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san8ny · 4 months ago

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WHEN YOU FANTASIZE, AM I YOUR FANTASY?

!: sfw, a bit of morally grey! Ellie, infidelity.

?: Ellie can’t seem to leave Jesse’s girlfriend alone..

Ellie is not a bad person, she swears she isn’t.

“You have a nice lip shape..” you murmur absentmindedly, smudging out the lipgloss on the sides of Ellie’s ajar mouth with your thumb, eyes looking anywhere but directly up at where you hover over her. This feels sweetly intimate, she thinks, palms directly on your sides as she steadies you on her lap, pretty much since you need a comfortable position to apply products onto her face; The room is warm, rainfall falling lightly on the windowsill rhythmically as the dim lampshade casts a golden hue on your face.

Her eyes finally fall on you and she hopes you don’t notice the slight dilation in her ivy orbs, her affection for you running rampant while Jesse’s game echos where he lounges in the living room a few rooms away from where you two currenly sat in her bedroom— on her bed.

She liked you, you had spunk that none of Jesse’s previous girlfriends had; more importantly, you actually acknowledged her existence living with him, rather than seeing her as a nuisance or a 3rd wheel, always making her feel involved when you two would just chat it up.

Guilt gnawed at her heartstrings whenever you’d go out of your way to be polite to her, often times shushing Jesse when he’d interrupt whatever she had to say, your undivided attention on her as you closely listened to her, even scooting closer.

She practically went to bed with you on her mind; and god, was her appetite and both jealousy maxed out on the nights you would sleep over, perversely having her ear up against the door while you and Jesse fooled around, closing her eyes and imagining it was her around your arms and not her longtime friend.

When her fingers slowly trail up to your baby blue, lacy bralette, you’re pulling away slightly, making small distance,

“Ellie, we’ve talked about this—

“You don’t even like him like that.” She immediately retorts, croak in her throat expanding when you don’t allow her to get anymore closer than she already is. She looks nothing short of pathetic right now and she knows it— you know it.

“Just one kiss..” She attempts to negotiate, eyes pooling with desperation, “I can’t move on fast, you know this..”

She’s down-bad to the point she doesn’t even see the corner she’s put herself in; even if you were to potentially take up her offer and put an end to whatever was left of your relationship with Jesse, you’d still have to actively see him everyday. Lost in your thoughts, Ellie’s burying her head in your lap while you mindlessly run digits in her hair, massaging her tender scalp like you did all those nights you two spent together as you form a conclusion.

“and what about him?” You whisper, humoring the idea, but she doesn’t respond, eyes trained on the shadow moving underneath her door and additionally, way too comfortable in the warmth you held to give a response. She eventually mumbles something but it falls incoherent before she completely goes non-verbal, just focusing on the massaging of your honeyed fingertips.

It was a sickly sight, to say the least, and Jesse would agree.

He stands near the wall adjacent of Ellie’s bedroom door, heart racing as it all dawns on him why she’d been so fond of you and not the others. What he’d just witnessed through the small crack of her door has just completed changed everything, and yet explained it all at once.

A small part of him doesn’t blame Ellie, as he’d fallen for your charms too but, why specifically you? Why not the countless other girls she’s passed up under the guise of ‘not being for a relationship?’

His throat dries up as he, himself, comes to a bridge,

Was she truly not ready for a girlfriend, or was she just getting ready for his?

He stands defeated as he watches the one girl he’s ever liked have more of a connection with his bestfriend than he ever did with her; to add more salt to the wound, he finally notices,

she’s aware of his presence.

She doesn’t acknowledge it, simply letting you pet her like a docile pet while her relatively warm gaze burns into him, a telltale sign she’s trying to get the message across that she’s won whatever this was.

For sure, Ellie Williams was a bad person.

#ellie williams x f!reader #ellie williams #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams short fic #tlou 2 #the last of us #the last of us 2 #ellie williams hc #ellie williams x reader #tlou2 #wlw #tlou fanfiction

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stellamancer · 3 months ago

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prompt: peel back the layers of me, on purpose or accidentally + “i’m not stopping— not now, not ever.”

summary: in the aftermath of everything, megumi is barely surviving.

wc: 1.8k

contains: gn!reader (reader is not a sorcerer but aware of jujutsu society), canon divergent with spoilers post shibuya incident arc, mentioned character deaths (megumi is the only survivor 😭), angst, hurt/comfort

co-written by @seiwas as part of our milestone event collab: keep this love unspoken (tell me as loud as you can) [closed]

You find Megumi in the rain.

He stands from a distance, back hunched and fingers twisted in what you know calls for Divine Dogs. The moonlight lends itself to his shadows, a distant light cast upon what’s left below—illuminations over darkened silhouettes.

You know he can’t summon them anymore, their powers having trickled over to the handful of shikigami he has left. But you think at this moment, body slack and drenched in rainfall, that he looks like one right now—a lone wolf staring at the moon, searching, reaching.

(His howls are deafeningly silent.)

“Megumi!” you shout, the umbrella in your hand shaking as your waterproof jacket shelters you without warmth.

He doesn’t respond—you didn’t expect him to, anyway.

Megumi’s been different for a while. Withdrawn.

And though he’s always been hidden within layers of himself, it never used to be this many; he would always shed one off when it came to you.

“You’re going to get sick!” you attempt again.

You’ve known this secluded clearing since you were 10. It lies deep inside the training grounds of the college, hidden within tall trees and winding paths—as if it was always meant to safe-keep the memories made in them: the first time Megumi ‘trained’ with Gojo at age 7; the day when you, wide-eyed and seeing, knowing of the horrors of this world–his world–were eventually introduced as his training companion years later.

He doesn’t move.

You take a deep breath, stepping towards him.

Companion, not partner is what you are.

With your abilities limited to just seeing, you never had to fight his battles. Instead you watched, sat on the sidelines as you both grew, always around but never beside him—because, what else could you do?

Even when his world continued to take, and take, and take; Tsumiki. Nobara.

Gojo.

Yuuji.

It was (is) all you could (can) do.

Walking towards him now, with unease weighing on every press against crunching grass and sinking soil, you wonder if this is what it feels like to enter a battlefield.

The air is thick and damp, a sickening cold that seeps deep into bones—when you get close, he’s heaving, each rise and fall of his back punctuated by ripples of white cotton clinging.

“Megumi,” you say softer but not any less firm, “we should head back.”

The word rings in his ears.

(Back? Back to what?)

He turns his face to the side, droplets falling from the tips of his hair and down the slope of his nose. It’s awful how you’re reminded of a scene completely different from this—him, at 10, fighting back a smile as you play in the rain with his lone two shikigami.

“Still training,” he finally speaks, tone flat. Unfeeling.

Except he isn’t. You know he isn’t—isn’t training, isn’t unfeeling.

Eight years, you’ve known Megumi, two since he lost everything. You’d always seen it as a blessing that your hands could never bear the power to be weaponized against anything, but now you curse every twisted fate in jujutsu society that there’s no one left to carry the burden but Megumi.

You sigh, extending your arm as you step closer to cover him with the umbrella.

“I’ll keep you company then.”

That’s what you are after all—it’s what you’ve always been, throughout the past two years especially. His eyes no longer meet yours as if speaking to you without talking; the small smile he used to give you now falls flat, static. Fingers that once moved fluidly, surely, now fidget as he picks at the sides of his nail beds, skin peeling.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters tightly, the call for Demon Dogs morphing into clenched fists beside him.

Something in him feels like snapping.

How can you just always be there?

Waiting. Tending.

It shouldn’t tick him off as much as it does right now, but it does, because—

“Well,” you clear your throat, shifting your feet, “someone has to keep you dry if you’re staying out here.”

—you say it so easily, as if this is something you just do and not give.

As if he should even be here, when he shouldn’t. Especially not on the receiving end of it.

