#he's putting up walls between them and he's not reassuring her like she needs him to

[worksby-d]

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

Pairing: pornstar!Johnny Storm x pornstar!Reader

Summary: You and Johnny sit down to film on the same set you first filmed together on one year ago. You think back to why you only film with each other now. Read part one here 🫶

Warnings: AU, feeling jealousss, talking about p*rn, 18+

Word count: ~1,000

a/n: Nothing like a sequel three years later, am I right!!

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

“Only friends?”

“Yes.” You shot a playful glare toward the camera. “Just friends.”

You and Johnny both look up from the tablet the crew gave you to watch and react to your pre-scene interviews from one year ago. 

You’re on the same exact set, but this time you’re not answering questions separately. Johnny’s sat right beside you on the neatly-made bed, a hand resting subconsciously on your back. He knows this is your least favorite part of all of this.

Holding back laughter, you look at each other before looking back toward the camera and the same producer asking questions in front of you. 

“I wasn’t lying!” You quickly defend yourself. “We really weren’t together then.”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, looking down at her own screen for the next question. “We believe you. But you’re together now…” The way both of your smiles grow gives her your answer. “And you pretty much exclusively work with each other now, is that right?”

“Yeah, for the past four months or so,” Johnny answers.

“It seems like a lot of people in this industry don’t let relationships stop them from continuing their work as normal,” she says. “So how did you guys come to that decision for yourselves?”

Johnny’s quick to take this question too. 

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t risk having her fall for someone else,” he jokes. 

You roll your eyes at him. That’s not at all the reason. It had a lot more to do with some of your insecurities than anything else, but no one needs to know that, so you’re thankful he came up with that. 

And luckily no one on a porn set cares to get any deeper, so they take the laugh and move on...

Faster than you do.

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

You walked into the studio hand-in-hand with Johnny that day. It was your day off, you just tagged along as the supportive girlfriend. 

He had done the same for you a few times before. 

You always thought that if someone asked if you were the jealous type you would have laughed in their face. You couldn't be when this was both of your jobs. Hooking up with other people was just part of your normal. 

But being there, watching Johnny with his scene partner that day, made you question that. 

A queasy feeling settled in your stomach as the day went on. You watched him laugh with the girl between scenes, give her reassuring touches, and put on one of the best acts you've seen from him. 

When you looked around, you could tell the crew was happy with what they were getting too. 

You stood by yourself, watching through a monitor, nervously biting your nails without even noticing you were doing it. 

The feeling inside you got worse when they were directed into the next position. Johnny’s hands gripped the girl’s hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed while he kneeled between her legs. 

You were in her position just the night before. 

You told yourself you didn't have to watch, it was enough that you were there. But you couldn't get yourself to look away. 

When you finally did, you slipped out of the room to get some air. 

You found an empty hallway. Your back slid against the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees up to your chest, letting out a deep breath. 

Footsteps eventually interrupted your pity party. You looked up quickly, and they weren't just any steps, they were Johnny’s.

“Hey,” he said softly. He was still shirtless like he was more concerned about finding you than getting his clothes back on. “There you are. I was looking for you.” 

“Just needed a moment.” You hoped your smile looked convincing. “Long day in there.” 

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled, taking a seat next to you. When you didn't laugh with him, he grew more concerned. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, too quickly. “You were so great, by the way. Everyone loved you. I'm just tired.” 

He waited a second to respond in case you wanted to tell him what was actually up. But nothing came. 

“You seem to forget we were friends before you became my girlfriend,” he teased. “I can tell that's not all…”

Still nothing. You opened your mouth like you were going to divulge something, but nothing came out and you just looked away from him.

“You can tell me.” He grew more worried. “Was someone weird to you in there?”

“No,” you shot that down fast. “I promise it's not that.” 

That didn't cure his frown, but he did feel a little relief. “Then what?” 

“I don't want to be that girl.” Your voice was so quiet as you finally let yourself say it out loud.

“What girl?” He asked genuinely. 

“The jealous one… The insecure one,” you scoffed, more so at yourself. “This is our job. I can't believe I'm letting it bother me. I know it’s all an act in there, but… I hated it.” 

Without looking at him, you missed the sympathetic look he gave you before putting an arm around you to pull you closer. 

You half expected him to try to lift the mood by making a quip about you being jealous – Something like, “Damn, didn't think I was that convincing today,” said with a wink – but that was furthest from his reaction.

“I felt that way too, you know…” He admitted it so quietly. “The last few times I watched you.”

That shocked you. “What?”

“But I didn't want to… I don't know, seem controlling, I guess,” he shrugged. “Or hold you back.” 

You let out a sad-sounding laugh. You didn't know if he was being serious or just trying to make you feel better, but you didn't really care in that moment. “Then why are we doing this?” 

“Maybe we shouldn't anymore,” he whispered. 

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

“All right—” A director’s voice brings you back to the present. “Are we ready to get started then?” 

You glance beside you at your sweetheart of a boyfriend, catching the soft, loving look in his eyes that will soon turn much darker, but not until you say so. 

“So ready,” you smile. 

. * ✦ . ◍ ∘ . * ✦ ‧ ∘ ⊹

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[corroded-hellfire]

Hi love!! I would love an Eddie request of him with inexperienced reader but it's not smut it's like the convo leading up to it like May be they start making out and it's getting steamy and she tells him she's a virgin and she's terrified bc what if she's bad at sex and then it's not good for him? What if he sees her naked and thinks she's not pretty?? And it's just Eddie comforting her and reassuring her

Oh, I would most definitely need Eddie to reassure me of these things, too. I hope you like what I've come up with 💕

Words: 1.3k

The old springs in Eddie’s mattress dig into your back, an occasional squeak emanating from them whenever your boyfriend shifts his weight on top of you. His tongue dances with yours, breath colliding and teeth grazing. Eddie encompasses all your senses, surrounding you wholly and leaving no room to think about anything else but him–if your brain can even manage to think at all with strong, calloused hands running over your body. 

His warm fingers trail up the outside of your leg, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The moment Eddie’s hand slips up your shorts on the front of your thigh though, your body goes from pure ecstasy to adrenaline-pumping nerves in an instant.

An involuntary jump of your body against his alerts Eddie that something’s wrong and he immediately pulls away to gaze down at you in concern.

“Are you okay?”

Though it’s clearly not the truth, you nod your head. Slowly, you scoot yourself out from beneath his body and sit up against the cheap mahogany headboard that’s caused a multitude of scratches against the dully painted trailer wall. 

“C-Can we talk for a second though?”

There’s worry in Eddie’s eyes. He’s terrified that he’s done something wrong or has hurt you in some way. Taking care to give you some space, your boyfriend situates himself to sit next to you on his bed, back also resting against the chipped and scuffed headboard.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Eddie says. “What’s going on?”

Tentatively, Eddie offers you his hand, resting it between the two of you. He’s leaving the decision up to you if you want to touch him right now or not. There’s no hesitation though, you eagerly lace your fingers with his. 

You give him a nervous smile, a million thoughts running through your head at once. It’ll be a miracle if you can speak coherently with the rate at which your mind is moving. Deciding to just bite the bullet and get it all out there, you take a deep breath.

“Um, I’m—I’m a virgin, Eddie.”

Whatever reaction you were planning on Eddie to have, he doesn’t give it to you. He seems completely unfazed by your admission. All you get is a nod of his head and a gentle squeeze of your hand. 

“Okay,” he says casually, as if your entire body isn’t running on nervous energy at the moment. “We can go as slow as you want, yeah?”

You know your body should feel relief, but the worry in your head tells you that you’ve only gotten through part of what you need to tell him. Might as well push through to the end.

“I’m…scared,” you admit. Shame floods your body, chilling your veins.

“Of me?” Eddie’s eyes widen and the alarm in them is clear.

“No!” You quickly assure him. “No, no, never of you.”

He heaves a sigh of relief, and you cup his hand in both of yours. Out of all the things that make you anxious about having sex with Eddie, Eddie is not one of them. But that means you have to tell him that you’re the problem. If your anxiety has one mortal nemesis in the world it is vulnerability. 

“I’m scared that I’ll be bad at it,” you admit. “I don’t know what I’m doing. What if you don’t like it? What if I mess up?” What if you don’t like how I look beneath my clothes?

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie says with a shake of his head. The crease in his forehead shows his displeasure with the pressure you’re putting on yourself. “First of all, I don’t think you can really mess up sex, sweetheart. As long as you’re here and your clothes are off, I’d say we’re good to go.” He chuckles, but when you don’t join in, he sighs. “Are you honestly worried that I won’t like it?”

Unable to look him in the eye, you nod. His forehead furrows further as Eddie frowns. Usually, you’d rub your thumb over those wrinkles to smooth them out and calm him down. But usually, you’re not the cause of them. 

Gentle fingers grip your chin and tilt your face so you can look at him.

“Princess, it’s you. I love doing everything with you, you really think I won’t like having sex with you?”

When he puts it like that, you feel silly. Heat blooms in your face as embarrassment is scooped on top of the nerves. There are legitimate concerns, though. You’re sure of it. There has to be.

“W-What if you don’t like what my body looks like?” You ask it so quietly in the hope that he misses it.

It’s obvious that he doesn’t by the way his eyes nearly pop out of his head. He reminds you of one of those stress dolls that you squeeze and the small plastic eyes bulge out.

“Not like your body?” Eddie sounds almost incredulous. He pauses for a moment, eyes gazing into yours as he thinks of a reply. It feels like the understatement of the century to say he was unprepared for you to be worried about this; about something that he whole-heartedly knew to be untrue. A smile quirks Eddie’s mouth as his mind goes back to a day before you’d started dating. He licks over his lips before continuing. “Sweetheart, remember the pool party Jeff threw for his birthday last summer? You wore that low-cut, blue one-piece that showed off most of your back?”

Do you remember? You had agonized over what you should wear to that party and what Eddie would think when he saw you. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, voice quivering. 

“Babe,” he says with a shake of his head. “I still get off thinking about that. About how you looked. There was a reason I had to stay in the pool past the point of me freezing half to death in the water.”

Shock colors your face, and despite the gravity of the conversation, it makes Eddie smile wider.

“You…really?”

“Yes,” Eddie says with a breathless chuckle. “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re gorgeous. It bothers me that you don’t see that.”

If there’s one thing you can say about your boyfriend, it’s that he’s very candid about his view on things–just ask anyone who’s had the pleasure of hearing him make a grand speech from atop a lunch table. Which is most of the high school-aged population in Hawkins.

Half of your brain is trying to convince you that now is the time he chooses to lie, that he’s just saying this to make you feel better or to shut you up. Meanwhile, the other half is telling the anxiety to put a sock in it and listen to Eddie.

“What’re you thinking?” Eddie asks quietly. A reminder of how well he knows you.

“Too much,” you say with a soft laugh. 

Eddie lets out a long breath and gently pulls you into his lap. He absentmindedly rests his hands on your thighs and his thumbs rub calming circles on your skin.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks. Needing to show you physically how much he wants to help you, he snakes his arms around your body to hold you snugly against him. Your heart all but melts as he looks up at you with those large, puppy dog eyes.

With a small smile, you lean down and rest your forehead against your boyfriend’s. Sometimes he’s too cute for his own good. 

“You already have,” you say softly.

“What? How?” Eddie’s frowning again, but this time it's in confusion.

“Just by being you,” you tell him with a shrug.

“Well, I am pretty great,” Eddie says with a playful smirk. Your heart feels lighter once the stress lines fade from his beautiful face. 

You chuckle at his ego and sit back up straight.

“There is one more thing you could do for me, though.”

“What’s that, beautiful?”

There’s a hungry gleam in your eyes as you let your gaze trail up and down his lithe body. 

“Take off your shirt.”

[thoughtdaughtersworld]

Silent Lullabies Pt 4.

Azriel X f!reader

Summary: Azriel and Y/n take a step closer to each other but is that enough

Warnings: angst, emotional turmoil!!

Authors note: Finally back!!! I've been dealing with major writers block and just trying to survive in school lol. Also this chapter is a bit short but the next one is going to be longer.

**************************************************

The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. Everyone went still, and then the murmur of congratulations began, but you were still frozen. They had all been smiling, but their eyes flickered nervously toward you, unsure of how to react, how to celebrate when they knew the state of your heart, when they knew you were not quite there with them.

You tried to smile, tried to be happy for her, and you whispered, “I’m happy for you, Fey,” but the words felt like they got stuck in your throat. It wasn’t that you weren’t happy for her—of course, you were but something sharp and painful cut through you. You hated that you felt sad. You hated that the joy you wanted to share with her felt tainted by the emptiness inside you.

Feyre’s voice softened, and she started, “I wish-” but she didn’t finish.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice tight, almost broken. You stood up quickly, needing to put some distance between you and the table, between you and the growing ache in your chest. You reached out, pulling her into a hug. “You’ll make an excellent mother,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. Feyre hugged you back tightly, her arms warm and reassuring, but all you could feel was the distance between you and everything that used to be.

You pulled back from the hug, forcing a smile even though it felt like a mask slipping over your face. “Excuse me, I’ll be going to bed,” you said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. You couldn’t stay there, couldn’t sit at the table and pretend everything was okay when it felt like your walls were cracking under the pressure.

You turned quickly, walking toward your room, but as you passed through the hall, you heard the sound of their laughter, their congratulations, the excited murmurs of joy filling the air. And you stopped for a moment, your hand on the doorframe, your chest tight. You wanted to be happy for her. You wanted to celebrate with them. But why did it feel like everything inside of you was crumbling, like you were too far gone to share in that happiness? 

**************************************************

Azriel had seen how broken you were when Feyre announced her pregnancy. He had felt it through the bond you had forgotten to close off this evening. Every raw emotion crashed into him, the sharp sting of sorrow, the aching hollowness that you tried to bury beneath a forced smile. It settled inside him like a weight, pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

His eyes followed you as you walked away, his shadows shifting restlessly, aching to follow you, to wrap around you and shield you from this moment. But he stayed seated, forcing himself to believe that maybe—just maybe, you wanted space. That you needed to process this on your own.

But anger burned low and simmered beneath his skin. They knew. Rhys and Feyre knew how fragile you still were, how much you had lost, how much you still carried. And yet they had sprung this on you tonight, in front of everyone, as if it wouldn’t crack something inside you. Azriel was happy for them truly, he was, but did it have to be now?

"Excuse me," he said, standing abruptly.

Rhys reached out, stopping him before he could leave. “Az,” he murmured, regret lining his voice.

Feyre’s face was tight with guilt as she glanced toward the door you had disappeared through. "I didn’t think she was going to come down tonight," she admitted. "I had planned to announce it, but… I should have waited."

Azriel clenched his jaw, his wings tensing as he exhaled sharply. He wanted to be understanding, he knew Feyre hadn’t meant to hurt you, but that didn’t change the fact that she had. That Rhys had.

"You should have waited," he said, his voice low, controlled, but edged with something sharp. "She’s barely keeping herself together as it is."

Feyre’s expression crumbled, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I know," she whispered. "I just—I thought maybe it would bring her some happiness."

Azriel scoffed softly, shaking his head. "You thought wrong."

Rhys sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Az—"

But Azriel was already turning away. "I’m checking on her," he said, leaving no room for argument.

Just before he stepped out of the room, he paused, glancing back at them. His gaze softened, sincerity threading through his words. "Congratulations, brother. Truly, I mean it." And then he walked out.

The hall was quiet, save for the distant murmurs of celebration behind him. But his focus was already elsewhere. His shadows stretched ahead, slipping under doors and down corridors, searching for you, drawn to your pain as much as he was.

And when he reached your door, hesitating only for a second before knocking softly. No answer

Azriel knocked again, harder this time, his patience fraying. Still no answer. A sinking feeling clawed at his chest, and before he could second-guess himself, he pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

Panic shot through him like ice. His shadows darted ahead, swirling through the space, searching, desperate. The room was eerily still, untouched, but then—then, his eyes caught the faintest flicker of movement. A sliver of light from the slightly ajar bathroom door.

Azriel crossed the room in a heartbeat, the door creaking as he pushed it open.

His breath caught.

Glass shimmered across the tiled floor, jagged pieces reflecting the dim light. And there, in the too-cold water of the bathtub, you sat curled into yourself, your arms wrapped tight around your body.

His heart pounded against his ribs. The sight of you, so small, so utterly broken—knocked the breath from his lungs and almost brought him to his knees.

"Love," his voice cracked, raw with emotion as he moved closer, careful of the glass beneath his boots. You didn’t respond. You only stared blankly ahead, as if you weren’t even fully here, as if you had been dragged somewhere unreachable.

Azriel crouched beside the tub, his hands hovering above the water, unsure if you’d let him touch you. "You're freezing," he whispered, his voice thick with something dangerously close to desperation.

