothesley's word, though I don't think anyone is surprised that he's involved in any of...” You sniffed, waving your hands around in a vaguely all-encompassing gesture. “This. And what is with the attitude? Are you pissed at me?”

She scoffed. “Of course I’m pissed at you,” she clipped, but then sighed, some of the tension draining from her posture. “I’m mostly so glad that you’re safe. Grateful Wriothesley has as much of a knack for not minding his business and getting into trouble as you do. Relieved that you’re even here for me to be pissed at. But I am still pissed.”

In the face of her obvious concern, you immediately felt guilty for your vitriol. The defenses you'd had queued up died on your tongue. Your fingers played absentmindedly with the pages of the forgotten book—it seemed like you had grabbed one of Chloe's tedious history tomes— and your shoulders slumped. “I know,” you said pathetically. “I don't blame you for being angry. I’m sorry.”

Her gaze was unflinching and unmoved. “What were you even thinking?” she demanded. Her lovely face contorted in anger and—to your further dismay—hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? Do you have any idea what it would do to the people who care about you if you had, Archons forbid, died?”

Your chest ached as though she'd struck you. “I didn’t want to endanger anyone else,” you said, hoping she could understand. “I only did any of it to try and protect my family. I didn't want to drag anyone else into it. Burden anyone else.”

“You don't get to decide what would be a burden for me,” she retorted. “I would never have been in danger.”

“You can’t fight your way out of every problem, Clorinde,” you snapped, and then reigned in your instinct to be defensive; took a slow, even breath. Then another. “This is bigger than just one group of Treasure Hoarders. Paquette has influence. A huge network of allies. I couldn't say what they might do to punish those who interfered. My hands were tied.”

“And what of your promises to me?” she said, purple eyes narrowed. Your stomach lurched.

“I didn’t want to break that promise,” you said honestly. “I was trying not to get him hurt. That was the problem.”

“You didn’t just break that promise," she reminded you. "You broke both.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Clorinde sighed, and the room went silent for long enough that you began to count the ticking of the clock in the foyer. Clorinde's eyes never left your face. Six. Seven. Her mouth tilted into a thin frown.

“...You were hurt, too,” she said quietly. Her eyes flicked to the healing wound on your neck. “In more ways than just the obvious.”

The pain pulsing just beneath your skin surged back with a vengeance, seeming to want to drive her point home. The knowledge—the force of it—was almost enough to bring you to your knees. You had lost more than your pride. More than your safety. You had maybe lost more than you were truly willing to part with, something you hadn't even realized you'd wanted to keep.

“I don’t know what to do,” you said at last, voice weak, feeling exposed. Bare. Your eyes stung. “I don't know my way back from this.”

Clorinde leaned in. Her beautiful features were schooled into a calm, steady expression that soothed you just enough to keep your clarity when it teetered so precariously on the edge of despair.

“A good place to start?” she said. "Fix it.”

You fought your hardest to stop the tears from falling; and failed. You felt warmth trailing down your cheek. “How?”

“Try telling him the full truth, maybe,” she said easily, leaning back from you to fiddle with her pistol; once more giving you the space you didn't know you needed—but she did. Clorinde always understood when to push and when to pull away. She let the pistol drop back into her holster, a faraway look on her face that began to edge suspiciously close to a smile. “And make decisions based on strength, not on weakness.”

You sniffed, swiping at your cheek. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Sure you do. And take it from someone who cares about you,” Clorinde said with a pointed look. “And him. There are some risks worth taking. Talk to him."

You smiled weakly. “I’ll consider it.”

She nodded and shrugged, back to her usual self, and made her way to the door. She leaned against it for a beat, scanning you with that calculating look that always made you wish you knew what she was thinking. You were certain you never would. “You’re sure you’re not coming to the trials?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said, but didn't move from her spot. Her gaze softened minutely. “I really am happy that you’re alright,” she said. “Definitely still pissed though. Next time, let me know. I’d be happy to wipe the floor with some Treasure Hoarders. Or corrupt nobles. Maybe even a Fatuus or two. Dealer's choice ”

You laughed, soft and watery. “Perhaps a Ruin Grader? As a treat?"

Clorinde gave you a mischievous smile before closing the door behind her, leaving you alone in the silence of the sitting room to continue not-reading Chloe’s tome.

You put it down, no longer willing to even entertain the facade that you were going to read it.

You'd had enough of ruses to last a lifetime.

Sigewinne clucked as Wriothesley finally dragged himself into her clinic. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Wriothesley offered her a wry smile, already smelling the blood in the water at her tone, so unlike her usual playful lilt. He had been wary at her request—her demand, really—that Wriothesley come pay her a visit at the clinic and his suspicions were now unfortunately confirmed. “Are you upset with me?"

Sigewinne lifted her chin, neatly tucking away a roll of clean bandages into a tall cabinet and pulling out a stack of paperwork from a different one. Wriothesley couldn't help but feel like she was working aimlessly for lack of anything else to do with her deft hands.

“No,” she lied, flipping through the documents.

Wriothesley's smile turned a bit more genuine, hit with a wave of fondness for the Melusine. “Why are you upset with me?” he asked gently.

Sigewinne sniffed. “I'm not upset at you,” she said, closing her eyes and setting the papers she had been sorting through on her desk. "It's just that I’ve known you for a very long time, Your Grace. You forget what that means.”