His chest burns.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he spits out, grabbing hold of the edge of the umbrella to tip it over, knocking it out of your hands.

It falls to the ground and rolls away, but you don’t move to grab it— your eyes are on Megumi.

Only Megumi.

The fire in his chest rages on, bright and hot, the flames licking at his ribcage. It hurts, it’s painful. His heart is charred, with little left to serve as kindling and yet, despite the rain, despite everything, it remains ablaze.

Just like the fire in your eyes right now.

Rather than reach for the umbrella, you take a step toward him, the rain saturating your clothes, your skin, but you don’t seem to notice, don’t seem to care.

All Megumi can think of is how it's unfair.

You shouldn’t be wasting your time on him, not with his bloodied hands and dark thoughts. He never should have survived, he didn’t deserve to survive. Fushiguro Megumi is living on time that isn’t just borrowed— it’s stolen, ripped from the hands and souls of those far, far more deserving.

Time is precious, he’s learned, but here you are trying to throw yours away.

“Megumi, please,” you say and while your words are soft, there’s a tautness there that Megumi painfully recognizes. Tsumiki would use that tone too, in her patience, in her frustration, whenever Megumi would act out. He’d always bend to her will eventually, but you are not Tsumiki.

He will not give in to you.

“Can’t you see how tired you are?” you plead. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t care, and either you don’t seem to realize, or you do and you don’t care either. “I know you want to keep training, but I really think that maybe you should turn in for the night. Get a good night’s sleep and start again in the morning.”

Megumi hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in ages, and honestly speaking, he doesn’t think he will ever again. How can he when he knows that Yuuji and Nobara will never wake up again? He starts to turn away from you. “I’m not tired.”

“Megumi!” He hears you take another step and feels the slightest tug at his shirt—

Gojo gave him this shirt for his 15th birthday. It was two sizes too large and exactly the type of thing Gojo liked to wear himself. Whenever Megumi wore it, he looked childlike and ridiculous; in fact the first time he put it on Gojo laughed so hard that Megumi swore he saw tears in his eyes. Megumi remembers snapping at him, telling him if he was going to buy someone clothes as a gift, it would be best to buy clothes that actually fit, but Gojo had merely laughed it off, telling Megumi he’d grow into it one day.

Now Gojo is gone, but just as he said, Megumi's grown into the shirt. It fits better now, even though it’s worn and fraying. Whenever he wears it he can almost hear Gojo laughing at him, telling Megumi ‘I told you so’ in that annoying voice of his.

All he hears right now is the ripping of fabric.

Megumi’s body goes completely still and you are oddly silent.

It’s almost as if time has stopped.

But then the apologies start spewing from your mouth, unending and torrential, just like the rain above. “Oh my god, Megumi, I’m so sorry, I—”

He turns around to face you, and the shirt rips even more, tearing more and exposing his chest. Any hope of the shirt being repaired is gone, but Megumi doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because all he sees right now is you, fretting and wide eyed, “I told you to just leave me alone!”

You fall silent, your words and apologies staunched. The downpour surrounding you both only seems to get louder, more relentless, and the both of you are soaked to the bone. There’s no way that either of you are getting out of this without catching a cold, but Megumi doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t—

“Why do you keep doing this?” he demands. “Why don’t you just—”

He stops short, all the words in his head trying to fly out of his mouth all at once.

In the midst of his silence, you speak up, your voice barely audible, “...just… what?”

Stop.

Leave.

Go away.

“...this is pointless,” he finally answers.

“No, Megumi it’s—”

“It is!” he argues, his voice rising. “You’re wasting your time with me, so just stop already!”

Life isn’t fair. Megumi learned that long, long ago. When his father abandoned him, when Tsumiki fell into a coma, when Yuuji died over and over, when Gojo died at his hands. Time and time again Megumi has had it beat into his head, burned into his mind that life isn’t fair.

And neither, he’s learned, are you.

“I won’t,” you say, voice firm, resolute. You take another step toward him, and it feels almost as if Megumi’s entire world is shaking, tilting on its axis and flipping upside down. The fire in your eyes burns bright and hot, the flames calling to the one raging in his chest. It aches and yearns. His heart is smoldering, but still it beats, drumming to a beat that’s at odds with the torrent surrounding you both.

You reach for him, and before Megumi can try to dodge, before he can slip through your fingers, your hands cup his cheek, gentle and firm before you bring him down so that you are both eye to eye. He sees himself reflected in your eyes, widened and bewildered. The only thing you see is Megumi.

Only Megumi.

“I’m not stopping,” you say, thumbs pressing into his cheeks, as if you’re trying to leave a mark. “Not now, not ever!”

And then you kiss him.

It’s like a shock to his system— lightning striking the ground where he stands. You’re putting everything into this, your frustration, your desperation, your love. Megumi can feel it, flowing from you to him, like electricity, like cursed energy. His hands shake, torn between pushing you away because he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve you, and holding you close because you’re all he has left.

This isn’t fair.

You pull away slowly, and Megumi only wants to give chase. He knows he shouldn’t and yet…

“I…” he begins, the words fumbling around in his mouth. “I don’t…”

“I don’t care,” you interject, cutting him off. “You can tell me that you don’t deserve this; but I don’t care. Life isn’t fair, I know, so why should I have to be?”

Megumi stares at you, speechless.

“So, Megumi please,” you plead once more, and this time all Megumi hears is you and you alone. “Please let me in.”

It seems the rain won’t stop anytime soon, and, for better or worse, neither will you.

With a deep sigh, he relents.

He gives in to you.

notes: requested by @firein-thesky

cielo! thank you so much for requesting and we're sorry it took so long, but hopefully it was worth the wait!!

um, i'm (niku) not sure what else to say regarding this piece. sel took the lead here actually and i did my best to match her in terms of writing but i think you can tell when i took over LMAO. i don't want to ramble too much but maybe i should do like sel and do my notes at the end from now on too... hmm.

#fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #fushiguro megumi x you #megumi fushiguro x y/n #fushiguro megumi x y/n #jjk x reader

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jolalibrary · 4 months ago

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there's nothing blue about you

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: javier peña's dreams are haunted by shades of blue, blending his fears into nightmarish landscapes. only his lover's touch anchors him, transforming his dreams into hues of something else.

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v. overuse of the colour blue, like by a lot. this whole this is an angsty bitch, with hopeful/hea. leans close to gothic horror in some ways but not quite, honestly? unsure how to describe what in the hell I've written. third-person reader (she/her). no descriptions, no y/n. an: written for @studioghibelli's fic challenge. (the moodboard is at the end of the fic). i think i leaned very much into painting and blue, and I'm not sure if that at all was what was asked of me. thanks: i'd have likely scrapped this if not for @goodwithcheese who took my weird-poetic-ness and called it lyrical and somehow it made it worth how long I've agonised over this. i hope she knows i love her, and if not, i hope this very public declaration confirms it. shoutout @pedgito who urged me to do this. wc: 2.7k

Javier Peña dreams in blue.

Thick strokes of azure, cerulean, and navy smear the world, forcing it to twist around him. Smearing the world, forcing it to twist around him. Knocking it all on its axis—allowing the horrors to blend into fairytales and happiness to shift into nightmares.

Shifting, changing. His worst fears come alive with brushwork, forcing scenarios to swallow hopeful desires.

Each blot spreads out like tendrils, drawing their tales in wide, brisk strokes, in shades of melancholy and yellow. The latter is a beacon—a spark of hope in a sea of nothing; a beam that guides him back to reality. To being awake, where his heart squeezes tight. Eyes open, struggling for breath before the sun has even risen. Sometimes, even before the stars have stopped sparkling and glittering. Sweat beads at his temple, palm to his chest—gasping, struggling to breathe as he drags his hand down his face, swiping the hair above his lip.