Still, you didn’t move.

Azriel doesn’t hesitate. He pulls off his boots, stepping into the tub without a second thought, the cold water soaking through his clothes as he settles across from you. He doesn’t care. Not about the chill, not about the discomfort—only about you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence stretches, thick with things unsaid, until his voice finally breaks through.

“Talk to me,” he pleads, his hands finding your arms, rubbing slow, steady circles in a desperate attempt to warm you. His touch is gentle, grounding. “Please.”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to where the water ripples between you. “I didn’t—” Your voice falters, but you force yourself to continue. “I am happy for Feyre. If that’s why you’re here.” You lift your eyes to meet his, searching, hoping he understands. “I just… I just couldn't be in there.”

“Hey,” he says softly, tilting his head, trying to catch your gaze. “I’m here for you. And you never have to explain what you feel to me, not now, not ever.” His voice is firm, unwavering. “I’m always on your side, no matter what.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay.

Azriel watches you for a beat before exhaling through his nose, as if making a decision. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching for a towel. He wraps it around your trembling body, his movements careful, deliberate. The warmth seeps into your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in his touch, the steady way he holds you as he helps you up.

He doesn’t say a word as he dries you off, dresses you in one of your softer nightgowns, then guides you to the bed. Only after cleaning up the shattered glass does he return, standing beside you, his eyes still searching, still worried.

He’s about to say something when you shake your head, cutting him off.

"I'll be fine, Az," you say, forcing a small, fragile smile. You don’t want him to stay. You don’t want him to see how bad your nights have become.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on you, as if debating whether or not to push.

"Don't do that," Azriel says, his jaw clenching. "Don't push me away."

He wanted—needed—to be here with you. He knew the mental toll tonight had taken on you.

You stay quiet. "I just can't do this right now," you exhale, the lie slipping easily from your lips. "I just need to be by myself."

Azriel steps forward, kneeling in front of you. You try your hardest to look anywhere but at him, to escape the vulnerability in his eyes, because you know one look is all it would take for you to give in.

His fingers brush against your cheek, tilting your face towards him, his touch impossibly gentle..

"I'm scared." His voice wavers.

Your breath catches. "What?"

Azriel takes a shuddering breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

"I'm scared that if I walk out that door, something's going to happen." His voice is barely above a whisper now, raw with emotion. "And I—" He exhales shakily. "I just can't leave you."

You look into his eyes, and for a moment, it feels like the world is standing still. There’s so much pain in his gaze, so much fear—for you, for what might happen if he leaves. The vulnerability that’s always been hidden beneath his tough exterior is laid bare, and you realize that this isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about him, too.

You feel the weight of everything pressing on your chest, the guilt, the sadness, the exhaustion and yet, there’s something else, something unexpected: relief. He’s here. He wants to be here.

You blink, swallowing the knot in your throat.

"Az... I..." The words feel so small, so insignificant in the face of what you both are going through. But you know you can’t push him away anymore.

The silence between you stretches, and then, before you can stop yourself, you reach out, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as he leans into you, the tension in his body melting the second your arms encircle him.

For a moment, he’s still, unsure. Then he lets out a long, quiet sigh, as if he’s been holding his breath for hours.

"Please," he whispers against your hair, his voice broken. "Just tonight. Let me be here."

And you do. You let go of the part of you that wanted to push him away, the part that convinced you you didn’t deserve this. You let him hold you, feel his warmth, his presence wrapping around you like a blanket.

Because, at the end of the day, you both needed this. You needed him, just as much as he needed you.

**************************************************

Azriel didn’t sleep the entire night. He held you through every shuddering breath, every restless toss and turn, as if letting go would mean losing you completely. He hadn’t realized how desperately he’d needed to hold you, to remind himself that you were still here. That he could still do something.

Now, with the first light creeping through the curtains, he watches your brow furrow in sleep. Without thinking, he leans down and presses a soft kiss against your forehead, smoothing away the tension, just like you always did for him.

A small part of him wants to stay like this, wants to pretend that last night meant things were getting better. But he knows better.

So he moves carefully, slipping out of bed, intending to make you breakfast because deep down, he had a sickening feeling you hadn’t been eating.

But the moment he stands, something brushes against his leg.

Azriel stills, frowning as he kneels, reaching under the bed. His fingers close around something cold, and when he pulls it into the morning light, his stomach turns.

A bottle.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he glances back under the bed. More of them. Hidden away.

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth. He doesn’t even realize he’s gripping the bottle too tightly until his knuckles ache.

Behind him, you stir.

A groan leaves your lips as you wake, head throbbing, the remnants of nightmares clinging to you like a second skin. You blink blearily, still expecting to be alone, only to find Azriel sitting rigidly at the edge of the bed, his back turned to you, shoulders tense.

Something was wrong.

“Az?” Your voice is still rough with sleep, but there’s something else now, an undercurrent of dread curling through your ribs.

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he finally turns to face you, his jaw is clenched so tight it looked painful. He held your gaze for a long, unreadable moment before he spoke.

“I think you need to talk to Madja.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?” you force out,

Azriel exhales sharply, the sound barely controlled. “I’m worried about you.”

You shake your head immediately. “Az, I’m fine.”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, it hardens. “You think drinking yourself to oblivion every night is fine?”

The room tilts slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw the bottles,” he says quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice now, something restrained, like a thread pulled too tight. “Under your bed.”

Your breath stutters, and something like shame claws at your throat. But you shove it down, sitting up straighter. “It’s not—It’s not like that.”

Azriel looks at you, his hazel eyes dark and unwavering. “Then what is it like?”

You hate that he’s seeing this. Hate that he’s looking at you like that-like he’s trying to put together the pieces of something broken.

“I don’t need to talk to Madja,” you say, your voice sharper now, defensive. “I’ve been doing fine.”

“No,” Azriel says, shaking his head. “You haven’t.”

 “You don’t get to decide that.” You grit your teeth

“I’m not deciding anything,” he says, the frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you drowning.”

Your nails dig into your palms. “I don’t need your help.”

Azriel exhales, slow and measured, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “That’s bullshit.”

You glare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Why are you even here, Az? What, you want to play hero? Fix me?”

His jaw tightens. “I want you to stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he says, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You didn’t.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression flickers, something raw, something almost pleading. “But I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy yourself.”

Something in your chest twists violently.

“Then don’t,” you say, your voice cold. “I’ve been fine without you for a while now.”

The words are out before you can stop them, sharp and cold and final.

Azriel stills. His fingers flex at his sides, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak for a long moment. And then, finally, he exhales through his nose and pushes to his feet.

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he looks down at you, his face unreadable. “Fine.” It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

He steps back, shadows curling at his heels as he heads for the door. But just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn’t look back.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice quiet but firm. “About always being here for you. We made a vow to each other and I intend on keeping it”

And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. And you’re left alone.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

You stare at the door, heart still pounding, fingers curled into the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you.

He’s gone.

You should feel relieved. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To keep him at a distance, to stop him from seeing the parts of you that were fraying at the edges. To protect him from the mess you’ve become.

But all you feel is hollow.

Your eyes flicker to the bottle still clutched in your hand. You don’t even remember grabbing it, but there it is—cool and solid against your palm, the last thing tethering you to reality.

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply, willing the tremor in your hands to stop.

Azriel saw. He knew. And now, there was no taking it back. You should’ve known better than to think you could hide this from him.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at the wall, your mind racing in circles. Minutes? Hours? The light outside shifts, and eventually, you drag yourself out of bed, feeling like you’re moving through water.

You pace the room once. Twice. Your skin felt too tight, your chest too full.

You needed air.

Your feet carry you towards the balcony before you can think twice about it, and before you know it, you’re outside, the cool morning air biting at your skin. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the chill, but it does nothing for the ache inside your ribs.

Azriel’s scent lingers in your room. The ghost of him still clings to the space he left behind.

And gods, you wanted to chase after him.

You wanted to run to him, tell him you didn’t mean it, that you didn't want him to go.

But you don’t.

Instead, you sink down onto the floor, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes as the weight of everything crashes over you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, exhaustion wins.

And when you finally drag yourself back inside, the only thing left is the gnawing, empty quiet.

*************************************************

Azriel didn’t know his heart could break more than it already had, until today.

Your words echoed in his mind, each one a confirmation of how much he had failed you. The weight of it was unbearable, suffocating. By the time he made it back to his room, his stomach twisted violently, and the first thing he did was stumble into the bathroom and throw up.

The realization hit him like a blade to the gut, you had drowned your sorrows in bottles instead of him. And the bitterness that followed was something he couldn’t shake.

Azriel gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Shadows curled around his shoulders, restless, feeding off the storm raging inside him.

You had chosen the bottle over him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply through his nose. It shouldn’t matter..it wasn’t about him. This was about you, about the pain you carried, the weight you refused to share. And yet, the thought of you suffering alone, of you pushing him away when all he wanted was to help, made something inside him splinter.

He had known you were hurting, but seeing it up close, seeing the bottles stashed beneath your bed, the way you flinched at his concern made it real in a way he wasn’t prepared for. And it killed him.

His hands trembled as he turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, hoping it would wash away the sick feeling in his gut. But it didn’t. Nothing would.

Because no matter how much he wanted to be the one to help you, you didn’t want his help.

And that hurt more than anything.

***************************************************

You weren't speaking to anyone in the house. The silence had become suffocating, a constant companion that pressed against you, reminding you of everything you couldn’t escape. Most days, you found yourself hiding away with Clotho, retreating to the library as a sanctuary from the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Feyre’s bump was unmistakable now, a joyful sign of life that only amplified the ache you carried. She’d tried to reach out, tried to talk to you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be around her. You couldn’t bear to cast a shadow over her happiness, and if you did, you knew how it would end: with you comforting her, reassuring her that none of this was her fault. That she had nothing to feel guilty for.

Cassian had made attempts, trying to coax even the faintest smile from you with his jokes. But Nesta saw it, the hollow look in your eyes, the way your lips never quite formed a smile. No matter how hard you tried, the façade wouldn’t stick. You couldn’t pretend anymore.

And Azriel… you and him were locked in your usual dance of silence, each passing day feeling heavier than the last. The weight of what had been left unsaid between you was unbearable, and the thought of trying to fix it seemed almost impossible.

You hadn’t touched a drink since that last argument, your longest streak in a while. You couldn’t even bring yourself to admit it to him, not after how things had ended. Not when you weren’t even sure if anything could ever be the same again.

They had all noticed how much worse you were getting. Yet, no one knew how to fix it

The house was eerily quiet when you returned from another long day with Clotho. Too quiet.

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach as you stepped inside.

Then you saw them...sitting in the living room, waiting for you. Concern was written all over their faces. Your eyes landed on Azriel, standing in the far corner, his jaw clenched tight, shadows curling at his feet.

And the absurdity of it all wasn’t lost on you. An intervention. They were staging a damn intervention.

[vervainandspritz]

TASTE OF SHAME

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Part three

Warnings: Dark!Thomas Shelby, manipulation, abuse, non-con/dub-con, gaslighting, violence

A/N: Sorry it took so long. I'm absolutely the worst. Another part coming in shortly

A/N2: COMMENT AND REBLOG PLEASE!

Y/N woke up feeling different than usual. The deep sense of looking forward to something was exciting. Was.. new. Y/N knew it was perhaps one of Tommy's games and not a gesture of kindness in any way, but the idea of going shopping with Ada was nevertheless exciting.

She woke up early, got appropriately dressed, and secretly hoped she wouldn't see him this day at all. It was supposed to be about her. Just today.

Only a bit before eight she went downstairs, slowly looking around to find out whether Mr. Shelby was still home or not. The Arrow house was awfully quiet, like always when Charlie was still sleeping. He wasn't a loud child, but his precious giggles were warming up the overall cold and soulless building enough to breathe some life into it. He was making it sufferable to live in.

Y/N was quiet, mindful not to wake him up as she smiled at the staff, nodding kindly while passing by. Hearing voices from the living room, she made her way through the doorways only to see Ada along with her husband, Freddie.

”Good morning, Y/N” The older woman said with a smile as soon as she saw her. The questioning glance followed after the greeting which made her chuckle. Before she could say something, her man spoke up himself.

”He would never let the two of you go on your own. It was either me or John and Arthur, so trust me, Lady. It's a better choice as it is!” Freddie spoke with an amusing drama and thick Brummy accent, making his wife swat him in the shoulder jokingly.

”He's not wrong” She admitted, sighing, and glancing sideways at her husband.

Y/N nodded lightly, smiling at the genuine contact between the two of them. It was refreshing and.. comforting, to see a glimpse of real love in the hollow walls of the Arrow House.

”It's okay. I don't mind at all” She reassured, gratefully. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. ”I really appreciate the two of you taking me to the city. It's been... A while.”

Ada winked at Y/N before coming up closer and grasping her hands.

”Lovely then. I'd never say no to shopping with one of the ladies! It's the best time. Especially that we have a set of hands to carry our bags, indeed!”

They chuckled lightheartedly, walking to the corridor to put on their jackets along with the rest of proper clothing. Luckily, the day was nice enough to not need an umbrella.

”Let's get to it then” Y/N said as Freddie opened the door, gesturing for them to go first. Leaving the building, Y/N managed to spare one last glance towards the black, wooden door barely visible from the doorway. Mr. Shelby's office.

~~

The day was going well. Genuinely, for the first time in a long time she could honestly say it. Laughing out the tension which has been slowly gathering on her mind felt wonderful and the company of Ada and Freddie just reminded her how much she missed the careless giggles and fast heartbeat she used to feel back then.

Back when she wasn't someone's belonging. A selfish whim.

Buying all the gear was fun, trying it on and posing even more. Especially once they were done, and Ada suggested buying more clothes.

”We shouldn't,” Y/N said quietly, grabbing Ada's forearm lightly. The older woman rolled her eyes, narrowing them.

”Come on, Y/N. We're spending his money. The least he can do is pay for us!” She let out a laugh which held the mischievous hint, one she shared with all of their brothers. No matter how similar or different Shelby siblings were, they all had it.

She thought for a moment, feeling the unpleasant worry again. Her feelings were raw and visible in her eyes, fully on display as always.

”I don't know,” She said, quietly, stopping in her tracks. Ada picked up on the way her voice broke just a little bit. Moving closer she grasped her shoulders.

”I mean it. Plus, he literally GAVE me money to pay for our stuff.” She was convinced. ”Tommy is my brother, Y/N. He knows me well enough to know better than assuming I'd buy just the necessities.” Y/N shifted uncomfortably, searching in her gaze for the truthfulness to sooth her own anxiety. Looking in Ada's blood irises, she found it. But she wasn't sure just yet. ”...and Thomas loves everything about horses ever since he was a little boy. He's well aware of how much the gear would cost, honey. Yet he gave us way more.” This time her voice carried less humour, wanting to give her the comfort she needed along with reassurance.

Finally, Y/N nodded slowly, looking around and noticing that Freddie gave them some space to talk, stepping aside to smoke a cigarette yet paying attention enough to keep them safe.

Her gaze danced along the shops with bright and bold letters above the entrances, designed to encourage wealthy women to come in and spend their money. Eventually she met her friend's blue eyes again.

”Okay” She agreed, letting out a chuckle as Ada clapped happily before grabbing her hand and pulling them towards the luxury shop.

”Here we come!” She squealed and Freddie just shook his head with amusement, following them closely.

It took about half an hour to get her going. At first it was the Shelby sister who twirled between the alleys in the fairly big shop, touching and gasping over the beautiful creations. All kinds of materials, hundreds of breathtaking colours with even more breathtaking cash tags attached to them made Y/N feel uneasy, but with time... Ada's enthusiasm infected her too.

So they both giggled like young girls, trying dresses on, making funny gestures and blushing furiously as they saw themselves in the big mirror.  So unused to such a luxury, Y/N's eyes shone brightly when she saw the girl in her own reflection. So different from the one she used to see a couple long months ago.

”We're absolutely getting this one,” Ada said suddenly, ripping her out of the train of thoughts. Slowly gazing over the creation, Y/N let out a sigh, picking on the cuticles of her fingers. Looking down she swayed lightly, biting her lower lip, but before she managed to speak up, Freddie joined his wife.

”I must agree,” He said, keeping his expression serious before Ada elbowed him in the side lightly. ”You look like a real high class lady now,” He added, less formally with a small smirk, grasping Ada's hand.

Y/N blushed, so unused to any kind of male attention.

”Thank you. I hope he won't be mad.” The other part of the sentence was said quieter, almost to herself, but unfortunately all of them heard.