Wriothesley hummed. It was true—he was fairly sure the only person he had known longer was Neuvillette, and even then only because he had been the one to sentence Wriothesley for his crimes. It was hardly like the friendship they had now. Sigewinne, on the other hand, had been patching him up since he was a teenager whenever he got into a scrap—and Wriothesley was always getting into scraps. It had been she who first offered him the salve he still used to ease the pain when the old wounds on his body flared up. It was also she who always offered him an ear or a shoulder when the wounds on his soul ached or burned, too.

In many ways, he owed the man he eventually grew to be to her. Her care. Her patience. He would never be able to repay that debt, no matter how many years he lived but, Archons, would he try.

Wriothesley tilted his head. “And what does that mean?”

Sigewinne crossed her arms, a familiar look coloring her features—one that meant she was going to speak her mind, and Wriothesley was going to listen. “In all the years I’ve known you, I have never seen you as happy as you were when she was around.”

Wriothesley's smile fell; his heart fractured further, cracks spidering out from the weak points that had already been gone over with a pick. “There’s nothing I can do about it, Sigewinne,” he said softly, knowing there was no point in trying to convince her she was off the mark. She knew him better than anyone, had spent many years analyzing his tells and body language. She had Wriothesley down to a science. “Ultimately, it’s not up to me.”

“You could try being honest.”

“I never lied to her.”

“You omitted truths.”

Wriothesley dragged a hand through his hair, further ruining his thin efforts to make himself presentable. “It isn’t that simple.”

Sigewinne's topaz eyes were bright and sharp, unrelenting —Wriothesley sometimes forgot how much older than him she was. How much wisdom had such a being amassed over the centuries?

It made him feel so young again.

Sigewinne stayed silent for a long while.

“Do you care about her?” she asked at last.

"Of course I do," he said simply. He frowned. "I think that much has been made obvious."

“Then it really is just that simple, Wriothesley,” Sigewinne said, a tiny triumphant quirk to her lips.

"She doesn't want this."

“I’ve seen you fight for what you want time and time again. Why not this? Why not her?”

“She doesn’t want me, Sigewinne,” he said, barely more than a whisper. He felt another streak of pain at the words. “She’s made that abundantly clear.”

Sigewinne rolled her eyes, then leveled an unimpressed stare at him. “Stupid isn’t a good look on you, Your Grace."

Wriothesley balked. "Rude.”

Sigewinne offered him a small, playful grin in return, her gemstone eyes gleaming in the harsh clinic light before her smile faded. Her eyes were no less gentle when said said, “Just try talking to her, Wriothesley. Don’t let this be the first time you surrender.”

Wriothesley was… Well. If he hadn't already experienced the entire range of human emotion in a few short days, he couldn’t be sure he'd have been able to put a cap on the waterworks. As it was, he wasn't sure how believable his composure was.

Knowing Sigewinne, she wasn't convinced.

She quirked a brow at him. Definitely not convinced.

Wriothesley dipped his head to the Head Nurse, ready to flee so he could go think—fall apart, his mind unhelpfully corrected—in his office. “Thanks, Sigewinne. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He turned to leave but was halted by the sound of a throat clearing meaningfully behind him.

He turned and Sigewinne grinned, holding out a small jar with a colorful liquid that made Wriothesley audibly groan.

“Don’t forget your smoothie,” she said innocently.

The Steambird — September 14 Paquette Convicted and Thibeault Exonerated in Murder-for-Hire Conspiracy

a\n: sigewinne appreciation lifestyle

title from 'iris' by the goo goo dolls

this is kind of an interlude where the kids get a good talking to from the Common Sense Duo which was deceptively hard to write lmao. someone explain to me how i can write 95% of a chapter in one sitting like a madwoman and then struggle with the last 5% every. single. time

sorry for the delay (again), thanks for the comments (as always), and i hope everyone had a happy, healthy december ❄️

[aliasrocket]

WELCOME BACK BECKALICIOUS I MISSED YOU SO <333

May I please request a lil smth smth ?

Rocket comes home in the early morning from a mission while Reader's asleep.

You take it from there, lovey <333

IM GLAD TO BE BACK!! it's an honor to have my first request be from you <333

masterlist. requests.

His icy stiff fur brushed against your cheek as he lowered himself onto you. 

His lips met your own, and once more he was put through the cold trenches his recently completed commission had required him to trudge through. Your lips were cracked shells prickling him, but his own warm ones wrapped around them gratefully.

He lifted himself off you, and a hot compress squeezed his shoulder and halted his movement.

Your eyes searched him. Wide awake, hair in loops and tangles in your face that you now brushed aside, your hand now sliding down to his blizzard-covered collarbone and reaching his built chest and abdomen.

“You’re … here.” he would have assumed the wind had spoken if he hadn’t observed your lips moving at that silent moment.

If your voice was candy he could savor in his mouth, he’d let it melt down to the last sugary atom, covering his teeth and tongue in nothing but the taste.

He smiled. “I ended earlier than expected—”

Your hands clasped his collar and he was caught in your lips once more, more contact than ever when both his and your mouth were wide open, and your tongue browsed generously through his teeth.

He reciprocated, tongues meeting and passing through each other like a solar system relying on each other’s orbit. If he didn’t need his arms to prop himself above you, he would have given you some of his ice, feeling the skin of your arms and realizing you could bake cookies on them from the heat alone. That’s what you get for not listening to him; you always insisted on making your surroundings colder so you could be comfortably wrapped in your cloudy duvet, but you always end up burning hot in the mornings.

Stubborn, stubborn you.

Just as stubborn as you are beautiful.