Then, anxiousness embroils. That same hand patting, sliding, eyes blinking furiously as he banishes shadows and forces them to shift back to non-threatening inanimate objects.

He’s able to breathe when he feels her. Alive, asleep.

Blissfully unaware of his nightly torture as her chest rises and falls—soft breaths mingling with ragged ones. Curling close, inhaling her scent, listening to the steady way her heart forces blood around her veins.

Hoping, praying, that when he closes his eyes he dreams of nothing, but knows they’ll be worse now. They always are when he wakes and reaches for her. As though by touching her, they spill to her, ruining her too. Wrap their fingers around her, change her skin to deep shades of blue in his hands as he falls through landscapes and lands in hell.

Then she sobs, pleads; tight little balled-up fists hammering at his chest as she shakes everything in him until she rips like paper, leaving him alone, just like he envisions he should be.

But then, he’d choose those over the ones where his hands are stained in her crimson, blotched, unable to be washed, little beads on his clothes and then a rainfall. Her split in his hand, eyes fading from light to dark. Those haunt him for longer when he wakes and he sits opposite her over breakfast and tries to force a smile.

Sometimes, he worries that his dreams have become the thing she adores. Reminding him of the poster she’s framed in her place—the one with swirls of a night sky.

She stares at it often, loses herself in it—escapes. Javi envies her for it. For being able to lock away the things that plague her, evading them, not to be tormented by them in fields that shift and flutter around him. He thinks it’s because she carves out the parts that make bags appear under her eyes through painting. Inspired, thriving, transforming wicked things into light, taking something that weighs her to something that makes her smile. Each drag of her paintbrush was like a spell, like magic.

“It helps.”

“How so?” he replied, leaning against the wall, arms folded, admiring.

Shrugging, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand before dabbing the brush into the murky water. “Just does.”

He wishes she’d run the brush over him. Run the synthetic filaments over every part of his skin.

But then, if he was asked, Javi would choose not to have the dreams at all. Would rather not be lost in a labyrinth of blues, where a lantern flickers and tries to guide. Instead, they cast ochre-shaded shadows that appear like shape-shifting failures. Each of them dancing, whispering secrets, finding all he can do is follow. Trust in it, hopeful it takes him to her, like his real life.

An accidental meeting, a connection that soothed his bones. One that had him smiling when he sat back in his truck, had him thinking when the darkness smothered the backyard and had him wishing for second meetings.

But, unlike his reality, the path is never straight, always winding, always shifting.

Sometimes, he sees her in the distance, her figure bathed in moonlight, a silhouette against the swirling sky. Sheet falling, curves and all on show. He reaches out, only for her to fade, dissolving into the night, leaving him grasping at the air like he’s chasing a ghost. A thing conjured, never real.

But, she’s real now.

His arm is behind his head when he hears the faint groan as she stretches before a palm slides over the soft curve of his stomach. Her breath fans over his lips, a whispered morning before they press to his. Smooth, velvety, gentle—addled with sleep, yet dripping in need. His name is punctuation in the sentence when she says, want you.

He never squanders the chance to remind himself of actuality. Moving her until she’s on her back, until she’s as bare as she is in his dreams—nothing blue, nothing midnight, cobalt or sapphire. Feeling her, taking the time to as he kneads her breast and grazes his teeth over the bud that hardens against his tongue as her nails scrape red along the olive of his skin.

There’s no making up the way she feels between her thighs, warm, slick, and inviting—or the gasp she emits when he curls two fingers inside of her and her back arches at the intrusion.

A blessing. That’s how he’d describe her when he’d been caught smiling, wearing smitten like an accessory. Questioning on the second date if she could be the sun to his night. Bright, luminous, radiant. The type he’d somehow expect to find shopping in town in a movie, but not in Laredo.

Too perfect—

Made only more so when she’d slid her underwear into his pocket on their third date. Before the mains, after the starters. Too much of the meal to go before he could make an excuse that’d allow him to hear if she moaned as pretty as he had thought.

It’s too pretty the noises she makes. Another thing he yearns for. She emits them in varying shades, but they’re always cried with his name—whether he fucks her rough or gentle, whether he takes his time or bends her over the couch decorated in plush cushions and creased blankets.

She welcomes it, when he hikes her dress up or when he pushes her panties to the side; when his mouth is pressed to her spine or when it’s crashing to her lips. Use me, she says, suave, sultry—each letter wrapped in intoxication as she leaves dye only he can see on his skin and he leaves bruises that he’ll look to replace in a few days.

He remembers when she painted him.

When she made him beautiful on white canvas—saw him, immortalised him with finger marks and paint strokes.

Do you like it?

He answered only by sliding down onto his knees, by pulling the shorts she paints in down her glorious thighs and answering yes against her pussy. His tongue explained it better than words could. His fingers had dug into the flesh of her rear as his nose bordered her swollen clit, her thigh rested on his shoulder and her palms pressed into her workbench, leaning back, for leverage as he fucked her with his tongue, as he drank up every drop she’d give him—as though it healed him, fixed him.

When he can, Javi likes bending her over around her paints—taking her. Likes that sometimes an open can or a left-out brush stains him in a way he can see. Rich oranges and deep greens. He enjoys spreading her out on her workbench as he makes her whine his name which makes all other ways his name is spoken seem obsolete. That there’s more than her sweat on his skin, her scent digging into his bones—evidence, proof of existence.

He has all the evidence now as he slowly slides his cock inside of her. As he swallows her whine, her moan—a gasp tinged with thankfulness. Feeling her stretch around him, take him in one smooth movement as allows himself to glance down and see where they meet. Then, he drags his eyes up, and sees how she smiles, how her fingers are reaching for him, grabbing for him. Needing, desperate, wanting.

But not just for his body, for what lived inside of his jeans. But for him.

Not just the daytime, but the blue version that drapes over him when things get too quiet and his mind gets too loud. No question asked, but an offering of comfort. Like when she had slid across his lap, when she pulled his head to her chest, brushed fingers into his hair. And he wonders like he did then and only ever to himself, how cruel it is that he cannot be something more for her. How unfair it feels for such sunshine to be surrounded by a storm.

He had smiled, though. Half-assed and minimal. Pulled her closer, so she sat more comfortably across his thighs. The grin barely reached his cheeks, never mind his eyes. “How strange, to dream of you even when I am wide awake.”

Her snort loud had punched the air. “Poet now, are we?”

“For you, I’ll be anything.”

More words had surrounded it, not spoken, but there. I’ll do anything, be anything. I’ll try, I’ll—

Unsure how else he could keep such a thing, unsure how he can keep perfection curled up against him, who’ll remind him his demons are only self-inflicted.

“Maybe just be you. You, are plenty enough.”

He had sneered, chin dipped, shame blooming.

“Hey,” she says urgently, fingers hooking under his chin as she drags his eyes to hers. “You are, Javi. And I’ll be reminding you of that until I have no words left in my mouth.”

“Be a while then, with how much you talk.”

Even as she pinched him, he pressed how he didn’t deserve her against her lips, against her cheek, neck and collarbone. Not that she took them. Ripped them instead, shredded them.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Her fingers then glided across the back of his neck, head rested against his. “Because, you know, Javi, there’s nowhere or no one else I’d rather be sat on…”

A beat passed, one he waited for, fingers brushing over her skin. “…crushing.”

He laughed then.

Because she always pulls laughs from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s a soul full of joy, happy. Like he wasn’t a man who had spent a decade around destruction, misery and streets filled with scarlet, weighed down by it.

She makes it lighter. In the same way, she calms him at night and he thanks her for it in the morning.