Plastering a fake smile onto her lips, she went back to change before they checked out, and got on the way as it was already fairly late. Clouds thinned one the sky, letting everyone see the glimpses of sunset kissing the horizon in a manner so dreamy, Y/N couldn’t help the little smile on her lips as she watched the whole scene through the window. Shopping took a bit longer than expected, as Ada planned out the whole day, making them visit all the ladies' favourites in the city centre. After coffee and sweet souvenirs from the local bakery, they took a walk around the better part of Birmingham before heading back. Around fifteen minutes it took, before Freddie was parking the car on the gravelly driveway. Sighing, Y/N looked down at her hands, knowing the great day was pretty much over now that she was here. Slowly, she moved to get out of the car, grabbing a few of the bags as Ada and her husband did the same. 

The Shelby sister noticed the shift in the air as she moved closer to Y/N rubbing her shoulder with a half smile.

“It was a wonderful day, wasn’t it? We need to do it again soon.” She said, before dramatically lowering her tone. “Next time definitely just us, without any of them,” She gestured towards Freddie with a chuckle, taking the edge off a bit as the tension loosened.

Y/N nodded, agreeing immediately as she loved the idea of having a way out every now and then. Wordlessly they walked up the stairs, greeting one of the maids after making the entrance. She took Y/N’s coat, hanging it for her once she realized Mr. and Mrs. Thorne weren’t staying. 

“Once again, thank you for the outing. I’m looking forward to the next time,” The younger woman said with a genuine honesty in her voice, revealing how much it actually meant to her.

“Anytime,” Freddie responded, winking as he grasped Ada’s hand once she hugged Y/N.

“Of course.” She added, turning around as they started walking away before stopping once again, “Oh, and tell Tommy you’re home already, will you?” And with that, they were gone. 

Y/N considered seeking out Tommy right then, but she was tired from the outing and wanted to change into a more comfortable dress to lounge at home. Once in her room, she was increasingly tempted by her soft inviting bed. As soon as she settled in her soft sheets all her new things still in the shopping bags became distant memories, just like the thought of making her way to Mr. Shelby’s office. Exhaustion overtook her tired mind and before she knew it, she fell asleep. 

Hours passed, and on the other side of the house, Thomas was sitting by his desk. A half empty glass of whiskey stood to his left, as he slowly sipped on it with no rush. He lost count of all the paperwork he’d done today and the end was still nowhere to be seen. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes which became tired from all the reading and writing. 

Suddenly the silence of the room got interrupted by quiet footsteps right by the door. Tommy glanced at the clock, realizing how late it already was. Without knocking the door knob turned as the wooden door gave way to a familiar silhouette. 

Y/N rubbed her eyes, as she walked in. Her feet bare against the cold floor which wasn’t too pleasant, yet useful in a way to keep her awake. 

He watched wordlessly, after putting his glasses back on. As she slowly moved from the doorway towards his desk, eventually slumping into the armchair. She avoided his eyes, feeling guilty with the unintentional disobedience.

So the silence stretched into longer seconds as she picked on the hem of her dress. 

“Had fun?” His voice cut the air eventually, seeing how she struggled with finding anything to say. It was hoarse from the lack of talking for many hours, even lower than usual which she found intimidating.

But on the other hand, was there anything about him which wasn’t intimidating to her? The answer was obvious.

“I’m sorry I didn't come right away. We were late, and.. And I was tired. Before I realized it, I was sleeping.” She said quieter, feeling as she was walking on thin ice that might break at any given moment, pulling her into the freezing, cold water. The stillness that never ceased to surround him was terrifying at times. To her, Thomas Shelby was a complete mystery. His way of carrying himself reminded her of a volcano, so still and quiet just to blow up with a never ending stream of force. So the silence was… chaos really. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby”

Her voice, so quiet and submissive, danced around his mind. Mixing with the whiskey he drank, twisting and moving in different directions and causing the weird stirring he felt. Something that started becoming familiar, dangerously enough. His lips stretched into a small grimace, not quite enough to become a proper smile. Another thing that made him, him. All the small things she learned to become aware of, cautious and deliberate while slowly walking between the mines in his head. The boundaries that were constantly in motion for any kind of comfort, making it impossible to learn their placement. So she walked through the dark.

“I asked if you had fun, Dove,” 

His voice came out soft, at least softer than expected which almost made her gasp in a way. Her eyes flickered up, meeting his cold gaze. His eyes never seemed to lose the ice, but every now and then the blizzard seemed more gentle. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes wide, moving around his features.

“Yes, it was a.. A great day.”

He leaned forward, moving a bit closer with a sigh. 

“It makes me sad that you don’t listen, Dove.” He started off, making her feel bad. “But I'm willing to forgive you, yeah? You didn’t mean to be bad after all.” His voice was soothing, smooth like butter, to which she nodded eagerly, also leaning forward, subconsciously wanting to please him.

“Yes, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,”

The corner of his mouth twitched again.

“I know you are,” He sighed, letting his gaze drop onto her body. Slowly moving lower till the desk blocked his view on the rest. “You will start coming to my office again. Spending time with Mr. Shelby,” The words would suggest it was a suggestion, but his voice absolutely proved to her it wasn’t one. He told her what would be happening from now on, and she had to listen. Y/N remained quiet for a bit before clearing her throat.

“Okay” She mumbled in her typical manner. His gaze was making her feel almost naked despite the appropriate clothing she wore. Instinctively she covered herself a bit more, almost making him groan.

The little things she was doing. The pink blush dusting her cheeks as she squeezed her thighs together, along with the innocent body language caused the familiar stirring in his core again. Thomas sighed, feeling as his manhood grew in his briefs and skin became hot. Breathing a little deeper, he leaned back. 

Tension in the room thickened as the shame coated her mind at the way he looked at her. 

Getting up abruptly, she moved behind the armchair.

“I will.. Go to sleep. I’ll come to your office tomorrow, I promise.” Y/N stuttered out as she started walking back towards the door. Thomas tilted his head up, watching as her hips swayed as she walked. Letting out a deep breath he nodded, tutting.

“Y/N” He stopped her in a raspy voice, but she didn’t turn around to meet his gaze. “Don’t forget to take your bags from the living room,” Thomas added, picking up the still lit cigarette, as he threw it into the fireplace. She just nodded, twisting the doorknob as she left.

Thomas stared at the dark wood of the door, as his fingers wrapped around the soft material in his pocket. Soft, pink lace.

He could say a lot about Y/N, but he had to admit she had a good taste in the lingerie she bought. 

@mrsnms @randomcreator-09 @omgsuperstarg @hatethis29 @usaguisenpaisblog @priyajoyy @vanessyyyu @hottestgirlintheworld @iilovedonnatartt @hagarsays

[emilys-bangs]

not a lot, just forever | e.p

Tags: flangst, momily, hurt/comfort, nightmares, typical momily guilt, this is actually not a reader insert fic because reader isn’t here (yet), idk where they are honestly, single mom!emily, probably inaccurate portrayals of children because I’ve never spent more than an hour around a toddler

Summary: Nightmares haunt the Prentiss household—more recently targeting its smallest member—but this time, Emily may have found a solution.

Word count: 2.2k

Emily is not a heavy sleeper. She used to be, when she was knee deep in her idle teenage years and wading through conjoined shadows of depression and loneliness, but that changed. Her body did. It was a rewiring in her brain; the more she became conscious of the world, her own vulnerability in it, the less she dipped into subconsciousness. The change began slow: after a couple of months in Interpol—a gun on her hip that followed her home to take up space in her bedroom safe—a year-long stint in Tuscany. By the time she joined the BAU her barrier between sleep and wakefulness was paper thin. 

Then she became a mother.

The dip of her mattress goes unnoticed. It sinks beneath a familiar weight, and then she’s conscious of a knee pressing into her stomach, bony elbows and the scent of baby shampoo pulling her awake even before a sniffled Maman? breaks the silence.

Her eyes peel open. Emily sits up groggily on instinct, her spine straightening off the mattress then curving beneath the heft of her exhaustion. It stiffens again when she sees her son. 

Matthew’s silhouette is blurred even though he’s only a few inches from her face. Tears shine on his cheeks, dripping off his chin and soaking her pajama shorts like warm patters of rain. Emily doesn’t get to blink the sleep from her eyes before he’s crumpling into her chest, arms tight around her neck, his hiccups only slightly stifled into her skin. They echo off the walls, loud as gunshots as she wraps her arms around him, automatically shushing, her hands rubbing wide circles on his back—limbs heavy and lined with sleep, tongue barely unstuck from the roof of her mouth. Her heart pounds from the fright of being woken up, and her son’s crying doesn’t help any in calming it down. 

“Hey, hey.” She rasps, barely audible over the sound of his crying. Matthew’s chest stutters against hers, his breathing jagged and uneven. A sigh gets trapped in her lungs, gets buried down next to the knot in her gut that forms each time this happens.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, mon coeur. Maman’s got you.” Emily gathers him fully onto her lap and sags back against the headboard, blinking hazy exhaustion from her eyes as she continues to whisper nonsense into his hair. Her heart twinges through his sniffles, the heat of tears on her neck just about cracking it clean in half. 

Nightmares have become more often lately. Like clockwork, always between the hours of 3 and 4, the stillness of the night breaks beneath Matthew’s cries. There’s no apparent reason, none that she can find, and it’s sending them both half insane. Some nights he’s too terrified to go to bed; all the cuddles and stories and reassurances swirl down the drain, fear poisoning his thoughts until he’s begging to sleep with her, a small tremble to his lips. She relents most of the time, guilt knotting in her throat, but she’s been trying to put her foot down.

And this is what happens when she does.

Emily should know what to do by now, but the uselessness washes over her every time, hitting her like a brick. She still isn’t used to his nightmares, fumbling her way through the same words that dissolve in the face of yet another bad dream—it’s not real, you’re safe, it’s okay to be scared. 

Words have never been her strong suit, and Matthew needs them. He doesn’t know how to speak the silent language she substitutes for words, and she’s still trying to learn how to reassure and comfort with nothing but her tongue. Eventually the repetitive reassurances turn to ash in her mouth, useless and falling on deaf ears, so she resorts to whispered sweet nothings instead—mostly in French, the rumble of her voice working in tandem with the heel of her hand pressing down on his back.

It doesn’t take long before Matthew goes limp in her arms, sniffling weakly as his fists loosen to flat palms on her shoulders. By the time he’s quieted down she’s wide awake, her shirt damp with tears and snot, the inside of her chest bruised from the still frazzled beat of her heart. She rubs between his shoulder blades and grimaces; his body is warm, his shirt damp where it sticks to his back. 

Matthew lets out a protesting noise when she stands and lifts him onto her hip, his grip tightening on her shirt.

“It’s okay,” Emily soothes. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re just gonna get you into some new pj’s, sweet boy. These are all sweaty.” She makes a stop in the bathroom to wash his face before making her way to his bedroom, all in the semi-dark, her eyes barely picking out the edges of the shadows. 

Matthew calms down after the water, but he still clings to her so close she feels the lingering tremble in his bones. This she’s used to—his nails digging into her arm and shoulder like he wants to rip a hole in her skin and bury under it. Nose skimming her collarbone, head just under her chin; every unsteady exhale beats across her skin, loud in the stillness of the house.

Emily sighs. “That nightmare did a number on you, huh? Wanna tell me about it?”

“No,” he mumbles into her shoulder. The rough grate of his voice stabs through her skin.

She chews on her lip, squinting when she walks into the warm yellow of his nightlight, and takes out a pair of pajamas from his closet. Her eyes don’t miss the twisted sheets of Matthew’s bed, his stuffed animals knocked carelessly to the floor. “That’s fair. I don’t like talking about my bad dreams either.”

Matthew frowns a little as she sits both of them down on his bed, his lips curving into a sullen pout. “Mommy gets bad dreams too?” He rasps.

Emily presses her lips into a smile, the edges of it curling downwards as she smooths some of his unruly hair back from his face. Bad dreams hardly covers the bloody horrors her mind conjures in its sleep. “Yes, Matthew.” She murmurs. “Everyone gets bad dreams sometimes, even me. It’s normal to have them.” She strips him of his sweaty shirt and tugs the clean one over his head. 

The word is acrid on her tongue. It feels like a lie, though countless articles and pediatricians and even—heaven help her—her own mother have reassured her multiple times that yes, it’s normal for her preschooler to wake up kicking and screaming several times a week for no apparent reason. She doesn’t have a scale for it, her more than anyone else. Emily’s nightmares were never close to normal. Blood and guns and Matthew’s hand suddenly disappearing from her own have haunted her for so long she forgot what technically classifies as a normal nightmare.

Matthew is silent as she guides his arms through the sleeves. He’s always been quiet, inching towards shy—clinging to her pant legs and stifling mumbled words into her body. Emily has mostly learned how to coax them from him, but he’s taught her to be patient. Sometimes they stick to the roof of his mouth with cement; sometimes it only takes a nudge for him to spill rivers of words in her ear. She lets him be, even when curiosity eats at her, when she wants to know what it is that swirls deep beneath his raven curls. 

His brows furrow in thought, a crease forming above his damp eyes. 

“Even Sergio?” He asks after a few quiet beats.

The question makes her laugh. “I don’t know, bug. I never thought of that.” Emily tugs him up, switches Spider-Man pants for space rockets. “I think his worst nightmare would be running out of tuna.” She stifles a yawn, words lost in a vortex of warm air. 

“But…” Mathew’s lip wobbles. “He’ll be—he’ll be scared.” He looks up at her with wide eyes—exactly like her own and so, so much more tearful.

Emily sighs quietly. She takes him back into her chest and he latches on to her, arms and legs tight around her neck and waist. Again she feels herself about to stumble, words already weighing her tongue down. Her thoughts pulse sluggishly, the movement of her hand far more adept as she rubs down the ridges of his spine. 

“The scary feeling doesn’t stay forever, Matthew. We just think it does, but it’s…it’s tricky. It’s not forever.” 

She cringes into his shoulder. God, does he even understand what she’s saying? He’s still so little, just turned four, and the nonsense she’s spewing hardly even registers through her own head. Emily’s head spins, the thick sluggishness of sleep unshakeable.

“You know what I do after I have a bad dream?” She blurts out, going heavy at the thought of more tears. Matthew’s hair tickles her jaw as he shakes his head. Emily rubs at his back, coaxes him away from her shoulder so she can meet his eyes. His shiny, red-rimmed eyes that openly reflect every emotion she’s spent most of her life hiding. 

Most of her life, until she had him. 

Emily cups his small cheeks, the soft roundness of them filling her palms. “I close my eyes really tight and I think of the good stuff. Everything that makes me happy.”

Matthew rubs a fist into his eye. “Like what?” He mumbles, the nightlight catching stray tears smeared on the back of his hand.

“Like you,” Emily whispers, pulling his hand away and running her thumb under his eye. She feels the slippery tears gone cold on his skin and wipes them away.

“Me?” He frowns.

“Yes, you.” She presses her finger to the small wrinkle between his brows, smoothing it out. “I tell myself, “hey, remember that time when Matthew spilled flour all over himself and Serg? And they both had to get into the bath ’cause they got flour everywhere?”” Matthew lets out a raspy giggle at the memory. Emily’s chest lightens; she laughs, too. “Wasn’t that silly? Sometimes I think of my friends at work, too. Or the plans we’ll make for tomorrow. It helps me forget the scary stuff.” She murmurs, combing the dark tangle of his hair away from his face.

“And cinnamon rolls too?” He whispers, tripping over n’s and m’s, chewing them together in a way that makes her grin.

“And cinnamon rolls,” Emily laughs, finally feeling that she’s doing something right. “All the good stuff I can think of, until I stop being scared. How about we try that now, sweetheart? I’ll sit here with you, and you close your eyes.” She stands and straightens out the sheets, then gathers the fallen soldiers littered on the floor and returns them to their perch by Matthew’s side.

He looks at her uncertainly, brows pinched in a frown far too serious for his young face. Emily gives him a reassuring smile, leaning down to press a kiss to his hair. “C’mon, bug. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

It takes more coaxing and nudging to get him under the covers, even as his eyes grow heavy the deeper they slip into the night. Emily tucks him in and gives him his stuffed bear—creatively dubbed Mr. Bear—to hold, before settling down on the fluffy, carpeted floor beneath his bed. He’s reluctant to close his eyes; Emily grabs his hand and holds it between both of hers, softly rubbing against the back of it until he finally relents. She feels the exhaustion settle in her own body, a heavy weight returning to its perch on her shoulders, but she blinks the sleep away and focuses on her son.

“Want me to help you out?”

Matthew nods.

“Okay. Hmm, let’s see—you mentioned cinnamon rolls a little while ago. Those are good, right?”

“Uh-huh. With the”—he wiggles his fingers, sprinkling invisible garnish over Mr. Bear’s head—“the thingy on top.”

“Pecans,” Emily laughs. Matthew’s eyes shoot open as he grins, two half moons of dimples in his cheeks. She gently touches his lids, forcing his lashes to flutter shut. “Well…what do you say we go get some tomorrow? And we’ll eat them in the park, and play on the swings.”