Like he’s doing now. Licking his thumb before he presses it to her clit, swirling, forcing her pussy to draw around him, to hold his cock as tightly as he needs, sucking him in, gasping for more as her breasts bob with each thrust, and her mouth falls open in a silent moan—

“Close, m’close, Javi. Fuck, baby—”

He presses his mouth to the juncture of her neck, feeling her attempt at vocalisation. Letting it vibrate against his lips, tingle. Proof that he’s awake, that this is real, that in any moment things won’t turn—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing kisses, dotting them in a pattern like stars in the sky. “Feel so good around me...”

She whines. A noise he banks in his mind, a jar full now—one that sparkles and shimmers.

“You feel good too.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, hands sliding around his neck, digging into the hair at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel good,” she slurs.

Javi hooks her leg over his waist. A new angle, one that drives him deeper, as she clenches and he snaps his hips to hers. Feeling her close to snapping, her thighs already shaking, trembling. His chest heaving, her ribs expanding, copious breaths to still the dizziness she inflicts on him—just by being, just by existing.

It’s building, that fire in his veins, the fever that spreads out of him when he releases inside of her and she tugs him close as she comes down from her high. His hips stuttering, his name a symphony that erodes all other noises from his dreams.

And, there’s nothing blue about this. Nothing despairing, melancholy about this, about her.

Not when she flutters and arches when she comes and uncoils. Her fingers dig into whatever part of him she can get to before he smears himself inside of her, groaning into her neck as he spills and thinks of nothing but how much he adores her.

How much he loves her. Because he does. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

“I love you too,” she whispers from underneath him, his head pulling from her neck—elbows on either side of her face.

Finding seriousness staring back, her fingers skating over the sweat sliding down his forehead, wiping it on the sheets she lies on.

“Unless you hadn’t meant to say it. Then I take it back.”

He blinks. Thinking of the summer’s day when he’d first seen her; the first rainfall two months later when his arms had wrapped over her front, pressed her back to his chest and they felt the cooling air slide over their warm skin. He remembers the night he’d told her everything, and the new candles that had become stumps as she listened; the stormy afternoon turned night when he’d taken her out of town, and how her hand had slid over his and thanked him.

“I meant it.”

Her lips slide into her cheek, palm pressing to his chest. “Good.”

He wonders over morning coffee, when she glances at him and smiles if his dreams are merely a reflection of his fears—rather than anything that could come true. A manifestation of his fears of losing her, fearing the day when the blues will no longer be just dreams. Because good things don’t always, least of all to those who don’t deserve it.

He blinks them away when she tells him she has something to show him, hearing her bare feet on the floor until he doesn’t, counting, reaching twenty, before she appears, a new canvas in hand.

And when she turns it, letting it face him, his breath is stolen—feet forcing him to stand.

Her hand held it, the brightest shades that could ever be. Mixed brushstrokes into something that heals a crack in him, one that he’s never asked for. Because in every shade but blue is him and Pop outside the ranch, a place that had never felt like home, but now feels like the only place he could ever call such.

“Where are you?”

She blinks, the slightest frown in her brows. “What… what do you mean?”

“You belong there too, cariño.”

And if she hadn’t believed him in bed, in the things he’s not said, he thinks she believes them now. Leaning the canvas against the counter, feet padding towards him before her mouth is on his—different, more necessary, as his arms slip around her waist.

Something else slid back into place, able to fill his lungs a little easier.

Not a shade of blue in sight, not indigo, powder or sky.

And he worries it’s temporary—a thing that’ll change come nighttime. But he smiles all the same, right against her hairline when he presses a kiss there too. Feeling her hand sliding around his waist, becoming an anchor, a rock, a crutch.

He loves that about her too, that she does that for him. But he’ll tell her that tomorrow.

A silent promise, one beginning to stitch with a smile. And, then, when nightfall comes, and the painting rests against the wall of his room, Javier Peña finds—for the first night since he’s been back—that he doesn’t dream in blue.

Instead, he dreams in yellow. In honey, citrus and sunshine.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña smut #pedro pascal character #javi peña #javier peña #javi peña x reader #javi peña x you #javi peña smut #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic

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beomiracles · 22 days ago

Note

for kinktober: yeonjun + knife/gun play if you’re feeling it :3

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

DAY 16 : CHOI YEONJUN + KNIFEPLAY DARK CONTENT — “Don’t worry, I promise to take care of you this time”, he murmurs, brows furrowed as he lets the flat of the blade press against your naked skin.

Knife play is a form of consensual BDSM edgeplay involving knives, daggers, and swords as a source of physical and mental stimulation.

pairings yandere-ex!yeonjun x fem!reader warnings heavy yandere themes, dub-con, kissing, vaginal fingering, hints at previous abuse, knife play but it’s also used as a threat, reader has sort of an internal crisis !

#serene adds ✎ I love this one, even though I'm not too sure just how big the actual knife play part is.. >-<

EVENT POST

“Are you scared?”

The question was rhetorical, you could tell by the low and menacing drawl of his lips. Still you shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat as you try to calm your nerves. Your small objection makes his face twist into a sour grimace as Yeonjun draws in closer. The sharp knife glints under the pale moon when he brings it to your throat, its sharpened edge resting just above your palpable pulse, blood flowing beneath your warm skin.

He towers over you, his expression dark as his body cages yours against the cold and rough brick wall. Your eyes flicker down the narrow and vacant alleway, the last bit of hope you’d clung onto flushing out onto the pavement along the heavy rainfall. — You hadn’t heard from him in months, you thought that you were finally rid of him, that you were finally safe.

But as soon as you’d let your guard down, he appeared. It was as if he’d been waiting for you to slip up, to make a mistake, and you had. Fuck you should’ve asked Soobin to follow you home, but you didn’t want to bother him, and it was late.. One act of kindness had led to one of malice as your ex-boyfriend cornered you, seemingly out of nowhere as he appeared from the shadows.

“I think you should drop the knife.” You try your hardest to sound calm, as if you were talking to a slightly delirious and insane person, but Yeonjun was. His lips curl into something halfway of a smile and a smirk, you couldn’t quite place it, but it made him look uncanny. The sharp silver is firm against your throat and you find it hard to breathe. "Yeonjun, I'm serious..” But there’s a shaky edge to your voice, and you know he can pick up on it.

“Baby. I don’t get it..” His brows furrow, the inside of his cheek caught between his teeth as the knife drops from your neck. “Thought you liked this, us, I mean”, he continues, his free hand traveling down your side before coming to rest on your hip. — You go to shake your head once more but quickly stop when you catch his expression.

“We.. It just wasn’t right, okay?” You try to make it sound as painless as possible, choosing to leave out the details of the hell he’d put you through. Yeonjun shakes his head, readjusting the grip on the knife as his eyes snap back to yours. “I’ll make it right”, he states and before you have the chance to question him, does he connect your lips in a desperate kiss.

You try to push him back, nails clawing at his chest but it’s to no avail. “We can go back to how things used to be”, he breathes against you, tongue invading your mouth and you gasp. Sure Yeonjun had gone to extreme lengths over the past six months in order to get you back, but this was a whole new level. And as the dull end of the knife slides up your thigh, you let out a terrified scream against his lips.

“No, no, no, shh”, he hushes you with a hand on your mouth, eyes darting around the alleway anxiously before they return to you. “I would never hurt you baby.” The phrase is all too familiar and your stomach draws into knots. Still, your hands give up on pushing him away, instead they anchor themselves in his shirt as you exhale.

He flips the blade, using the pointy tip to slice through your long dress as he creates a makeshift slit in the fabric. “Don’t worry, I promise to take care of you this time”, he murmurs, brows furrowed as he lets the flat of the blade press against your naked skin. The cool sensation sends shivers through your body and you shudder.

“Just like how it used to be”, he repeats to himself as his hand dips beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers slipping down to part your folds as he drags them along your cunt. You know you should stop him, call the cops, have him locked up, make him go away. So why couldn’t you, why did you let him do this?

The knife now rests against your chest, his grip on it is lazy as he focuses on his fingers inside your weeping cunt, eyes glued to the scene of them disappearing before withdrawing covered in slick. You could easily take it from him, overpower him, he was weak when it came to you. But you don’t.

Instead you let your head fall back against the brick behind you, a shallow moan passing through your lips as your nails dig into the apex of his shoulders. “See, I always make you feel so good”, Yeonjun hums as he slides a third finger inside, curling it along with the others as he pulls a small cry from you.

He seems to regather focus as he grips the knife firmly again, letting it trace along your exposed collarbone, watching with great fascination as you shudder in both fear and arousal.

Perhaps you liked his sadistic ways, perhaps that's why you let him terrorize you like this. Perhaps that was why you had yet to report him to the police, why you’d let this go on for six months.. Did you crave the validation he gave you? Or were you in love with the idea of being loved by him? You didn’t know, you didn’t want to think about it for either thought scared the living daylights out of you.

“I love you, you know that?” He whispers, his fingers slowing to a more gentle pace as he momentarily withdraws to play with your soaked folds, briefly flicking over your clit, relishing in the way you moaned against him. It was all the confirmation he needed, it was what he needed to keep longing for you for another eternity.

You weren’t in love with him, but you couldn’t imagine a life without him.

kinktober taglist (send an ask to be added) — @sweetpotatogyu @aduh0308 @joieouioui @inkigayocamman @bambammtori @hkplushier @gyusoulz @eliluvsjjunie @velvetmoonlght @izzyy-stuff @hwanghyunjinismybae @lunathewritingcat @ninitorih @run4gyu @beestvng

#beomiracles ₊˚⊹ ᰔ #jjunie's dreams #yeonjun smut #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun hard thoughts #yeonjun x you #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun scenarios #yeonjun fanfic #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #txt x you #txt x reader #txt imagines #txt scenarios #txt fanfic #beomiracles kinktober 2024

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innistable · 2 months ago

Text

Talk talk (snippet) [Full fic coming 10/07/2024] [1/4]

jason todd x reader

summary: the sequence of events that led you and your neighbor, Jason Todd, to fall in love. For better of for worse.

a/n: I'm new to tumblr and I'm still getting the hang of this. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. Please, like and reblog if you are interested in reading the full fic, any comment is highly appreciated.

word count: 2k

Your grandmother had always been a superstitious woman, constantly talking about those omens lying everywhere, praying to be seen, both as a warning sign or as a blissful encounter. However, you have never been the one to pay attention to that, not caring about cats, stairs, corners, clover and everything in between, especially in a city like Gotham, where you don’t need an auspice to know that danger is close.

For all of its sketchiness, Gotham City is a pretty straightforward place, there is always something happening, you may not see it, but it is there, an uneasiness that you can’t quite shake, hiding in a blind spot, a shadow in the corner of your eye. Still, in this precise moment, you wish that you had paid attention to something, omen or not, maybe the gray sky had been a good pointer that it was going to rain, maybe for once you could have listened to weather forecast, and maybe, just maybe, you should have just stayed at home after you saw that black cat licking one of its wounds on the fire escape.

The point of all this is that it is raining, pouring, it’s one of those rainfalls that’s so loud and strong that it makes you think that the sky is being torn apart. Now you are on your knees, blue jeans now wet and grayish against the cold pavement, trying to retrieve your scattered groceries.

It went like this: a few harmless droplets when you were cornering Monolith Square to take the bus after spending the evening seeing the Wayne Botanical Garden; on the bus, you were reading a book, something short and too pretentious for its own good, suddenly, the driver was using the windshield wiper and you noticed that the window view was then translucent, being barely able to make out the street silhouettes, it all became a blurry heap of buildings, street lamps and ill-defined legs, torsos and heads; then, you recognized the “C” Building, your stop, so you pressed the button, the bus slowed down and opened its door, outside a storm awaited.

It’s a two hundred meter walk to your apartment, but what normally was easy, it turned into a midday odyssey, strong winds and warm water made the route unbearable, your tote bag felt heavier by every passing second and just when you were in front of your building, keys in hand, your bag tore by the seams, and all of its contents fell to the ground.

It’s frustrating and you feel like screaming, it’s not the worst thing to ever happen to you, but it does feel like it is, probably because Gotham is some kind of cruel mistress, no matter how hard you try to play by its rules, it always ends up having a way to humble you, you might try to avoid trouble, but it ends up finding you, one way or another. You have this kind of overwhelming sentiment that makes your eyes sting when you see the damp sugar on the floor, just next to the trinkets you got from the Wayne Botanical Garden and your favorite brand of cookies.

The rain seems to feel your distress and it starts pouring even more. Great.

“Need help?” a voice asks.

You have never been a very religious person, but when you hear those words dripped in that thick gothamite accent that sometimes makes your stomach churn, you think that perhaps there is something out there that has decided to glance your way for once, and that for once, it felt pity for you.

“Yes.” you say.

You look up and see a tall man, gruff, huge. He has dry blood on his upper lip, a thin scab, dark maroon, recent but not too fresh. His hair is black, tousled, with a white streak on the front, and it seems a little bit damp, locks sticking to his forehead. His skin seems thick, probably because it is littered with scars, white dents on his skin, some big and some small, you don’t think too much about it, it’s Gotham, everyone has some scars around here, from gunshots to safety accidents on the swings of Robinson Park. His eyes are blue, almost icy, and his pupil is enveloped by vibrant green hues, his gaze seems curious and fixated, he is analyzing you, the same way you are analyzing him, ‘fair’ you think. He wears a worn out hoodie, overused, with grease spots and frayed holes, he is wearing also a pair of black shorts, the ones you use for running or going to the gym, and he’s also using trainers, the label says Numa instead of Puma, they are probably from the street markets that you can find around in every corner of Gotham.

He is alluring, you concede, even handsome. But that doesn’t matter, because he is kind. Gotham is isolating, people keep to themselves, they look the other way, not because they are necessarily assholes, but because they have clear boundaries, they distinguish your business from their business, and unless those two spheres intersect, they don’t see a reason to cross the line, it’s easier that way. Therefore, unapologetic kindness is not something easy to come across; in fact, you would be wary of it, if it wasn’t for the fact that he has a plastic bag and is taking your milk carton from the ground. Thank you, that’s what your eyes say.

For Jason it goes like this.

He is in his apartment, for the first time in days. It’s Wednesday and on Saturday he had a complicated patrol with Nightwing, the kind of complicated that leaves your face scarlet and body mauve, the type of convoluted patrol that leaves you aching for days, movements limited and a sore spot under your sixth rib.

He was kept in the Manor until yesterday evening, not because he wanted to, but because he was forced to. I can take care of myself he grumbled, but then Afred got this look in his eyes, not the one that says I am disappointed, he doesn’t care about that, he is used to disappointing, to failed expectations and lists of unspoken requirements he will never meet, it’s fine, what’s not fine is the other look, the one that softly whispers You are breaking my heart, master Jason, and Jason doesn’t want to do that, not to Alfred, who seems the only one ready to accept him for what he is now and not clinging to an old memory of what could have been. So, he stayed, receiving medical care from Leslie and Alfred, but he left as soon as he could.

Alfred had asked if he was staying for dinner, even though at this point it’s more of a silent plea, some sort of want for him to stay for once, to really be part of the family, to act like one, but Jason never agrees. The thing is, Jason never stays, he flees, he doesn’t do goodbyes or excuses, he is not a Wayne, perhaps he was at some point, when he was loud and excitable, full of wonder, but that part of him died, and no magic or god can bring that back, some things stay dead and maybe it’s better off that way.