“And play with my bike.”

“And play with your bike,” Emily agrees, swallowing back a yawn. She tries to count the threads of his closed lashes as Matthew mumbles about getting a hot chocolate with his cinnamon roll (lots of cream on top), and wearing his light-up Spider-Man sneakers, and inviting an unsuspecting Henry to play with his scooter. Emily nods and hums and agrees, her thumb skimming over the flat of his wrist and feeling for his pulse as it begins to slow. He doesn’t get to elaborate much further before his words start to stick together, honey-coated and sleep-drenched, muffled into the cushion of his lips.

Emily takes a second even after she’s sure he’s asleep. A second to rub one more path over his hand, to scan the way his chest moves evenly up and down. His hold on her hand still hasn’t loosened; she carefully unfurls his fingers from hers, ignoring the cold sweep of the air on her skin as she presses a kiss to his forehead.

On her way out, she spots Sergio curling up at the foot of Matthew’s bed. He blinks sleep hazed eyes at her, trilling softly when she scratches between his ears.

“You’ll keep him safe,” she whispers, bending to kiss his forehead too. “We both will.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic

[obsidianimagines]

See You Around

You meet Jack for the first time after one of his shows

Jack Mercer x f!reader

Warnings: cursing, drinking, smoking

Notes: I assumed the Spares tattoo on his arm was for his band because idk what else it could mean so let's just pretend that's it ❤️

New York City, October 31st, 2001

"Court, you told me you were taking care of the tickets."

Your friend and roommate huffed as she walked next to you, the heels of her boots clicking on the sidewalk. "Yeah, I meant I was going to buy them at the door. I didn't think they'd be sold out already."

"The Strokes are pretty big now. Their album came out a few months ago, and they've been touring all over the place." You shrugged, shifting gears to help cheer her up. She'd been so excited to go to the show. "But hey, it's Halloween in New York City. I'm sure we can find something else to do tonight."

After a block or so of walking, you noticed some people entering a bar, and the chalkboard sign out front: TONIGHT: SPARES. "Hey, look!" You pointed at the sign. "Let's check it out."

"I guess we could. I didn't dress to be outside for too long." Courtney gestured to the short, tight dress she wore, with only a thin sweater covering her arms. She looked very cute, but definitely not too suited for the late October weather. As you stopped at the door, she looked in through the window and noticed the type of crowd inside. "Is this going to be one of those shows you like with the mush pits or whatever?"

"Mosh pits. And I don't know, I've never heard of this band before. But there has to be at least one hot guy, right?" You knew exactly what to say to convince your friend, and it worked.

"Alright, let's go in. Just don't leave me, okay?"

Courtney held onto your arm as the two of you walked inside, the bouncer waving you both past after checking your IDs and taking the few dollars for your cover. It was yet another bar with a tiny stage, nothing you hadn't seen before. Maybe 100 people could fit if they really squeezed in, but there was only about half of that at the moment.

After grabbing some drinks, you and your friend settled a little closer to the back because you knew Courtney would run for the hills if people started throwing elbows anywhere near her. And you wanted to see some kind of live music that night after hyping yourself up so much.

When the band came out dressed like punk rockers, Courtney's eyes went wide, and you gave her a reassuring smile.

You stepped out of the front door of the bar after the show, your ears still ringing from the guitars and drums. Your friend had loosened up and actually started having fun, so she was at the bar chatting up one of the band members. But you just needed a little air after being in that hot, stuffy room.

Once you took a breath, you noticed the lead singer of the band—he'd introduced himself on stage as Jack—leaning against the bricks with the last remains of a cigarette between his lips. Since you were at the back of the bar, you hadn't been able to see him well, only hear his nice voice and the way he played his guitar. Now that you could make out his features, he was actually pretty cute.

"That was a great show," you said, breaking the silence.

Jack's blue eyes flicked up towards you, and he took the cigarette from his mouth to put it out on the wall and toss the butt in the trash can a few feet away. "Thanks."

You expected that he'd go back inside with the rest of his band, but he simply took out another cigarette and lit it with a zippo. Something came over you, and you also rested your back against the wall, leaving about four feet between you. "I'm surprised you're not getting a drink with your band."

"The bar had to kick me out when the show ended."

It took a moment for you to realize what he meant, and you laughed. "You're in a band and you don't have a fake ID?"

"That asshole at the door took it." He could get another one, but that would require money, which he wasn't exactly swimming in.

"Damn, that's rough. He let me and my friend in with ours."

"Well, you've got an advantage. Most bars don't care about your ID when you're a pretty college girl."

"What makes you think I'm in college?" you asked, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket and definitely not thinking about the fact that he called you pretty.

He shrugged. "Just a guess."

"It was a good one. I'm an art student. You?"

It was Jack's turn to laugh. "Hell no. School's not my thing." College usually required a lot of money or very good grades, and he'd never had either of those things. Even if he had, the idea of sitting in classrooms all day again was fucking torture to him.

The front door to the bar opened as someone exited, and you heard Courtney's distinct laugh among the music and chatter. You looked in the window and noticed that she hadn't moved from her barstool. "My friend's still flirting with your drummer."

"Shit, I bet he's loving that." Jack chuckled as he joined you in peering through the glass, finding his bandmate, Ben, and a cute blonde at the bar. Despite a local following, the band wasn't anywhere near the level of fame that had girls throwing themselves at them, so Ben would probably be bragging about this for at least a week.

"I'm just glad she's having a good time after what happened earlier." You glanced over at him and realized he didn't know what had brought you there in the first place. "We were supposed to see The Strokes tonight, but it didn't work out. Your show was the first one we found."

Jack ashed his cigarette and took another drag. "Probably a bit of a shock, huh?" He'd seen The Strokes before, and the crowds weren't quite as rowdy as the small ones at his shows.

"For her, yeah. But I've been listening to punk and metal my whole life. If I were here on my own, I would've been right there in the pit."

"Really?" He'd only met you a few minutes ago, but you didn't seem like the type.

"Really."

His eyes lingered on you a moment before they turned back to the window. "We're playing another show here Friday night. You should come."

"I'll think about it."

You didn't even notice that Courtney had left the bar until she walked out of the front door.

"We've got class in the morning, we gotta go!" She grabbed your arm, tipsy and giggling. "I gave the drummer my number. You were so right about finding hot guys here!"

Your cheeks burned at her words as Jack smirked.

Courtney started pulling you down the sidewalk, searching for an empty cab to hail, and you turned back towards him to give a little wave with your free hand. "See you around, Jack."

Only once you were gone did Jack realize that he hadn't even gotten your name...

[queenshelby]

The Peaky Role (Part 32)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap, Best Friend's Dad, Pregnancy

Nina's & Cillian's POV

Meanwhile, Nina sat on the edge of her bed, fingers trembling as she held her phone. She was waiting for her father to call her back after he had finished on set.

Suddenly, the screen lit up; the call connected, and she inhaled sharply.

"Dad?" Nina asked, her voice shaky.

His voice came through, calm yet concerned. "Nina, what's wrong? Are you okay?" he asked, sensing that something was off as she had put in a request with his assistant Lindsay to get him to call her back as soon as possible which, in itself, was unusual for Nina.

"I... I need to talk to you. It's really urgent," she spoke quickly, her heart pounding.

"Is it about uni? Or... is something happening with mum?" he asked as Nina shifted on the bed, glancing at a family photo on her wall from Cillian took them all to the Oscars last year.

"I..." She swallowed, struggling against the tightness in her throat, fingers trembling at her side. "I don't know how to say this."

"I'm listening," Cillian said. He sounded calm, patient, but there was an edge to it that hinted at something deeper—the spontaneous urge to protect, to reassure.

"I'm… I'm pregnant," Nina then blurted out and the words hung in the air like a hammer threatening to drop. The moment she uttered them, it felt as if a thousand ideas rambled to life in her mind, yet none could take flight.

Silence met her confession. A silence pregnant with uncertainty.

"Nina?" Cillian's voice broke through the stillness, tense yet steady. "Are you serious?" he asked, his breath hitching as if the weight of her words slammed into him.

"Yeah, I took a couple of tests," Nina whispered, her heart racing. "I don't know what to do, and I'm scared," she declared before a long pause stretched between them, heavy with unsaid fears.

She then choked back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. "I didn't want it to happen like this. I didn't plan for it. I thought I was being careful."

Cillian's breath hitched. "Okay, let's calm down. Who's the father?"

Her heart sank further, the weight becoming unbearable. "It's Damien."

"Damien?" Cillian's voice turned incredulous. "I didn't realise you were still seeing him."

"He's... he's not that bad, Dad. At least, I thought he wasn't."

"But he's too old for you, Nina. You know that" Cillian lectured her, his voice piled concern upon concern, like an avalanche starting to tumble. "He's unreliable—always between jobs. This isn't what I wanted for you."

"You were unreliable and between jobs at his age!" she snapped, igniting a flicker of defiance.

"That's not the point." Cillian exhaled sharply, frustration intertwining with paternal instinct. "Have you spoken to him about this?"

"No. I mean yes...just before... He... he doesn't want anything to do with it," Nina stammered as tears streamed down her face, disbelief at her own reality twisting in her gut.

Cillian sighed, an audible resignation. He ran a hand through his hair, the maddening mess of thoughts igniting like fireworks. "I can't believe this is happening. I'm going to kill that kid."

"No!" Nina stammered, panic clawing at her chest. "Please don't say that!"

"Alright, ease up. I am obviously not serious," Cillian said, his voice softened, grounded in understanding. "But I do feel like having a very serious conversation with him," he muttered, frustration lacing his tone as he paced the room.

"Please don't dad," Nina blurted, eyes wide, fear coursing through her as Cillian changed the topic.

"Have you thought about what you want to do?" he wanted to know, raising the question gently.

Nina's breath caught. "I don't know, Dad. I can't even think straight."

"Take a breath. What do you feel is right for you?" he asked, his voice soft and comforting.

"I don't know. I just need time," Nina said as her fingers clenched the phone, her knuckles whitening.

"Think about it. You've always got options; pumpkin and I will support you in whatever you decide. Just remember, this is a big deal, but it isn't an impossible situation. You've got support,' Cillian added, his voice steady, grounding her amidst the chaos swirling in her mind.

Nina let out a shaky breath. "What if I am not ready for this? What if...what if I'm not cut out to be a mother?" Nina panicked and Cillian’s breath hitched.

"Nina, none of us are ever fully ready to have children. I certainly wasn't when I had you and neither was your mother. You weren't planned but still you were one of the greatest gifts of my life," Cillian told her.

Nina swallowed hard. "But what if I mess it all up? I don't want to be a disappointment."

Cillian's voice lowered, steady and firm. "You won't. You're stronger than you think, and we'll navigate this together if you want," he reassured Nina as she clenched the phone tighter, heart racing as hope mingled with fear.

"Now, have you been to a doctor yet?" Cillian asked and Nina shook her head, biting her lip.

"No, not yet, but Y/N is taking me tomorrow," Nina explained, her voice trembling.

"Do you want me to come home? I can delay filming for a bit and be there for you," Cillian offered, his concern palpable.

"No, I don't want to disrupt your work," Nina insisted, swallowing her anxiety. "Despite, Y/N is here, and she took the day off work tomorrow too to take me to the clinic. I'll be fine."

Cillian's frown deepened. "You don't have to do this alone, Nina. I'll figure it out, my filming can wait. Just say the word."

"No, Dad," she disagreed, voice resolute. "I've got this. Just trust me. And like I said, Y/N is here for me, even though mum absolutely lost it at her yesterday," Nina added, frustration flickering in her expression.

"Why?" Cillian asked, somewhat concerned as he leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows knitting together.

"Because Mum's acting like a lunatic. She kicked Y/N out and later told me that she thinks that Y/N and you are... never mind," Nina blurted, her voice trembling slightly. "It's nothing," she repeated, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow.

Cillian leaned closer; concern etched on his features. "Nina, whatever it is, just say it."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "Mum thinks you are with Y/N, like involved or something," Nina said and Cillian couldn't help but gasp, his chin dropping as panic began to claw at his insides.

"Involved how?" he asked, disbelief knitting his brow as his thoughts raced.

Nina rubbed her temples, frustration bubbling. "Mum thinks you and Y/N have a thing. That you're sneaking around. It's ridiculous!"

Cillian's jaw tightened. "That's ridiculous," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, his voice unconvincing. "How does she even think that?"

Nina sighed, her fingers shaking. "She thinks she smelled her perfume on your clothes and, well, Ciara found that earring on the floor of your bedroom."

Cillian's eyes widened. "An earring?"

Nina nodded, frustration painting her features. "Mums convinced you're with her. I tried to tell her it's ridiculous; but she won't listen."

"Great," Cillian muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't worry about it, pumpkin. You know what your mum is like," he muttered, his voice still somewhat shaky.

"Yeah, but it's exhausting," Nina replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Which is why I am thinking about moving in with you," Nina said, causing Cillian's brow furrowed, disbelief flashing in his eyes.

"Moving in with me? You're serious?" he asked, and Nina nodded, resolve firming her shaky voice.

"It's the only way to escape this madness at Mum's. I need a fresh start," she declared, and Cillian nodded, the furrow deepening on his brow.

He rubbed his temples, anxiety and protectiveness twisting in his gut. "Let's talk about this after you had some more time to think. You know I would love for you to come and live with me, but I want you to be sure, Nina, alright? No rush decision making," he said, and Nina took a deep breath, resolve shoring up against the rush of uncertainty.

"I'll think about it, Dad. But I have to go now, alright? Love you," she said, worrying about the weight of everything swirling in her mind.

"Love you too, Nina. Just remember to breathe," he urged, concern etching his features.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

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[see-arcane]

Jonathan is escaping just as the beginnings of brain fever and far worse things are roiling in him. Making him more ill and haggard as he traverses the Carpathians in search of a train. Running, burning, withering. Dying.

The closer he gets to death, the more he can feel Dracula's poison trying to overtake him. It's a trap waiting to spring. He knows it. Dracula knows it. Just as the Count knows the Brides let him slip away--

Ah, well, their loss. It seems you are to be mine alone after all, my friend.

--and dreams little visions his way when Jonathan dares to sleep.

Flashes of dark water and mist. Men screaming like sheep before the butcher. Slaughtered with less mercy than any farmer ever showed his livestock before being discarded like trash.

What loss are they, my friend? I have tasted the finer things. A sweet English vintage; I shall savor more of the same in time. But these? Bah! I have seen a thousand of their paltry kind come and go. I would no sooner cherish their meal than you would swoon over a cut of shoe leather. What difference is it if I play with this coarse fare? You shall learn the same habits in time.

"No. No, no, I won't, I can't. I have to go home. I have to get to her. My life is there. My life is her."

What home is that, my friend? Who is she?

He does not answer. He cannot answer. His head is all fire, burning holes through mind and memory. No, God, he must know! He must remember! He has come all this way, he must know where he's going and who is there! His nightmares fill with as much saccharine sympathy as cutting laughter. The most sincere comment he receives in the mire of it is a single reassurance:

You will recall it all, my friend. Sickness makes no mark upon us. You will know. You will be well. Some night, in this year or the next, perhaps we can go and meet her together. In the meantime, cease your struggling. I can feel your fatigue, poor boy. Put down your head. Stop running. Let it take you. Let it help you. Rest.

"No."

Rest.

"No!"

Rest.

"No, no, no--,"

He stuffs himself with berries and a hare and handfuls from a river. A ferryman takes pity--he thinks? a river, he remembers a River, the Ferryman telling him where to go, how soon the sun will rise, he doesn't know, his head, his chest, everything burning, dying--and a blur passes between himself and the train station. He was loud there. Did he scream? Sob? Bare his teeth? They shoo him away with a ticket.

(Sharp. Why do his teeth feel so sharp? Why is he so thirsty when the fluttering shapes of the nuns keep forcing water down his throat?)

(Quiet now. He cannot get through the walls here. Ha. Could not even open his journal if he tried! The crucifix is wrapped around it! Ha!)

(Stings to hold. Why? God, God, please, not now, don't don't don't, please do not do this, the nuns, they think him mad! They are of faith, but they do not believe! They do not know! They won't understand what he is when they put him in the cemetery they won't know what they invited in unawares they won't know until he is up and out of the dirt and oh O God the Cross and the Son will not save them not entirely not when he feasted on an entire mountain range of the faithful whose prayer saved no one and soon he will not need their necks only whatever meat his teeth can reach and no no no no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO--)

Something is different.

A white light twinkling in the red inferno. He knows it. It has brushed him more than once. She found him in the graveyard, weeping over the stones of his parents. How did she know then that he was there? He'd never told her.

Her.

Her who?

(Love. Darling. Soul. I know this. I know...)