The point is that he was finally back at his apartment. The closest thing he had to a proper home. It was small, he could afford bigger, he had bigger, but it began being just a plain safehouse, some impersonal storage unit to keep ammo, League weapons, gear, etc. However, at some point, he started spending nights there, probably because it was in a nice part of Gotham, Midtown, without the constant chaos from Uptown, where he mostly operated, but still far away from the haughtiness ever so characteristic of Downtown Gotham. It was a perfect balance, not too much, not too little, and Jason likes evenness, equilibrium, perhaps because most days he tethers the line between sanity and insanity so he appreciates any resemblance of stability he can grasp onto.

He arrived yesterday at 20:30, ordered delivery from the mexican restaurant a few blocks away, and fell asleep watching reruns from an old, mildly successful tv show. He likes the background noise, when everything is too quiet, he starts imagining things: footsteps, the sound of a crowbar against his flat’s parquet, screams and wails, the sound of a ticking bomb, etc. He likes everything that makes his subconscious believe that he is not alone.

His morning wasn’t different from any other mornings and that was fine. Jason enjoys routines, the predictable. He enjoys his usual morning channel; the black cat that visits him every morning to silently ask for food; the cadence of his neighbors footsteps as they run around their flat trying to get the kids ready for school and Roy’s texts. There is no sign that today is going to be different, and he likes that. He hits the gym, as always. He prepares lunch, nothing fancy. He reads, today it is The Master and Margarita, he is one hundred pages in, he marks words, phrases, writes thoughts on the margins and slowly makes his way through. He journals, he is not much of a poet, not that he wants to; he might be tortured, but he is not an artist, words more times than not get stuck on his throat, scratching like barbed wire against his larynx, drawing blood; however, Dinah, also known as Black Canary, who acts as his psychologist via Roy, advised him to write, she told him that it could help, sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t, he keeps doing it anyway.

When the clock marks 17:23, he gets bored, so he goes to his balcony. It’s sad, but he lives his days anticipating the nights; he likes patrolling, he savors the adrenaline, he basks on the rush, he thrives under the light of traffic and streetlights; daylight stuns him, he doesn’t really know how to navigate the world once the sun has risen, it’s disorientating. Therefore, he just rots, he decays around his apartment, and now he feels like festering on his balcony. Suddenly, it starts to rain. It begins as a drizzle, so he doesn’t really care, he takes a cigarette, he lights it up and takes a puff.

He started to smoke when he came back to life, his dad used to do it, his mom too, everyone in Crime Alley did it, since it helped you to stay warm. When he was younger, he didn’t like it, back then when he was the bright-eyed Robin and he treated his body like a temple because Batman told him to do so, back when the only thing he wanted was to prove himself worthy, something he never was. His body as Robin was a temple; his body as the Red Hood are the ruins of a long forgotten empire that lived its own demise, and no one cares about ruins, why should he?

His first cigarette was given to him by Egon, one of the first mercenaries who trained him after his resurrection; then, the habit sticked, after all the life he chose, the life he lives, happens on dimly lit bars and dingy hideouts where a thick layer of smoke covers everything, it’s only normal that he smokes. Furthermore, he admits, there is some kind of masochist element to it, at first, the smell of smoke was enough to send him to a panic attack, since it reminded him of bombs, collapsed buildings, screeching manic laughs and charred skin; smoke was what filled his lungs when he gave his last breath, so if he was able to control the panic that the smell evoked, that meant that he won, in some way, in any form, it may be a consolation prize, but a prize nevertheless.

So he smokes and the rain starts falling with more force, but he doesn’t bother going inside, he likes the feeling of the droplets against his skin, it’s nice, it feels real. He looks down and he sees you, hunched over picking things from the floor and, after a few heartbeats laced with smoke, he decided to go down and help.

He sees you up close, eyes fixed in your face, taking in every detail, engraving them on his memory as he does with everyone. Right now, the world doesn’t tilt on his axis, there are no sweaty palms or rushed breaths, nothing has stopped, it doesn’t feel like something monumental, but it is.

He helps you and accompanies you to your apartment, it’s on the second floor - his is on the fourth - and he feels content about knowing someone new after Roy has been nagging him about needing to be friendlier and meet other people. He doesn’t talk much, he never does, he tells you his name and his apartment number, it’s enough for such a small talk. You thank him and it feels nice. He leaves and you close the door, it’s enough for today.

Like and reblog for the full fic

#jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fanfic #batfam #batfam imagine #batfam fanfic #red hood #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #red hood fanfiction #dc comics #dc universe #dcu

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stormhearty · 9 months ago

Text

Pairings: Eris x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Triggers: pining, reader being shot by arrows, mentions of bloodshed and killing

Summary: Eris watched as your body lay still in the large bed, healing from the poisonous arrows that had penetrated your body. The Autumn Heir is reminded that, no matter how much he loves you, you will always be in danger if you stay around him. Now he has to make a choice… whether to keep you in his arms and protect you with his fire or to unlock the cage and let you go free.

Note: Based on this request! Thank you @strangelygreat for your request! I love this so much. I realized that I never really listened to this song in its entirety. The Broadway version, “If I Can’t Love Her” has a similar feel — it has the same longing and distress. But I listened to <Evermore> and of course, I am in love. <Evermore>, Josh Groban’s version more specifically, has such a beautiful pining feeling; I listened to it while brainstorming and writing this song. This is also based on a scene from the manhwa “Secret Lady”, one which echoes this feeling of pining with angst. I loved this scene in this manhwa, and I highly suggest reading it! This will mostly be under Eris’ POV since the song is from the Beast’s POV as well.

I would suggest listening to the song either before reading this story or during, and please do tell me if I could portray the song correctly!! Or was able to portray a similar feeling to it.

Closing the door behind him with a silent click, Eris stepped into the dimly lit room, his steps leading to a familiar bed, one that held a familiar body underneath its sheets. A hand reached out to grab the back of a chair, dragging it across wooden floors, the echo of scraping wood resonating throughout the quiet room. Placing the chair next to the bed, he gracefully sat down, hands gripping the arms of the chair as amber hues stared at the rise and fall of your back.

The room had grown silent after that, the pitter-patter of rainfall against the large windows and your even breathing occupied the room. It rarely rained in Autumn Court, but lately, Eris felt like the weather matched his mood — bleak, dull, and sober. His gaze moved from your peaceful features to the bandages on your back, the blackened blood that seeped through the white cloth.

It had been a month.

A month since the day you had stepped in front of those poisonous arrows, ones covered with ash — ones that were marked towards him — and almost had your life taken away in front of his very eyes.

He watched as your eyes looked up at him, a smile tugging at your lips, the words that slipped from your lips haunting him to this day: “You're okay…”

Eris felt himself stiffen in the chair, hearing the echo of your words through his body. He felt the wood creak underneath his fingertips, his claws splinting the wood underneath them.

He could still see it — how your body slumped against his, that arrow penetrated your skin; how the blood seeped from that wound through your ball gown. He could still smell it — that blood that tricked from the edge of your mouth and onto his pristine clothes. He could still feel it — how your body slowly started to become cold in his warm hands, how your pulse slowed underneath his palm.

The scene was still vivid in his mind — a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked in Autumn Court; on the dangers that followed him. On how every single moment that you lay in this bed, barely hanging into the thread of life — was another reminder to the Autumn Heir that he had started to become selfish — especially when it came to you.

For the longest time, he had restrained himself, his feelings, his obsession when it came to you. You were a fleeting moment — he constantly told himself — one that was not meant to be caged, especially not by him. Not in the political battlefield such as Autumn Court. Not where his brothers waited in the shadows to strike him down every waking second. Not where his father was looking for any weakness to use against him as punishment.

You weren't meant to stay by him, he had concluded.

Eris knew that — from the moment he laid eyes on you, all those years ago.