Even if he cannot pierce the veil of a holy place, her presence can. It fires through his eyes--he is caught mid-kiss, the girl's head is hanging down, familiar sunny locks, who..?--and into Jonathan Harker's.

Jonathan Harker. Yes. Yes, that sounds right. And she is...

Running to him, to the nodding girl, a wisp under the moonlight coming to throw herself into danger for the sake of another, as ever and ever amen, she is--

"Mina."

"Pardon?" asks the attendant refilling his pitcher. She watches him carefully. "Did you say something young herr?"

"Mina. Mina Murray." His bloodshot eyes roll to the window. It faces the west. It faces her. Within him, something blessedly cool turns over, quelling an irate blaze. "I should like to write to her."

"I can speak with Sister Agatha about this. Who is Mina Murray, if I may ask?"

"My fiancee. And my name is Jonathan Harker. We live in Exeter." He offers a weak smile. One without sharp teeth. "My apologies for taking so long to remember it."

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 nightmare rookanis enjoy 🪶

A door hits the wall behind it so forefully that it makes the liquid in his cup ripple.

Small, hurried slaps of bare feet on tile that for a second, Lucanis can't assign to anyone. The slide of heels never lifting, the absence of moving fabric, the nose-breathing throws him off.

He'd never guess it's Rook, too distressed to guard her steps the way he knows she was taught decades ago.

She's halfway down the curved staircase before she sees him.

"Lucanis." The bags under her eyes rival his own. But she looks at him like he put both moons in the sky. "Oh, Maker, Lucanis-"

He barely has time to put down his cup before she's throwing herself to him, trapping his arms in her embrace and pressing her nose to his heart. He can't even gently pat her hip, so tightly does she keep his arms by his sides.

"Rook, what's wrong? What happened?"

She doesn't answer for a long while. Her hands wander, as if reassuring herself what she feels under her fingerpads is real, his shoulders, back, spine, the touches too rough to be caresses, too soft to be prodding. Her breath out of her mouth is shaky, but warm against his front.

Distress and Scales. Salt and Sadness. Abandonment. The first thing Spite said all night, but he stops mid-word when they catch Rook's eyes.

Her eyes are glassy when she looks up at him, brows knotted so tight they may as well be one, her nose runny.

"Querida, what can I do?" She kisses him, aggressively, choking her own sobs with his lip between her teeth and her hands clawing into him. The seam of his armhole, already compromised, easily gives way to her needy fingers. It seems a miracle her face is dry. She's not cold at all.

"I- Uh-" She stutters and stumbles, her face in the crook of his neck and inhaling his scent like a templar takes to lyrium.

"I'm here. I've got you. Take your time."

You've got me. You've got me. You've got me.

She keeps saying it to herself, into his skin, his beard, his shirt collar, until she can breathe slow enough to not get her spit in her windpipe.

"I had a nightmare," she manages, eventually. Lets go of him enough to rub her face with both palms. "I dreamt I found a way for us to go on a wyvern expedition in Orlais, but when I walked into the pantry, you weren't there. Nothing of yours was. No cot, no hookah. Just cobwebs. Like you never were." She falls forward again, into his chest, her face still in her hands. "I was so scared I'd dreamt you up."

The admission makes her burst into tears right again.

Lucanis wraps his arms around her, almost tight enough to pop her arteries from the pressure alone. He's not sure she hears his clumsy reassurances that he whispers against her scalp, that he's here, he's real, that he sure hopes she'd dream up someone less troublesome. He's not sure he's making sense.

Her hair is still a little damp.

He doesn't stop rubbing her back and mumbling into her hair until she sniffs and sits back up of her own accord.

"Here. You need to drink something." He only has his coffeepot - water would be better to replace the tears - but she takes his cup and drinks nonetheless.

Getting her to have some of his biscuits takes more persuasion, but eventually, she relaxes into his side, armed with chocolate-covered baking and coffee so strong she almost doesn't want to taste it.

"Can I stay?" She's already pulled her bare feet off the cold ground and slid them underneath the throw pillow.

"Of course. Whatever you need."

A pause, as she reaches for the abandoned quilt on the ground and settles in next to him (on top of him, rather).

"Were you knitting and reading and having a whole pot of coffee?"

Lucanis shrugs.

"Always good to be busy. Keeps you sharp."

Her laugh echoes through the library so loudly it makes Taash tear open their door on the upper floor and yell at them.

It makes Rook laugh so hard she starts snorting.

🪶

started a 5th playthrough, ran into the pantry by reflex, and Lucanis wasn't there and neither was his shit (bc I wasn't even far enough ahead to get the dagger lmao)

@lanafofana reverse what we talked i guess lmao? :D

[~rina]

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Hiii!, I actually saw ur last post (the arranged marriage with some bonten members) n I wanted to ask for a second part with the other bonten members if u could ofc! Thank u for reading my request n I hope u have a good day ! :3

Of course!!! Here are Koko, Rindou, Mochi and Kakucho!

Koko-

Hates this idea at first but completely pushes his feelings aside for the good of the gang. After all, this will mean more money for them right? They'll be even more successful? 

He's polite to you and makes sure you have everything you need but he's never around, he avoids you whenever he can. There's no love in this marriage and Koko doesn't even want to pretend there is. You're not her, the one he was supposed to marry. 

You keep doing all these little things for him though. Greeting him whenever he is home, making sure he's eaten, and you're always smiling so nicely at him. It doesn't take long for him to develop a crush.

He mentally argues with himself a lot over you. He wants you, craves you, needs you but his guilt won't go away. You're not her and maybe that's a good thing but the thought of that makes him feel so guilty. 

Sometimes he has nightmares that she's mad at him for moving on, other times he sees you in a burning building with him being unable to save you. 

There is no easy fix for the things he's been through but because of you he decides to change and realises he needs to let Akane go. It's a long process, but at least you'll have each other. 

Rindou-

Honestly thought the whole arranged marriage thing was a joke at first. Couldn't see why it would be him either, especially not with Ran right there, isn't he the one everyone picks?

Doesn't expect this to go well and it shows in the way he acts towards you. He doesn't do anything wrong exactly, he's just a bit cold. Like he's putting up a wall between the two of you. 

He's very surprised when he actually does start liking you. You're easy to talk to and fun to tease and you seem to genuinely like him. Still finds himself a bit unsure to show he likes you though, the two of you will be laughing together one minute, having a good time until he suddenly frowns and excuses himself. 

It takes a push from Ran to make Rindou tear the walls he put up down. It was just a simple comment, something Ran tried to tease him with "well if you don't want her I'd be more then happy to keep her with me". It made his blood boil, you're not Ran's wife, you're his. Comes home quickly after that where you're waiting for him, asking him what's wrong. It all spills out then, all of his feelings for you, how unsure he is and how he refuses to lose you. 

Rindou thinks nothing has ever felt better then you reassuring him after he told you everything. Vows from then on to be the best husband he can for you and does a great job at it (Ran of course takes credit for all of this). 

Mochi-

The first thing he ever says to you in private is an apology. He knows you probably didn't want this, that you must've had dreams of marrying someone precious to you. So he decides to give you the best life possible.

Get's a bit confused about how nice and loving you are towards him, tells you that you don't need to pretend, he doesn't expect you to love him anyway. 

Works a lot of extra hours to let you be alone more often. He figures you'd prefer more time with the house to yourself but you keep calling and texting him. Telling him about your day, checking up on him, even sending him cute pictures and videos you find online. Your actions don't match his assumptions.

One day he just sits down with you and asks you exactly what you want from him and this marriage. He's very surprised to hear that you care for him and want to be a proper husband and wife. 

Mochi had never actually considered his feelings towards you but could definitely see himself happily being with a girl like you. So he let's you love him and let's himself fall for you too. 

Kakucho- 

The perfect gentleman, he's nothing but kind and caring towards you, always putting you first and taking your feelings into consideration. Sure he was surprised by the whole arranged marriage thing at first but he's determined to make sure you have a good marriage. 

He gets home from work, always answers that his day was fine then focuses on you and how you're feeling/ doing. He never tells you anything about his work or how he is. 

Sometimes you can tell he's tired or that it's been a tough day from the look in his eyes. But he never "bothers" you with that stuff. 

Marriage isn't a partnership for Kakucho, you're someone he cares about, someone he needs to take care of, protect. 

"Hey you can tell me yknow, you can let me in and lean on me sometimes too" It takes you being honest with Kakucho and telling him to open up to you, to treat this marriage as a partnership for things to change.

Kakucho's so used of being the one taking care of others, of keeping everything bottled up that you genuinely catch him off guard. He never even imagined this type of thing would bother you, that you would want to take on some of his burdens. But of course he promised to give you everything you wanted so he let's you. It's the start of how you two really started your partnership. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

New Soul 1

Warnings: age gap, Auggy being a mean mean man, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

Ft. August Walker

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You’ve never been good in a crowd. You avoid them with a vengeance. Just as you avoid most people. That’s the old you. You’re breaking out of your bubble, or trying to. 

It’s hard breaking old habits. Harder even not to fall into lifelong doubts. You don’t belong. Everyone’s looking and laughing at you. 

Your mom’s voice rings in your head. Don't worry, honey, everyone else is just trying to get where they need to go too. They’re just as stressed as you. You hope she’s right. If they do feel like you, they won’t care about the tiny woman scurrying around with her bouncing suitcase. They won’t notice the frantic way you gnaw on your lip or pick at your fingernails. 

You look back over your shoulder. Your mom couldn’t come past the security checks with you. Now you’re on your own and as lost as you probably look. 

You turn and squeak to a halt in your sneaks, barely avoiding a collision with a man in a suit. You step back and crane your head up to see him. He’s a lot taller than you. Most people are at least a couple inches above you but he’s bigger than most. Not just tall but burly. 

“Sorry, sir,” you murmur. You step back as you take in his sheer size. He scowls back at you, his mustache curling with his lip. 

You gulp and step out of his way. Your bag jumps behind you as it rolls over his toe. Oops. 

“Sorry, er, again.” 

“Watch it.” His salty snarl follows you as you clamour away. 

You find your way to a blank space against the wall, just between the ATMs. You take a breath and exhale your nerves. It only stokes them. You focus on what your mom said. 

You’ll be okay, honey. If you need help, there’s lots of people around who can. Just ask one of the staff. 

You look around, searching out the white uniforms of the airport employees. There are those behind their podium like desks checking boarding passes but the lines of passengers have been called up. You’re just waiting your turn. You don’t want to bother anyone more than you need to. 

There are security guards in their dark sweaters. You hope one of them can get you where you need to go. You bend your boarding pass against your passport as your other hand sweatily sticks to the handle of your used suitcase. 

You approach one of the men with his arms crossed and a radio on his shoulder, “sorry, sir, hate to bug you but er... I’m looking for.... E3?” 

You show your pass and the broad man squints down at the lettering. He nods.  

“Down past me, take a left. Sign’s right above you,” he explains without moving an inch. 

“Oh,” you peer around him, leaning to the side, “thank you.” 

You swerve around him and follow his direction as best as you can. You go in a circle before you find your way but finally reach E3. As you do, your flight is called up for boarding. You sit and wait as those in need of assistance and families with young children at queued first. 

You grip the handle of your bag and jitter your leg. What are you doing? It’s too late to turn back. That hardly reassures you. As much as you want to break the gloom, as much as you want to learn to stand on your own, you’re terrified. You can’t do this. 

Your eyes catch another pair among those waiting in the seats. That same man you ran into earlier. He doesn’t look any more friendly than before. You avert your gaze and stand as the next boarding group is called. You’re up. 

As you drag your bag towards the forming line, the tall man in his suit does the same. You slow as you reach the tail of the queue at the same time. You nod and let him go ahead. He huffs and put his back to you.  

You bounce up on your toes and flat again. You keep up the nervous rocking as you wait. The man in the suit sighs repeatedly. 

You stare at the tailored fabric of his suit. He must be first-class. He knows where he’s going and what he’s doing. You envy him but then again, if you were big like him, you might be more confident yourself. 

Flimsy excuses. That's what your mom said too. Don't talk yourself out of an opportunity because you’re afraid. This is a huge opportunity. A whole new country!  

A whole new country. Your heart plummets again and your heels hit the floor. The man shifts to glare over his shoulder. You stop and stand flat, shuffling up behind him. 

He hands over his boarding pass as he reaches the front. You focus and listen in, rehearsing for your own turn. ‘Hi, yes, here is my ticket and my passport. Thank you.’ He’s waved through and you step up.

You drop your ticket and boarding pass and your bag tips over as you let go to scoop it all up. You're mortified to speechlessness. You stay silent and watch the clerk.

Your face is on fire as you stand and hand it all over. The woman checking the tickets smiles and scans you in. She gives it back, “have a good flight, miss.” 

You grab your bag and continue on. You cringe at yourself and follow the directions of the uniformed staff pointing you into the tunnel. It’s only the beginning. You still have to show your visa at customs when you land and find your way to your dorm building. After that there’s all that other stuff; classes, dorm mates, strangers... 

Why did you do this? It’ll help you grow up. Is that you or your mom answering? 

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (23)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: masturbation, sexual tension, smut, angst, manipulation, blackmailing and threats ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Alys had always known that, like any bastard child, she could only rely on herself. Her existence was merely an unfortunate accident to her father and brothers, with which they nevertheless came to terms, and she, in their minds, should be grateful for being allowed to stay and serve in Harrenhal.

Indeed, she never considered herself to have been significantly harmed by fate.

Compared to women who had to sell their bodies for money in order to survive, her function as herbalist and wet nurse completely satisfied her.

Milk filled her breasts along with the baby that one of the guards had put inside her. When he pressed her against the wall and lifted her gown, panting that he had desired her for a long time she did not stand up to him, even helping him by bending over and spreading the folds of her womanhood before him so that he could more easily hit the right spot with the thick tip of his length.

This particular man never aroused her desire, however, he supervised her chambers, and since she allowed him to enjoy the pleasures of her body, he closed his eyes to when and where she went out, giving her more freedom.

His wife, however, was not comforted by the fact that her husband had a mistress.

She could not conclude that her husband was a good lover; his hands only clenched greedily on her firm breasts, his thrusts violent, fast and deep. She knew that as he chased his fulfilment hissing that he would fill her with his seed, it did not even cross his mind to touch her between her thighs or ask what would give her pleasure.

She did not, however, resent him.

She recognised that this was how men were.

Although she tried not to think about it, the sight of his wife, one of her father's servants, filled her with remorse, for although she knew that this woman did not love him, she humiliated her every time she took away what belonged to her.

She had nothing to justify it, but she knew that if she told him to stop she would arouse his anger and his behaviour towards her would change.

He might want to take revenge on her for rejecting him.

She couldn't allow this to happen.

What he didn't know was that he wasn't the only man she allowed to sink between her thighs for the benefit; it was easier and sometimes even more enjoyable than trying to bribe them with money, which she didn't have much of anyway. What she was able to do perfectly was to observe people from the sidelines − their reactions and desires, coming to her own conclusions about what they needed and wanted.

Usually these men wanted not only sensation and elation, but also reassurance, a warm word and understanding; they lay with their faces cuddled between her breasts, muttering for her to stroke their heads, and she did so, allowing them to turn from men into innocent children for a moment.

The women in the fortress began to whisper among themselves that the ease with which she seduced men and with which she maintained her beauty despite her age was due to the fact that she was a witch.

She smiled piteously as she strolled through the corridors of the fortress, overhearing their conversations from afar, hearing about the potions she gave to poor, unaware men so they could not forget her, that she bathed in milk and blood to keep her face young and bright.

She did not deny the accusations, because she derived satisfaction from the fact that they feared and avoided her.

Fear, however, also tended to provoke interest and curiosity, and the young, newly arrived servants who were just learning their trade could not tell what they thought of her.

When she needed a break from the men's sweat and their aggressive, deep thrusts she sought peace and solace in the arms of young girls, much more gentle and understanding when it came to the nature of female fulfilment, their sweet moans and surprised expressions as she caressed them made her feel a pleasant pulsation between her thighs.

Although the prospect of becoming a mother did not fill her with particular joy, when she woke up one morning, feeling a pool of wetness under her thighs and saw blood, the squeeze in her throat and the tears she felt under her eyelids were proof that some part of her hoped she could love this innocent creature that was growing inside her womb.

This did not happen, however, and she, not wanting to waste her milk, from which her breasts had already swollen, decided to feed the children whose mothers had too little nourishment.

She considered her life quite prosperous and peaceful until her father and half-brother died in a fire.

Until Larys became the Lord of Harrenhal.

Everyone, including her, feared him.

He was like a writhing viper, tightening slowly around the necks of those who aroused his suspicions, his gaze black and completely blank, as if he experienced nothing, felt nothing inside himself.

He could not be seduced, appeased, pleaded with, persuaded.

He was like a stone, merciless, cruel, taking satisfaction in domination and power.

She never got in his way.

One evening, however, he summoned her to his chamber, and she feared what he desired.

When she stepped inside he was sitting at the table, having just eaten his evening meal. He smiled slightly at her in a way that made her feel the cold sweat on her back; his eyes remained indifferent, glowing mischievously in the firelight.

"Sit down, sister. I wish to discuss something with you." He said softly, and she swallowed hard, keeping an indifferent, satisfied face, looking at him from under half-closed eyelids. She sat down opposite him in one of the chairs, spreading out comfortably in her seat, sighing quietly and nodded for him to speak.

"We will have guests of honour. Prince Aemond and his wife will be arriving here within two days to spend the night here and then head off the next morning to meet Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon." He said calmly, putting a few pieces of cake from the tray onto his plate, with a hand gesture he encouraged her to eat as well, but she shook her head, analysing his words quickly.

She had heard of them.

Prince Aemond had married and taken his niece's maidenhood on the same night he chose Maris Baratheon as his wife.

His brother the King, to save the situation, married them in the eyes of the Seven before an enraged Borros Baratheon could arrive in King's Landing demanding justice.

There would not have been all the commotion if Prince Aemond had taken her as his second wife, but he clearly only wished to have one, therefore, Maris was sent away with only a dowry and humiliation.

Her half-brother continued, seeing the lack of response on her part.

"I want you to host them well. Both of them, if you understand what I have in mind. Myself and his grandfather do not believe in the success of their mission. Like most of the kingdom we know how it will end: with a war. A war we wish to win. However, our Prince, if I may say so, does not think with his mind now, but rather with what he has between his thighs. He gives in to his wife and her persuasions to bring about a reconciliation. I know you are well acquainted with human nature and will surely win both her trust and his heart."

She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief as she looked at her fingers, trying to hide the horror and squeeze in her stomach she felt.

He wanted to expose her, to put her head under the Prince's sword if it turned out that her attempts would only enrage him, and he could wash his hands of everything.

"In any case, in a few days' time the matter of the succession will resolve itself with the help of my birds in the Eyrie. They know what to do. Of course, I'll let our Prince believe that his decision matters, however, everything is already arranged. I hope this should settle the matter. With the help of the gods, the girl might try to take her own life for the second time. Let us raise our cups for that." He said lightly, as if indeed such a course of events would please him the most; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking that she had not even noticed when he had become such a disgusting creature.

A monster that, like a black, empty hole, was consuming everything around him, destroying it and crushing it.

She wasn't in a position to refuse, and he knew it.

That was why she walked out with him to greet their guests, thinking she would simply do what he ordered her to do.

She blinked as the figure of a petite, pretty girl jumped down from the shimmering blue and silver dragon, her long, dark hair of a shade similar to hers tied into a braid, its unruly strands dishevelled by the long journey through the skies.

She stepped out in front of them, breathing heavily, her eyes big, full of curiosity and uncertainty, her gaze warm, kind, her cheeks all flushed from exertion. She stopped in front of them and forced herself into an innocent, almost childlike smile, from which she felt a squeeze in her gut.

Gods, have mercy.

"Your Grace. What a joy." Said her brother. The girl blinked, not knowing for a moment what to answer, shifting from foot to foot.

"My Lord Strong. Thank you for being willing to host us." She muttered at last, clearly tense − her was voice pleasant, melodious, soft, the kind that gives comfort with ease, brings peace of mind.

They all turned their faces towards the approaching figure as they heard his footsteps; Prince Aemond in his long black leather coat and black eye patch indeed looked like someone menacing, commanding, as powerful as the great dragon he was riding.

What immediately caught her attention was that as his gaze traveled over their faces he stopped at his wife, assessing her figure from afar as if quickly examining whether she had suffered any damage after such a long journey and whether she was well.

He must have evidently concluded that she was, for his gaze turned after a moment towards her brother.

"Lord Strong. Take us to our quarters."

The Prince and her brother moved first, followed by his wife, looking around the interior of their fortress with genuine curiosity, not even listening to what her brother was saying.

She didn't even notice that her uncle was glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, checking that she was near and in no danger.

She thought he would sooner stab her in the heart than take her to his bed.

Her brother opened the door of the chamber that had been prepared for him, the largest in the entire fortress, not coincidentally located close to hers. The Prince, however, did not look impressed; his lips pressed into a thin line in disapproval when he heard that Lord Strong had assigned his wife other quarters.

"No need. My wife will spend the night in my chamber." He said coolly, as if the very suggestion was offensive and insulting to him.

He had kept her with him the whole time, she thought in disbelief, glancing out of the corner of her eye at the girl standing next to her.

She stood, gazing at her uncle as if she were looking at a statue of one of the gods; her bright, shining eyes large and filled with affection, devotion, longing, even though, after all, he was standing in front of her, at her fingertips.

She realised, swallowing quietly, that he had not taken her by force the night he married her or any night after.

How long had they looked at each other like this?

"As you wish, my Prince. However, I will leave the rooms I spoke of at your wife's disposal for her own convenience. I have also assigned her a servant to ensure that while we men are conversing, she will have company. There are several matters I would like to discuss with you." Her brother replied.

Prince Aemond then looked at his niece with a gaze as if he was about to explode − his wife pressed her lips into a thin line, immediately understanding what the expression on his face was meant to convey to her, her look of understanding and sigh was meant to add to his patience.

His gaze softened and after a moment he nodded, letting her go.

The girl looked at her, so she smiled quickly and pointed with her hand the way they should go to her quarters. Before moving behind her she looked at her husband, the Prince leading her away with a cold, sharp gaze.

Overwhelmed by this revelation, no longer knowing herself what she thought of it or what she should do in such a situation, she simply followed her into the room, closing the door behind her. She watched quietly as the prince's wife walked to the window, placing her hand on the glass, and smiled slightly, noticing something outside.

Had she been like this all the time?

"Do you desire to change into something…more comfortable, Your Grace?" She asked finally, recognising that she needed to start any light conversation, to try and understand who was standing in front of her.

The girl shuddered and blinked, as if forgetting her presence for a moment, turning to face her. She nodded, forcing herself to smile, unsure and embarrassed, playing with the fingers of her hands in a nervous reflex.

"Yes. What do they call you?" She asked lightly and kindly, willingly shortening the distance between them, which surprised her.

Usually women of her ilk took satisfaction in calling her Lady Rivers, reminding her every time that she was a bastard.

But she, even if she was married to the Prince, was also one.

She was her relative, her brother's daughter.

She swallowed hard at that thought, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

"Alys, Your Grace."

She lowered her gaze, as if pondering something for a moment, and then her bright eyes looked at her again.

She thought with pain that she was like a small flower, a daisy or a forget-me-not, which one picked to weave into one's hair, to feel as innocent as a little child again.

"I would not wish to… misunderstand who you are and what you have in common with Lord Strong, Alys." She muttered with some sort of embarrassment, from which she involuntarily burst out laughing.

Good gods.

"I am not his mistress. I am his relative, though I do not bear his name, as any bastard would." She said softly, amused; her gaze shifted, her brow furrowed in concern and curiosity.

She knew what she was going to ask her, she could feel it in her bones.

"Did you know my father?"

She named him as her father even though she was officially Laenor Velaryon's daughter.

She admitted to her that she too was a bastard without a grimace of embarrassment.

"Yes, Princess."

Her whole body tensed, her hands clenched into fists.

"His death wasn't an unfortunate ordeal, was it?" She asked in a trembling voice, and her lips involuntarily lifted in a dangerous smirk at the thought that her directness was surprising her.

Was this how she spoke to her husband?

Was this how she forced her way into his heart?

"There are no such thing as unfortunate ordeals, Your Grace."

A silence fell between them filled with the weight of their words and what they meant; she licked her lips involuntarily, feeling that she was incapable of denying herself the pleasure of having to see her reaction to her words.

To see if she was right.

"After the word has reached us here all the way from King's Landing, I have been looking forward to our meeting with impatience, and while I will admit that it is not what I expected, I am beginning to understand your husband's desperation." She said with amusement, feeling a tingle in her fingertips and in her lower abdomen at the sight of her flushed cheeks.

"What do you mean?" She mumbled quietly, embarrassed; however, it was not shame feigned and exalted, but more an expression of genuine surprise and excitement at her words.

"Men are easily driven to desperation, though it usually takes time. They like to gain and take pride in what they have conquered; the greater, in their mind, the value of what they enclose in their embrace, the less they are willing to let it go." She said calmly, turning her head away, immersed in her own thoughts.

"Your husband follows you with his thoughts even when he is not looking at you. His head, even when he is not speaking to you, is directed towards you so that he can see you out of the corner of his eye. When he feels discomfort, he involuntarily seeks your face to experience understanding and comfort."

She looked at her, wanting to see her reaction, and sighed almost imperceptibly, feeling heat in her lower abdomen at the sight of her parted, plump lips, her dreamy, hot gaze.

She knew that she had felt something at her words, that it had taken deep root in her heart and made her return with her thoughts to her husband.

Was this how she had looked at him when he made love to her?

She could not imagine that he could take her maidenhood brutally and cruelly, that he would allow her to cry beneath him in pain.

No, she thought − he surely took her with slow, lazy thrusts of his hips, letting her get used to his shape deep inside her, assuring her in a whisper that just a little more.

She felt a strong throbbing and tickling between her thighs at that thought and licked her lips, looking up at her again − her gaze lowered meekly to the stone floor, a soft, thoughtful smile on her face.

She decided on second thought, helping her change into one of her gowns, touching her soft skin, smelling the wonderful scent of vanilla in her nostrils, that she would braid the most elaborate hairstyle she could think of on her head, just so she wouldn't have to leave her chamber before supper.

She knew that her half-brother expected her to then take the opportunity to venture into the Prince's chambers to make sure he was not missing anything.

Therefore, she began to braid her soft, long, dark hair, creating a beautiful, complicated hairstyle surrounding her head.

She escorted her to the proper quarters and bowed, Larys gave her one impatient look.

She felt a cold sweat on her back, leaving immediately.

He was not pleased.

She thanked the gods that the Prince's wife had summoned her herself, wishing her help with her bath, giving her another reason not to head to her husband's chambers.

She thought that if she went on like this perhaps the situation would work out in such a way that she simply wouldn't have the opportunity to do anything, though even if she did she wasn't sure Larys would believe her.

As she walked into her chamber she saw that she herself was trying to untie her bodice, so she approached her, undoing the tangles with ease, looking at her face with curiosity.

"Was the Prince pleased with his wife's appearance, Your Grace?" She asked softly, noticing from the corner of her eye that the girl had lowered her gaze, ashamed and saddened.

"Yes. Though he expressed his opinion that he prefers it when my hair is loose." She said with resignation, and she couldn't stop the smile that appeared on her face.

Of course, she thought.

The sight of her loose hair reminded him fondly of how it had been spread in disarray around her head, shining in the darkness of his chamber as he fucked her greedily.

"Oh, that's understandable. He surely associates it with your intimacy and closeness, as any man would. The entwined curls and braids are for those around you, meanwhile the softness of your hair, the smell of them, the sight of them spread on the bed is something meant only for him." She replied lightly, for some reason wanting to lift her spirits and comfort her; she heard her move in place, the sweet blush appearing on her cheeks again.

She was embarrassed, she thought with disbelief and tenderness, as if she were looking at a small child.

She was so innocent.

Was that what attracted him to her?

The idea that he was surrounding her with himself like a dark cloak, devouring her again and again?

"You know a lot about men…don't you?" She heard her uncertain, curious voice; she looked at her in the reflection of the mirror, noticing that she immediately lowered her gaze, as if she could not bear the intensity with which she was looking at her.

"Yes, Princess."

"Have you seduced many yet?" She asked intrigued, and she smiled again involuntarily.

"Yes."

When her gown finally fell to the floor she saw her girlish, pleasing curves peeking through from under her nightgown. She watched as, with a light, confident step, she walked over to the bath and bore herself into the hot water, tilting her head back, sighing in relief, her head still adorned with the braids she had woven herself.

Such a pretty little thing.

"I would like to … make my husband happy tonight. I know he needs relief from what's about to happen tomorrow. However, I can't do it, at least for now, in the way I usually do." She mumbled out at last, looking at her with those big, warm eyes of hers, seeing in her apparently her guide, someone who could help her with these complicated and intimate matters.

She felt a pleasant squeeze in her lower abdomen at the idea that popped into her head.

"The easiest thing to do in that case would be for you to use your mouth." She replied amused, drawing out of her exactly the reaction she wanted − her cheeks turned scarlet, her gaze fled downwards, her tiny long fingers clenched into small fists.

She was wonderfully embarrassed, so sweet that he would have gladly shown her everything, step by step.

"I'm…inexperienced in these matters." She confessed with shame, and she involuntarily licked her lower lip with her tongue, feeling the throbbing between her thighs at her words, her nipples hardening under the material of her gown.

Gods.

"I see." She muttered, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad as she moved slowly towards her, her surprised gaze lifting to her as she knelt right next to her tub, cupping her wrist in her hand.

Her skin was as soft as silk.

Her gaze escaped involuntarily to her breasts, now perfectly visible through the wet material of her shirt clinging to her bare flesh; she felt a tickle in her swollen lips at the thought that she longed to lick and caress them.

She was sure that as he teased and sucked her nipples she moaned sweetly beneath him, begging for more, and he always, always gave in to her.

Because how could he refuse her?

"I can show you how you should do it, if that's what you wish, Your Grace."

She saw her pupils dilate in disbelief, her lips parted as she swallowed hard, her chest beginning to rise and fall in accelerated breaths.

"…How?"

She couldn't stop the smirk that appeared on her lips, nor what she did next.

She heard her sigh quietly, surprised and thrilled when her lips ran over her pointing finger, enveloping her skin with her hot breath.

"Imagine that this is his manhood. Men don't say it out loud because pride won't let them, but they adore it when a woman shows them with gentle, tender caresses." She whispered, running her swollen lips up and down her finger leaving a sticky, warm trail of her saliva on it, surprised at how wet it made her between her thighs, how wonderfully arousing it was, how obscene it was.

She heard her draw in a deep breath without moving away, but as she guided the tip of her finger between her lips, teasing and licking it lightly with her tongue, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her thighs clenched in some helpless, subconscious reflex.

What other reactions could she draw from her?

"− and then − when he begins breathing faster − when you feel he's completely ready −" She sighed quietly as she suddenly slipped her whole finger deep into her mouth, feeling her swollen folds pulsate hard again and again as she began to suck it in slow, steady movements with the quiet click of her saliva.

She heard her gasp on the verge of a moan as her tongue began to trail over her skin with her low murmur of satisfaction, her free hand involuntarily sliding down to the material of her gown, wanting to slip under it and bring herself to fulfilment with her own touch.

She slipped her finger out of her mouth with a loud plop and looked up at her − her face all flushed, her gaze dreamy, hesitant and warm, as if she herself didn't know what she felt or why.

Something in her gaze made a pleasurable heat spill over her lower abdomen as she dug her own fingers into her fleshy folds, all sticky with her moisture, pulsing aggressively with her every stroke in pleasure.

"− you pretty little thing − it’s usually him taking care of you, isn’t it? − he can’t deny himself − I can’t blame him −" She whispered, trying not to move her hips so that she wouldn't notice anything; she lost the battle with herself as she felt herself getting closer and closer to fulfilment, pushing against her own slit with the tips of her fingers.

Unfortunately, it turned out that her husband was more vigilant than she thought.

When he burst into his wife's chamber she barely had time to remove her hand from under her own skirt and let go of her, standing quickly and bowing before him.

"My Prince."

"− get out −" He growled, and she walked out obediently, grateful in spirit to the gods that he hadn't stopped her to question her, that he hadn't noticed the glistening wetness on her fingers.

Or he saw it and it infuriated him, she thought with amusement, feeling her heart pounding like a mad in her chest.

She finished what she had started in her chamber, bringing herself to fulfilment with sure, swift strokes of her fingers, driving their tips into her sensitive, fleshy womanhood, able now to afford to moan and rock her hips, imagining her body peeking through from under her wet nightgown.

She imagined that she knelt before him to lunge and soothe him, that she barely fit his fat cock in her small mouth, all swollen from the desire she had always aroused in him, that this proud, dark, cold man whimpered before her like a small, innocent boy when he finally gave in, thrusting again and again deep into her warm throat.

She came with a low moan of relief, panting heavily, hugging her face into the pillow, rocking her hips for a while longer, slowly coming down from her peak.

She was sure that as she lay half asleep, feeling a blissful, pleasant peace, she heard their moans in the distance and grinned involuntarily.

Of course he forgave her.

He always did.