How you were a breath of fresh air in his suffocating world. You were his haven… an escape from the constant pressures of his Court. He wouldn’t have minded if the world had faded away — all that mattered was you. And Eris knew, oh how he knew, and that very thought was intoxicating and dangerous. All he had wanted to do was to keep you within arm-length, to be able to whisk you away when need be.

But he couldn’t.

“(Y/N)…” Eris murmured your name in the darkness, like a lover whispering sweet nothings.

“I can tell you now…”

Amber hues stared at your sleeping form, unaware of the truth that he was about to spill. Eris knew that the walls listened, his own home against him. But he needed to get it off his chest, to let the world know.

“You were my Goddess for the longest time…”

He shifted slightly to pull pieces of porcelain from his pocket — a broken miniature statue, one that Eris had held onto for all these years. He glanced at the pieces before shifting his hand, to allow them to fall to the wooden floor, the sound barely reaching his ears.

“You were something that I could admire from far away, keeping you at arms distance. Something that I could look at and never touch, never hold. I wasn’t afraid to think of you back then… to wish and yearn for you… To miss you. I never wanted to know who you were, never wanted to know more about you. I was content with just looking.

“But, when I saw you that day… During my coming-of-age ceremony, all those centuries ago, could you imagine — - no… you could never understand how I felt that day.”

You were radiant. A bright light in his dim world. Even in a crowded room, he could spot you from a mile away. You radiated warmth, kindness… purity. Something absent in his world of hatred and betrayal.

A shaky sigh escaped his lips, a hand coming up to run through his copper locks before running down his face, pressing against his eyes to prevent the burn of tears.

“It was the first time in my entire life… I wanted nothing more to do than run.

“You were gorgeous. And for the life of me, I couldn’t look at you without having my heart beat frantically in my chest. I felt like my heart would jump out, for the world to see how much you had affected me.

“Was this love? Was this devotion? Did this shift of emotion mean that I could never be able to seek you out again? That I could never be able to think freely of you? I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to.

“I thought that I would be able to manipulate myself into not loving you. How could I? I didn’t know you… all I had loved was what I could see on the outside. I thought I could manipulate myself into thinking to not fall in love with someone I did not know.

“I had thought it would be easy. I rarely saw you, except on passing occasions… Superficial words of greetings in loud halls. It was fine, for centuries, for me to just silently yearn for you. To allow myself not to hold you tight…”

A broken laugh paused his monologue, his hand dropping back onto the arms of the chair as he looked at you. He shifted out of the chair and moved to sit at the edge of the bed close to your form. Eris reached over, wanting nothing more than to feel your skin underneath his hand — to ensure you were still there… alive. He hesitated, his hand hovering over your back, only to move to gently grasp a piece of your hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss on that one lock of hair.

“But that night, all those months ago, when you sought me out in the forest, knocking frantically on that small cabin door. You had sacrificed your safety to forewarn me of the assassination attempt by my brother. I knew I had to push you away, I had to keep you hidden from the prying eyes of my father and brothers. For they would know, if I had been a moment too late, pulling you in and hiding you within that closet, they would have known how much you had affected me.

“I knew that I should have let you go that night. I shouldn’t have held your hand and pulled you into that cabin. I should have let you run away from this cage I call my home.

“But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t let you go, not when you were the one who sought me out. For the first time in centuries, you were the one who looked for me.”

Fingers dropped that lock of hair, as he settled his elbows onto his knees, hands, once again, pressing against his face as the tears finally broke… cascading down his cheeks in a never-ending river. He cried in silence, afraid that any sob or cry of grief would wake you up from your slumber.

You were finally within arms grasp.

Eris could reach out and hold you in his arms, to press his lips against yours. To love you as he had wanted.

“I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, (Y/N)… I wanted more. I wanted nothing more than to hold you in my arms, kiss you in the dead of night, make you moan my name as we made love… I wanted to drink up everything that you had given me. I wanted your eyes to shine only for me.

“And I regretted it so much.”

Eris felt every regret seep into his body — he regretted letting you into his life, into his world of fire.

“You mustn’t let her lay on her back—-” the priestess hummed out, as the glow from her hands faded away, fixing the bandage to cover the wound.

Eris watched, dull amber eyes staring at your face for any indications of pain. He held you in his arms, your head resting against his shoulder as the priestess healed the wound on your back.

“—-For it may fester with the moisture that can build up. You must lay her on her stomach, to let the wound breathe…” The gentle hands of the priestess ran over the wound, and Eris felt you shift in his arms, your face scrunching in pain. He felt himself growl at the priestess, amber eyes lighting in anger.

The priestess bowed in apology, “—- Her feeling pain is better than feeling nothing, my Lord.” With one last bow, the priestess swept away, passing the Lady of Autumn as the doors closed.

Eris didn’t pay attention to his mother, not when you were shivering in his arms. He sighed softly, bringing you closer to his warmth, letting the fire that breathed under his skin warm you. Fingers ran through your tangled hair, trying to undo the knots that came upon you while you were asleep.

“Why did you let (Y/N) into the Forest House?” Lady of Autumn asked her son, finally breaking up the silence of that room.

It had been a day after the incident — a day after you had taken the arrow that should have taken his life. A day since the priestess worked their magic to try to save you from the brink of death.

Eris had been nothing but a statue, forgoing his duties as the Heir of Autumn Court to just sit in that very room, watching you breathe — as if afraid that if he turned away from your body, you would disappear.

He glanced up at his mother for a moment before he leaned down to bury his head into the crook of your shoulder, the feeling and sound of your breathing calming him, reassuring him that you were still alive in his arms.

“Why did you have to —-”

“Mother…” he breathed out, interrupting her question.

Lady Autumn raised a brow, lips pressing as she allowed her son to explain.

“Imagine there is someone you wanted to protect, would do anything to protect. And you realize… that the person you wanted nothing more to protect was in danger because of you. What would you do?”

Eris shifted so he could lay you back on the bed, gently laying you down on your stomach as the priestess told him to do. He sat at the edge of the bed, tugging the bedsheet to cover your lower half, allowing your back to breathe in the cooling air.

“I would do whatever in my power… to ensure their safety…” she answered him.

Eris ran his hand down your back gently once more before he stood up, his feet dragging him over to the window as amber hues stared out into his Court.

“And that’s what I did, Mother… That night, after I had killed Tharetiur, his blood splattered on the wood of that cabin. After (Y/N) had fallen asleep in my bed, I stepped out into the night, wondering what I could do to ensure she was safe. I couldn’t let her go home, not after running for god knows how long to warn me of Tharetiur’s assassination attempt.

“… I had turned to Drucand —-” Eris’s right hand, one of the few people in Autumn Court he could trust with his life, “—-I asked him, ‘Where is the safest place in all of Prythian?’ I watched as Drucan stared at me for a moment, as if I asked a stupid question, before reaching for the holster of his sword…”

Eris remembered how Drucand pulled that holster from his waist and proceeded to hand him his sword.

“’ Heir of Autumn Court, the first son of Beron and Lady Autumn. The Heir whose blood runs with flames. The safest place… would be in your arms, with your fire and sword in hand.’”

A laugh broke out of Eris, his head shaking at the thought.

“I wanted to send her off, wanted to keep the distance between myself and her… But, I couldn’t. And I started to selfishly think that keeping her by my side, with that sword in my hand, might be the most reasonable solution to ensure her safety. I thought… that no danger would touch a hair on her head, not when I would protect her as my hounds do for me…

“But I failed… I failed, Mother…”

Eris turned around and faced his mother, tears finally breaking through his composure. His voice shook at every confession and every truth he thought knew.

“…It seemed that the Gods and the Mother above had led me to her. Fated us to be together… and yet ripped us apart the moment they thought we had gotten too close. That I had gotten too close to her. It seemed that they used her… her kindness, her warmth, her love… as punishment for me and my discretions…”

Eris believed with his whole being that you were his eternal punishment — for forgetting his promise to forget you, to punish him for yearning for you. Your kiss with death… was his punishment for falling in love with you.

The Heir watched as his mother let out a light sob before rushing towards him, holding him in her arms as he broke — as he finally broke. Eris sobbed, his body collapsing onto the ground in the arms of his mother, his hands wrapping around her as he grasped her shoulders, his body shuddering and breaking.

All because he had failed to protect you.

Amber eyes focused on your body once more, as he slipped out of the memory, the tears drying on his cheeks, determination in the depths of his eyes.

“(Y/N)… I had brought you into my life out of a momentary desire. A want, a selfish want, rather than a need. You were no longer the Goddess that I could bask in your light and warmth. You became a person — a living, breathing person — someone who cried and smiled… someone who showed your heart on your sleeve despite living in a Court that could use that against you.

“You showed me that you were like me, alive. I got to know you, your little habits — how you would bite your nails in concentration, how you would fiddle with the ends of your hair when you were nervous. You were an open book — one that I read so easily and greedily.”

How could he resist falling in love with you?

He couldn’t.

Not when you had accepted his flaws, accepted the darkest side of him — and in the end never turned your back on him. You had stuck next to him, in the horrors of his own Court, sticking out your neck for him every second.

How could he not fall in love with you and declare to let you leave?

How could he just have let you go like that? Not when you weaved your soul into his heart and stole it for yourself.

He couldn’t live without your hand in his, your body next to his own in the dead of the night. He couldn’t live without you.

But yet, there he was, he had been so close to losing you. To the terrors of his brother.

He didn’t regret it.

He didn’t regret the bloodshed that night after Drucand had taken your body from his arms.

All he saw was red, and he had no hesitance in taking Drucand’s sword, using his powers to wrap it in flames, and slaughtering his brothers in front of his father and mother.

There had been no ounce of regret in his blood at the sight of their bodies on those marble floors, blood pooling around them. He stared at his father with a glare, before handing Drucand the blood-covered sword back and taking your wounded body into his arms and striding out.

Eris would kill for you, again and again, if he had to. He would cover himself in blood… a sword in his hands, all for you. He would burn Prythian in flames… all so that he would never lose you again.

It was such a dangerous thought.

You were a dangerous addiction to him.

“(Y/N)… What if…”

There was only one way for him to fulfill his promise — his promise to the Gods, to the Mother.

He leaned over your body, his hand gently running down your leg, over your calf, and grasping your foot.

“What if I would carve my heart out, severing my feelings for you… Would that be enough to protect you and keep you alive from the dangers of my life?”

Eris pressed a kiss against the top of your foot, a notion of devotion from the Heir of Autumn Court.

“If that would be the case… then I would gladly take my sword, and hand you my bleeding heart. To show my eternal devotion and my love for you…”

#acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #acotar angst #eris x reader #eris angst #eris vanserra #eris acotar #acotar fandom #eris vanserra x reader #( .inbox request: notions of devotion )#( .inbox request )

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lumidotexe · 11 months ago

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Happy 1 Year birthday to my fan comic, Even Rainfall has Shadows!

I’m so honored that the story has gone on this long, and I’m even more grateful to everyone who’s supported it this far.

As a celebration, I’ll be hosting a stream on Sunday Dec 10th at 2 PM PST! I’ll be playing Jackbox: Survive the Internet and/or Gartic Phone with some friends, and also releasing the Etsy store drop for the ERHS merch!

More info is on this event page!

art below by @runningwithscizzorz. They’ll be in the stream as well!

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familyfriendlydilfartist · 7 months ago

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Bedtime (Short)

Synopsis; you can’t fall asleep so you seek comfort.

Warnings; None

One thing everyone in camp knew was Astarion enjoyed reading. They would always catch him with his nose in a book, crimson eyes taking in every word moving slowly from the top to the bottom of the page. Astarion often held onto the books he found when looting crates and shelves during your adventures.

It was midnight and everyone was getting ready to settle down for the night. Shadowheart sat In her tent unbraiding her hair and then running a brush through her raven strands before finally heading to bed. Lae’zel sharpened the last of her weapons, a ritual she refuses to neglect. Gale lay in his tent attempting to fall asleep as he used magic to mimic rainfall white noise. Everyone else slept soundly in their tent, or so you assumed.

Well, everyone except yourself. Tonight you lacked the capacity of falling into a deep slumber.

You were kind of like Scratch. At times Scratch couldn’t sleep, too hyper to even lie down. Halsin calls this zoomies so maybe you had zoomies as well.

You lie in your own tent staring at the roof. Gods how you wish dawn would arrive sooner. You huffed sitting up, you couldn’t lie in this uncomfortable tent for much longer, it was driving you crazy. You carefully peer out from the flaps of your tent. You observed the outside. Everyone was asleep, except for one. Astarion. A warm light illuminated his red tent, outlining his shadow. He lay in his tent, with what you could tell was a heavy book.

Astarion and you shared...well could you even call it a relationship? You slept together once or twice and Astarion enjoyed flirting with you but it didn’t seem like he wanted anything more. Whenever you slept together it seemed like he wasn’t entirely there. The only time he truly took satisfaction in the act is if he was allowed a bite from your neck. You it saddened you, to say the least. You really liked Astarion, not just for his stunning look but for his charming character as a whole. However, if all he wanted was to have a fling then so be it. That wouldn’t stop you from being his good friend though.

You slowly crawled from your tent and then tiptoed over to Astarion’s tent. You weren’t hoping to surprise Astarion; his heightened senses wouldn’t allow you the luxury. Your quietness was in favor of Shadowheart and Lae’zel, two people who would stir awake at the slightest snore. Astarion had his eyes on you already, waiting for you to call out to him first.

“Astarion,” you whisper, “It’s me.”

“I could tell.” He states matter of factly, turing the page of his novel. “Whatever is the matter?”

You lower yourself to the tent opening, pushing a flap aside. “I can’t sleep, could I hang out with you?” Astarion stares at you with an unimpressed look. “Please?” you pester.

“I guess so, besides who am I to deny you the pleasure.” Astarion sighs like a bothered mother giving in to her child’s request. You grin and immediately crawl inside. You sit beside him with a silly smile on your lips. There's a silence for a moment, you trying to gain the courage to ask him questions while he read to himself.

“Whatever you want to ask go ahead, the more eager you grow to ask, the more it’ll bother me.” Astarion lowers his novel. The slightly bothered expression he wears provokes an uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. You shyly mess with your nails. “Oh, well, I was just wondering what you were reading.”

“A novel about a boy venturing into vampire territory and what he has learned about my species. His assumptions are quite laughable.” Astarion’s pale pink lips quirk into a brief smile and a small laugh falls from them. “Here he states,” Astarion changes his voice into a mocking one, “One of the known weaknesses to a Vampire is garlic. Garlic will frighten a vampire, so always wear some on your neck to scare them away.”

You giggle too, “I’ve heard that one before. To be honest, I assumed you’d be scared of garlic as well because all the other tales of vampire’s weaknesses were debunked as true by you.”

Astarion shakes his head, “No, darling. It is simply the scent. Truly odorous. And if garlic were truly a weakness of vampires then Gale’s breath after dinner would be my demise.”

You both share a laugh then the silence returns.

“...Could you read to me?” you ask out of the blue. After the moment shared between the two of you before, you had hoped the question wouldn’t be answered too harshly. “-I mean, I like stories too but my mind often drifts from the pages. I prefer being read to than reading it myself and you have the perfect voice.”

Astarion contemplates for a second, observing you as he does. He taps his bed, “Fine.” You do as instructed, tugging the blanket until you’re all warm and cozy. Once you’re settled in Astarion starts on the page he stopped on. His voice is soft and relaxing. As the night goes on you finally fall into a deep slumber.

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