She often had dreams whose meaning she did not understand; she saw people she had never met before, observing events that might as well have happened in the future or in the past. That night, however, her dream particularly troubled and worried her, as she had no idea what it actually meant.

Two streams of blood finally merging into one, flowing like a river, which then, however, became a lake that reminded her of a dragon's head in a crown, only to spill over after a while, and she saw nothing but red.

Was this what was about to happen?

Would Princess Rheanyra and Prince Daemon be murdered and another dragon's reign begin upon their blood?

She swallowed hard, thinking of that young, cheerful girl, of how obvious it was that she was not aware of anything, that whatever her uncle-husband knew, he had not shared it with her.

She thought that if he betrayed her, she would wilt like a flower, fade like the sun in a setting sky.

She stood up and headed for his chamber.

His gaze expressed nothing less than disgust and rage at the sight of her. He reached for his tunic, dressing it hurriedly, tense and pale, knowing full well what was to happen if the negotiations did not bring the results he hoped for.

She wondered if he realised that even if he didn't give the order, they would be murdered anyway.

"You will betray her." She said indifferently, and he threw her a quick, horrified look, his nostrils quivering in disbelief.

He knew perfectly well what she was referring to.

She thought that sometimes all it took was a gentle push, putting a mirror in front of someone's face to make them think carefully again about whether they were ready for the consequences of their choices.

"You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most. You will break her. You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again. You will come back here to face your nephew and you will take me, because you will decide that I am similar to her enough to satisfy your pain and longing. You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death."

She said and grinned, seeing that he shuddered all over, that his mask had cracked, his lips parted as if he wanted to groan in despair.

She knew he saw it in his mind, felt it in his heart, and she left his chamber without a word.

She let out a loud breath as she walked down the empty corridor, thinking with some kind of hope that her words, the vision she had invented to break him would terrify him enough to make him fall to his knees before his wife and confess everything he knew.

And if he doesn't, if in fact he betrays her, it will prove that he was never worthy of her.

She had come to her summons when she wished to clothe herself; she saw, crossing the threshold of her quarters, that she too was frightened and anxious, only for completely different reasons.

She wished for them to come to an understanding.

She believed it was possible.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought, at the realisation that she was alone in a world where everyone but her craved war, craved power, craved the throne.

She did not look at her face, at the clear command of her husband not allowing herself any closer proximity to her, which she accepted with understanding.

After she had fastened the buckles of her leather coat, however, she allowed herself to take her soft hand in her own, stroking it with her thumb.

She hesitated and furrowed her brow, but before she could move away, she began to speak, forcing herself to whisper, fearing that her brother's servants might have heard her.

"Do not return here. Fly from the Eyrie straight to King's Landing. I saw in my dream a river of blood taking the shape of a dragon's head wearing a crown. I saw red flooding everything around me." She said quickly, feeling a squeeze in her throat.

She thought in disbelief that she pitied this girl.

"This warning, these words, are my gift to you. Look after yourself. Trust no one."

[raikiriwolfwrites]

Bitterness, Sweetened by Your Lips

Lucanis is struggling after Weisshaupt. Emotions boil over and Rook is there to offer long needed reassurances.

Enby RookxLucanis

Warning for allusions to Caterina's A+ parenting and panic attacks.

Chapter 6 - Catharsis

Read on AO3

Lucanis landed heavily against the stone, jolting upright with a wince as Ghilan’nain screamed in disbelief at the blood trickling from the cut on her face.

He’d missed.

The tap of Caterina’s cane echoed in his ears, moving closer, ready to chastise him for his failure. He was ready to throw himself back at Ghilan’nain, prove he could complete the job, when Rook’s shout made him pause. The rhythmic sound of a cane on stone morphed into Rook’s heavy footfalls as they ran up to him, gloved hand a vice around his bicep to pull him back.

“Let’s go!”

“Give me another shot!” He tried to twist out of Rook’s grip, but they held firm.

“Too late, back to the eluvian.”

He wanted to keep fighting, fix his mistake, but writhing walls of blight were building up around Ghilan’nain and spreading fast as she raged. Logic won out over anger. Rook was right, the window of opportunity was gone. He hesitated for one final second, watching his target disappear from sight behind a grotesque, fleshy, barrier of blight, before pivoting on his heel and following after Rook and the others.

Rook shouted to Holden as the team drew together in their sprint for the exit. “Is it working?”

The ethereal glow of the eluvian seemed as strong as ever as they approached. The familiar floating islands of the Crossroads just visible through its shimmering surface. “I hope so.”

“Best odds all day.”

One by one they ran through to the safety of the Crossroads beyond.

-----

They all went their separate ways in the Lighthouse, agreeing to meet up in the dining hall once they’d all cleaned off the blood, sweat, grime and blight of Weisshaupt.

Lucanis mechanically cleaned up and redressed in his casual clothes. Leathers and blades were wiped off, checked over, and put away. Dust and sweat cleansed from his skin with a cloth and warm water. His body followed the familiar motions of fastening his waistcoat and heading to the kitchen to start preparing coffee while his mind whirled. He couldn't tell where his agitation ended and Spite’s began over the loss of their kill. They twined together, a negative feedback loop of emotion buffeting him from the inside as he desperately clung to his routine, and the familiar rich scent of Andoral’s Breath, to keep himself grounded. He tried taking deep, controlled breaths to reign the emotion back in, but it felt like trying to empty the Treviso canals with a coffee cup.

He doesn’t quite remember everyone else arriving, or sitting down at the table, but the next thing he registers is the solid presence of a chair beneath him and at his back. A press of warmth at his knee from his left draws him away from himself and he looks up from the coffee mug clutched like a lifeline between his palms.

Rook isn’t looking at him, they’re watching everyone settle in their seats, but he shifts his leg under the table to return the pressure, grateful for the contact as people start talking. He sips his coffee as the conversation washes over him, the words barely skimming his consciousness as he focuses on centering himself with even breaths.

Harding is the last to take her seat, with a missive in hand. “Evka sent word. Last of the civilians made it to Lavendel. Janos and his people held the line long enough for them to escape Weisshaupt. And the Wardens are in Lavendel, too.”

“What’s left of them, you mean. Over a thousand…that’s how many fellow Wardens I had. And now…One god. One Archdemon. That’s all it took to nearly wipe out our entire Order.”

“I promise you Davrin. We’ll make Ghilan’nain pay. For every Warden she killed. Every child left alone. There will be a reckoning.”

“How? We all saw what she did. That’s beyond…”

“We killed her Archdemon, though. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. After it turned into a snake monster with too many heads! Are all blighted dragons going to do that? I don’t know how to fight that!”

“Well, at least we’ve made Ghilan’nain mortal.”

“Mortal or immortal doesn’t matter if we can’t get close enough.” The feeling of eyes boring into the side of his skull grates on his senses enough to pull his focus back to the table. Davrin’s look of disdain is aimed right at him as he continues. “We had our shot at her. And we missed.”

Spite’s anger is a writhing mass behind his eyes, melding with and feeding off his own frustration. The unsubtle jab, salt in a wound he was already picking the edges of raw. But he manages to keep his voice level to reply. “Say what you mean Davrin. I missed.”

“Nobody blames you for that, Lucanis.”

He held back a scoff. Harding may not, but she should. The target of his contract was there, he’d had his chance, and missed.

“Yeah? Maybe I do. This Crow has a demon inside him, right?”

Davrin’s words sank like hooks into the open wounds of his failure and he relished the sting. He needed to be better.

“Now that’s not–“

Davrin had found the target for his righteous anger and Harding’s interruptions weren’t going to stop him.

“How do we know we can trust him? Maybe the demon pulled his punches.”

Spite railed at that. He was clenching the mug in his hands tight enough he worried it might shatter as he fought back against Spite clawing for the reigns. But the porcelain held, as did his control, if only barely.

“Okay. Hold on. Now we’re getting–“

Between Davrin’s words, Spite’s vicious tantrum thrashing behind his eyes, and his own swirling temult of emotion, his patience and temper were fraying and he couldn’t help but snap back. “And you, Warden? What about the blight that runs through your veins? The same blight that Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly.”

Even Emmrich’s deep well of patience seemed to be running dry as he attempts to settle them all down again. “Just a moment, please–“

“Enough!”

Rook’s deep voice cuts sharply through the bickering like a knife. A rare thread of anger steeling their voice enough to make everyone instantly fall blessedly silent and listen.

“Stop arguing. We’ve got no chance if we turn on each other. Chaos helps the gods, and hurts this team. It will get us killed, one by one.” They looked round the table as they spoke, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. Lucanis gathered himself enough to meet them with a veneer of calm contrition as they finally reached him. Everyone looking suitably calm or chastised, they continue, addressing the whole table. The frustration has faded, but the hard edge to their voice remains, brooking no argument. “So get it together. We need to figure out how to defeat them.”

Emmrich is the first to break the tense silence. “We’re all in agreement on that point, Rook. But the question remains— how? We barely survived against one of the gods.”

Lucanis picks at the memory, trying to find the loose thread, where the job went wrong. He was so close. He cannot keep the bitterness from his tone as he mutters, “I nearly had her.”

“Nearly. But you and Spite are not of one mind, Lucanis. Fighting for control…it’s no wonder you missed such a rare opportunity.”

Emmrich’s words aren’t meant to be an attack, he knows, but still they fall like a lash on his back, another brand woven into the tapestry of failure across his skin.

Rook’s voice anchors him in the present and he clings to the comfort of it as it cuts through the turbulence in his mind. He feels the brief reprieve of the eye of the storm as he locked on to their words.

“We’ve all been distracted, but we’re not in this fight alone. We have allies and friends in all sorts of places. We reach out to them and eventually someone will find something that will put us on the trail of the gods. There’s so much going on that we can’t control, but the least we can do is help our allies, help each other. We can’t afford distractions, but we have time to prepare. For now though, we need to rest and cool off. We killed an Archdemon today, and we all made it out in one piece. And when the time comes, we make the gods pay for the ones who didn’t.”

Everyone read the silent dismissal in Rook’s words and started to slowly trickle out of the room, the tension between them not quite gone, but certainly lessened. Lucanis was the last to rise as Rook watched the door shut behind the others from their seat at the head of the table.

In the subsequent quiet, his own thoughts become loud again, he feels raw as his mind is pulled in every direction at once, an unrelenting force pounding behind his eyes.

But he has to keep it together. He can’t let Rook see how close the threads holding him together are to snapping. Rook deserves better than a patched up shell of a man, straining at the seams. He needs to be better. He needs to work, and prove that he can fulfill his contract.

The mask of collectedness doesn’t slip into place as easily as he would like but he manages to hold it together enough to try and reassure Rook. He hopes it’s enough for them to leave him alone to scrape together enough of the scattered pieces of himself; to build them back into something resembling Lucanis Dellamorte, the Demon of Vyrantium.

Rook reaches up and catches his forearm in their calloused palm as he rounds the table, concern clear in their expression.

“I’m fine. I just need some time alone to get my head on straight.”

They seem reluctant, but unwilling to push after the day they’ve had. They let him go, voice soft. “Whatever you need to do.”

He misses the warmth of Rook’s palm as he pulls away but he can feel the mask slipping. He can’t let Rook see. They have the whole team to hold together, they don’t need the added stress of holding him together, too. The roaring in his ears is starting to build again and his focus tunnels in on the pantry door, so much so that he doesn’t register Rook’s voice, talking to the empty air beside them as he firmly shuts the door behind him.

-----

He doesn’t even make it into the pantry fully, managing to close the door before the dam breaks and he collapses back against it. The thick wood doing more to hold him up than his own trembling limbs.

His back muscles twitched, besieged by a phantom ache, the memory of pain awakening as if fresh. Every thought, every doubt, every recollection of his failure compounding, layering over each other like the crack of Caterina’s cane on his bare flesh. His back itched and tingled where the scars mapped his skin. Each a lesson. One he thought he had learned well, paid for in sweat, blood and bruises seared deep into his bones.

He can faintly hear Spite, feel the brush of his sharp magic as his manifestation rages around him, but it’s distant, muffled. His mind sunk so deep into the maelstrom of his own feelings that even Spite’s can’t quite get through to him. His hands come up to clutch at his hair, the sting of his harsh grip a penance. Caterina’s firm hand always followed sharply on the heels of mistakes and failures. Until he learned not to fail. That pain had moulded him into the Master Assassin he was lauded as, made him stronger.

The ‘Demon of Vyrantium’ never failed a contract.

His family was nearly all gone. His home was under occupation. He had lost a year of his life to pain and darkness, only to escape with a mind and body that wasn’t even his own any more.

If he couldn’t even complete a contract, what did he have left.

What use is he to Rook.

His breath shakes, chest aching. One hand claws at the chain at his throat, ripping it off along with his cravat. The top button of his shirt falls victim to the harsh rake of nails and is sent flying, clattering across the floor alongside the crow skulls and chain. The hand returns to its tight grip in his hair and he closes his eyes to fight off the black encroaching at the edges of his vision, back sliding down the door until he meets the stone floor with a heavy thump. It should feel cold beneath him. He feels nothing. Disconnected from the sensation, and too entrenched in the depths of his own mind to notice.

The crumbling stone walls of the Ossuary close in around him, crushing the breath from his lungs. The trickling of water through the cracks becomes a flood. The water slowly rises up around him, engulfing him in its numbing embrace. He rakes blunt nails across his scalp to feel something other than the oppressive weight closing in from all sides.

The pressure builds, a vice around his ribs as his heart tries to break through them from the inside.

The dark nothingness he falls into is a relief.

-----

Spite growls and rages around the pantry as Lucanis shuts the door behind him. He throws his spectral form into the shelves, thrashes at the food, candles and other objects littering the pantry. But nothing budges.

He wants to break.

Kill.

But without Lucanis’ form he can’t.

The Lighthouse is the closest thing he’s felt to the fade since he was ripped from it, forced into a vessel not made to fit.

But he. Still. Can’t. Touch. Anything.

It’s part of the Fade, but disconnected somehow. Or maybe it’s him that disconnected. Forced into a mortal shell, not even a mage who can access the Fade. Only a tenuous link where the veil is weak allowing him to pull things through to help Rook.

His fury returns to its primary target.

Zara.

It’s. Her. Fault.

In the Fade the world would bend to his whims. With enough determination, anything was possible. But now be’s trapped. And Lucanis isn’t keeping his side of the deal.

He whirls back to where Lucanis is hunched by the door, surprised that he hasn’t been told to be quiet or wrangled back into the dank cell of the Ossuary in his mind.

Lucanis is ignoring him.

He stalks closer.

“Let. Me. OUT. We make them PAY. For what they did to. US.”

He was shouting in Lucanis’ face now but his eyes were screwed shut and he still wasn’t listening.

“You. Keep. Us. TRAPPED.”

He seethed, inches from Lucanis’ face, chest heaving from his outburst despite not needing to breathe. Still nothing. His anger simmered down as he looked closer at Lucanis.

Something was wrong.

The sour notes of distress permeated the air. The tangle in his mind where their emotions met was a turbulent mess. Feelings old and new knotted together and tore where they caught on sharp, unhealed edges. He prodded at the divide between them and was met with damp stone.

He couldn’t reach Lucanis.

The body before him was trembling, breaths thin and short. He watched it slide down to the floor.

He prodded harder at the link between them only to be met with a jolt of pain. No. That was Lucanis’ pain.

Lucanis was hurting.

He needs Lucanis.

But how can he make it stop.

He flitted about, unsure, but unable to do anything. He kept niggling at their bond. The mental wall keeping him out started to crumble as the body before him curled in tighter on itself. It collapsed, but there was only silence beyond. It felt like in the Ossuary, when Lucanis retreated into his mind, closed off from all feeling to escape the pain.

With the mental barrier gone, he was thrust into control of Lucanis’ body, catching it before it dropped sideways onto the floor.

It felt wrong. Like the adrenaline of battle coursing through his veins, but instead of adding strength, it left limbs shaking and weak. His chest felt bruised, heart beating too fast, finally starting to slow back to normal.

Lucanis needs help.

Rook.

Rook helps.

Rook, who’s magic feels like home. Who always listened, helped people who ask, and those who don’t. Who is kind but doesn’t hesitate to cut down those who stand in their way. Rook’s presence is a comfort to them both.

He forces shaky legs to stand and leaves the pantry with one goal in mind.

-----

Rook collapses onto the chaise with a heavy sigh. Weisshaupt had gone poorly yet, somehow, that meeting had been worse. Post battle adrenaline had made tempers short. They had done the rounds, checking in on everyone afterwards, and thankfully the team seemed to have settled down again. They have some time while their allies gather more intel, time they can use to help get everyone back on task and focused.

Lucanis was the only one they hadn’t spoken to. He said he needed some time, and they had to respect that, as much as they wished to be there by his side. They could see he was taking it hard, Davrin’s misplaced frustration not helping matters. They breathed out another weary sigh and dropped their head into their hands, rubbing at their eyes.

Maybe a short nap, and then drop by and see how he’s doing.

The rattle of the door handle lures their head from the cradle of their hands. The sight as it swings open has them jumping to their feet and rushing to the door.

“Lu- Spite!” The purple glow in place of dark brown is familiar, if unexpected. But the state he’s in sends a surge of panic through them.

“Rook.” Spite’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, a subtle tremor to it that makes Rook’s heart ache.

It’s the most dishevelled Rook’s ever seen Lucanis. His clothes are rumpled, cravat, collar pins and chain gone. They can see faint red welts across his neck where the shirt gapes open without the top button holding it closed. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across his skin and an unsteadiness to his limbs that contradicts the usually precisely controlled movements of the master assassin. Even without being able to read his eyes past the purple glow, his face looks lost and unsure. That more than anything, so unlike how Spite normally carries himself in Lucanis’ body, sends tendrils of anxiety racing through them.

Their hands flit over him, trying to find the source of the problem. Finding nothing obvious they move back up to gently cradle Spite’s face between their palms, smoothing their thumbs slowly across his cheeks. “Spite? What happened?”

Spite surges forward and buries his face into Rook’s neck, inhaling deeply, and their arms wind around him securely. They reach one arm out to shut the door, locking it behind them as they gently steer Spite towards the chaise.

They take a seat, pulling Spite down beside them. He clutches at Rook, face buried back in their neck as they settle. Lucanis’ body seems to lose some of its tension at the contact.

“Spite? What’s going on?” They probe gently, but receive no response except for deep breaths into the hollow of their throat. “If you can’t explain it, can I have Lucanis back to talk?”

The hair on his head tickles their chin as he shakes his head in a violent ‘no’.

“Lucanis hurts. Old and new. Then he hides.”

There’s a tightening in Rook’s chest, a deep regret from leaving Lucanis to dwell alone. Spite’s resonant growl over Lucanis’ voice vibrates against the skin of their neck with a wash of warm breath. But he pulls back to look at them, hand clutching at Rook’s shirt.

“Rook helps.” It’s both a statement and a plea.

The warmth at being trusted to help wars with the pain of knowing Lucanis is hurting, that Spite is hurting and confused. “Anything I can do, please, just ask.”

Spite shakes his head again.

“Rook. Safe.”

Rook blinks, confused, but reaches out to take Spite’s hand, running a thumb over his knuckles as they wait for him to elaborate.

“WE. Are safe. With Rook.”

Oh.

“Can’t reach. Lucanis. But he comes back…when it’s safe. Rook. Safe.”

They felt a surge of affection, they knew how hard it was for Spite to articulate through Lucanis. The effortless trade of thought and feeling between spirits in the Fade impossible to translate into inelegant syllables, especially in a body he had to fight to contain him. But he came to them. He and Lucanis needed help and he trusted them, explained where Lucanis could not.

“Thank you, Spite.” They pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “If you need to be here with me, you should at least be comfortable then.”

They set to removing Lucanis’ boots and waistcoat, setting them off to the side as Spite watched on.

“Come here.” Rook beckoned softly, guiding Spite down to lay along the chaise, head resting in their lap. They started running a hand soothingly through his hair and he nuzzled his face into Rook’s stomach, melting into the comforting touch with a rumble of contentment.

“I think you need rest too, Spite. I’ll be here as long as you and Lucanis need.”

They kept up the motion of smoothing their hand through his silky hair until Spite stilled fully, body relaxed. They kept caressing his hair gently, and they waited to see whose eyes would greet them when he woke up.

-----

He came to slowly, warm and comfortable, sighing softly at the gentle scratch of fingers against his scalp as fingers combed through his hair. He pressed his face deeper into the warm, soft fabric against his face. A soft chuckle jostled him slightly and he turned his head enough to slit an eye open. Rook was gazing fondly down at him. A myriad of emotions flickered across their face, he was still muzzy from sleep so couldn’t place all of them, but he thought he caught a shadow of concern mixed in with the affection.

Rook’s hand slipped from his hair to cup the side of his face, rubbing soothing circles at his temple where a headache was starting to make itself known.

“Back with me, Lucanis?”

The ache behind his eyes and throughout his limbs brought back a flood of memory. He winced, he hadn’t wanted Rook to see him like this. He can’t quite muster words to explain so he decides to hide his weakness away in Rook’s shirt once more, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh of defeat into their stomach.

“Lucanis? Please talk to me. Let me help.”

There was an edge of desperation to their voice. The thought of causing Rook undue upset outweighed his shame. Schooling his expression he levered himself upright, out of Rook’s lap. Rook didn’t let him go far though, pulling him into their side as he sat next to them.

He tried to think back, rubbing his eyes to ease the dull throbbing behind them, but everything after he closed the door to the pantry was a dark smudge in his memory. The loss of time always made him wary.

“How did I get here?” He asked quietly, voice rough from disuse.

Rook reached out to clasp his hand. “Spite was worried. He brought you here.” He could see them turn to him out the corner of his eye, feel the weight of their gaze, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet it. That first bit gave him pause though.

Worried?

Spite had control, and he came here?

Spite was there, quiet in the back of his mind. He tried to reach out but Spite stayed stubbornly tucked away, almost sulking.

“I know you took Weisshaupt hard. I’m sorry I didn’t come and check on you, but you said you needed some time alone-“

“No.” He couldn’t stand for Rook to blame themself over this. “You did everything you could, for everyone. I just l…didn’t want to you to see me like that. You have enough to deal with without my failures.”

The arm around his waist tightened. “You didn’t fail, Lucanis. We fought a god. We killed her Archdemon, wounded her, and we lived to tell about it.”

They didn’t understand.

“You shouldn’t go easy on me, Rook! I had her. She should have never gotten away from me. This was our contract, Rook. I don’t fail my contracts.”

“Ghilan’nain was a giant face in the clouds, Lucanis. I asked you to stab a cloud.”

“And I missed the damn cloud!”

“My point is: That was impossible, and you still almost did it. That’s not small. Things always go wrong, we learn and we grow. No one is infallible. You’re human, Lucanis.”

He chokes out a bitter laugh. “Am I?” Rook tenses beside him, but he cuts off the protest he can feel forming. “I thought I still had this. Whatever else I am, I’m a professional. After the Ossuary, I thought at least I could still take out a target. I need to work.”

Rook’s presence was a tether keeping him from spiralling like he did before, but he could feel the frustration building up behind his eyes and they stung with unshed tears.

Rook coaxes him to turn towards them with a soft grip on his jaw. He relents to the pressure. There’s a steel in their eyes “And you will. Next time we go in prepared, and we will succeed. Together. For now, forget about Ghilan’nain.”

“But that’s why I’m here. If I can’t do this, what use am I to you.”

“Lucanis…I’m just happy you didn’t get killed out there. Yes, we hired you for your reputation. But you have saved my life, the lives of everyone on this team, more times than I could count. You look after us in and out of battle. I’ve seen you buy gifts based on a throwaway comment that no one else even remembered. But you listened, and you did.”

There’s a strange ache in his chest, not like the one from before. He wants to look away, but Rook holds firm, willing their words to sink in.

“You don’t just cook for us, you go out of your way to make sure everyone gets a taste of home. You give them comfort in a world that has little to spare right now. Of course we value your skills, you’ve trained hard to be as good as you are, but that isn’t all we care about.”

He could see tears shimmering at the corners of their eyes, felt matching ones trying to escape his own. They took a steadying breath before pressing their forehead to his, voice deep and sure.

“You could fail a thousand contracts, and you would still matter. Especially to me.” They hold Lucanis’ face, not letting him break eye contact, even as they lean back to put a few inches of space between their faces. He’s subjected to the force of the full, open, honesty on their face, their eyes shimmering wetly with every ounce of emotion laid bare. Their words struck deep beneath years of knotted scar tissue. Unravelling something deep in his chest.

Caterina had honed him as a weapon his whole life. He didn’t know what he was beneath that. If there was anything left once Lucanis the Crow was stripped away. But Rook made him want to find out. Rook saw Lucanis, demon and all, and saw someone worth caring for. Liquid gathered unbidden in his eyes as his walls started to crumble.

“You are more than your blades, Luca.”

He broke.

Buried his face in Rook’s shoulder and clung to them like a lifeline as decades of pent up emotion washed out. Strong arms pulled him into their lap fully and wrapped around him, holding him in place. They made no comment on the wetness spreading on their shirt, only clutching him tighter, hands stroking soothingly wherever they could reach as they pressed their cheek to the top of his head. A shield to keep him safe from the outside world as he fell apart.

-----

Lucanis didn’t know how long he had been curled up in Rook’s lap, but they had stayed like that in comfortable silence as the tears dried on his face. A weight lifted from his chest as he relaxes into the hold. He slides his head away from the damp patch of shirt to nestle more comfortably against the warm skin at the crook of Rook’s neck.

Pressing a kiss to the skin he mutters a quiet “Thank you.” into it. Their response is simply a low hum as he feels a kiss returned to his hair. His throat is dry, the tear tracks have left his cheeks feeling tight, and he there’s a sense of contradictory lightness and exhaustion deep in his bones. He thinks he might end up stiff staying like this for much longer but there’s a layer of peace blanketing them that quashes any need to move.

He wraps his arms around Rook to sit in a more comfortable embrace against them and they shift to accommodate him easily. He allows his mind to wander in the quiet and something Rook said came back to him. He leaned back to lay against the meat of Rook’s shoulder so he could look up at them curiously.

“You called me Luca.”

The statement caught them off guard, and they blinked at him for a second while they processed, before smiling down at him apologetically.

“Ah, sorry. Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s…” he looked down at his hand, fidgeting with the worn fabric of Rook’s shirt. “My mother. I don’t remember her well, but I remember she called me that once. When I was young.” He looked up into Rook’s eyes, smiling softly, and pressed a hand over their heart. “I like being Luca to you.”

The kiss he was pulled into was gentle. The faint hint of salt still stained his lips but made the kiss no less sweet.

They traded soft kisses for a short while before relaxing into a comfortable position to lounge together, trading idle conversation into the night.

And some wholesome post chapter art

[thetireonstageright]

Head cannon taking place after Curtis parents death but before book events where Darry can feel the rift between him and Ponyboy start to widen and he reflects on how different their relationship was years ago:

It was a particularly bad day at school and Ponyboy, overwhelmed with schoolwork and exhaustion, finally breaks down. His backpack is splayed out on the floor and his legs fold beneath him, the cold tile on their kitchen floor the only thing still grounding him. His body is wracked with sobs, sobs that Darry only faintly hears through walls at night sometimes, before they’re soothed by their mama rushing in. But now they were loud and piercing and made Darry look up from his own schoolwork, concern etching its way into his heart.

As he opened the door, he could hear their mother trying to calm down Ponyboy but Pony’s sobs are so loud it seems like he can’t hear her. He’s crumpled up, hugging his knees to his chest, tears like a never-ending waterfall down his cheeks. Ever the expert in handling Ponyboy’s emotions, Sodapop is next on the scene, arms outstretched. Darry approaches his mother’s side cautiously, hoping she knew somewhat what was going on. He places his hand on her shoulder, a silent ask, but with the way her brow is creased Darry knows she is just as clueless as him.

Soda being so in tune with Pony’s emotions was something he secretly envied. Even at their young ages of 11 and 13, they were so in sync. Darry swears he can see them having silent conversations at the dinner table. It was something Darry longed to be a part of too, but tried to not let himself think about it for very long. Besides, he’s a senior now, he doesn’t need to hang out with smelly little brothers.

Darry watched with bated breath as Soda put on his most comforting smile and began talking in that soft voice he does only around Ponyboy. But as Sodapop tried to bring Pony into his arms, you would think that Ponyboy had been burnt by Soda’s touch with the way he flinched away from him. Ponyboy’s cries grew even louder, seeming to shake the whole house. Darry was sure their neighbors could hear the racket. Sodapop turned to Darry, hurt visible in his eyes.

Darry loves his littlest brother, of course he does. But it’s hard to bond with an eleven year old when you’re trying to get a full ride scholarship for football. Practice and honors classes take up time, time Darry doesn’t have as much of to spend with his little brothers. But that doesn’t mean he won’t fulfill his big brother duties when he needs to. He’ll happily look over Pony’s homework if he asks. Will walk his brothers home from school if their dad can’t pick them up after work. Those moments where he gets to be Soda and Pony’s big brother, Darry can’t help but feel his ego start to fluff up each time. He was their big brother, Superman, and there was a part of him that loved being needed like that.

After a third and failed attempt by Sodapop, Ponyboy’s tear-filled eyes began darting around the room. He pushed Soda away, prompting a light scolding from their mother before his cries drowned her out again.

“No! Darry! I just want Darry!” Ponyboy screamed at the top of his lungs.

For just a moment, Darry felt frozen in place. Ponyboy had long grown out of the phase where he followed his big brothers around. He still did it sometimes, Darry noticed, but Pony would swear up and down that he didn’t do that anymore and that he ain’t no kid. But now, with Ponyboy calling for him, all Darry can see his kid brother as that toddler again, crying out for Darry after Soda and Steve accidentally got too rough with him.

He wraps Ponyboy in his arms, crouching with him on the floor of their kitchen, hugging him from behind. Gently, Darry cards his fingers through his brother’s auburn hair, and whispers reassurances in his ear, just like his momma’s done all their lives.

“It’s okay, Pone. I gotcha little buddy, I’m right here,” he presses his chest up against Pony’s back to try to get his brother to match his breathing. He could feel his family’s surprised gaze falling down on them. He knows what they’re thinking. Usually it’s their mom or Sodapop who Ponyboy wants for comfort. Darry hasn’t had to calm his brother down like this since he was a toddler. He’s just as surprised as they are, if he’s being honest. But there’s a small part of him that couldn’t be happier his brother wanted him again. And perhaps that was a selfish thought, but as Ponyboy’s cries began to dwindle, Darry couldn’t stop that proud feeling that bloomed in his chest again at the thought that his kid brother still needed him.

But now, as Ponyboy made a b-line from the front door to his room everyday after school, barely speaking two words to Darry since their parents passed, Darry yearned for that feeling again. And sure, while he was needed so their family could stay together and have a roof over their heads, it was a different kind of need. One that turned Ponyboy against him every time Darry tried had to remind him about curfew, his grades, or to keep his feet planted on the ground. He could feel the distance between them growing everyday, and every day it left a sinking feeling in his chest. So many days Darry felt like they were standing on two sides of a canyon, the distance between them far too great to ever reach the other.

Ponyboy was fourteen now, and hell-bent on being independent. Thinking that he knows the world well enough to be independent. He could do his own homework now. Doesn’t need Darry to look over it anymore, hell, with the way Pony writes, Darry’s sure he won’t even be able to keep up in a year or two. Most days, Darry’s reminders are met with rolled eyes and attitude Darry is sure their dad would never have let slide. Truth was, his kid brother was growing up and in just four short years wasn’t gonna need Darry at all anymore. And that thought squeezed Darry’s heart a bit tighter as he tried to focus on the dinner he was making.

Darry silently looked down the hallway and stared at the closed door at the end of the hall. As he stared at the door, whose white paint had definitely seen better days, he wondered if Ponyboy remembered that day he called out just for Darry. If it meant as much to Pony as it did Darry. But the longer he stared, the longer he couldn’t fight the nagging, pulling, selfish feeling in his heart that wished Ponyboy would call out for him again. For his littlest brother to need him like that again.

sorry for the angst, may write this out more but the sun is coming up and i need to sleep :)

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 109)

Uzi flies down the hallway to her parents apartment, literally flies. Over the heads of the people walking to wherever they were going and lands in front of their door just to get it open just a millisecond faster.

Khan’s drinking coolant and nearly jumps out of his casing when his daughter all but falls into the apartment at light speed.

“We need to go. Now!” She shouts, eyes hollow and limbs shaking and breathing so heavy she may as well be in labor all over again-

Khan blinks. “Yes. We know… the shuttle leaves in-”

“No! Not a few days, not even one. Now!” Her voice gets higher, more desperate.

Khan looks at her blankly before she growls in frustration and actually thinks to raise her hand, use the solver and put down a hologram of what she just saw with her own eyes.

N comes out of the bedroom with Bishop just in time to see thier doom splay out on the floor in front of him. His eyelights hollowing and his hold on Bishop becoming protective.

Khan's mouth stays hung open before he's near throwing himself to his phone to make a frantic call.

N throws himself at Uzi for a hug, their two children in the middle between them, Bishop squeaking in confusion and Tera…

Tera was dead still inside her pouch, the only indication she was there was the rise and fall of her breathing.

N pulled back.

“It's gonna be okay. Everything's ready! We can just go!” He reassured, “Where's your mom, we can find her and group up with everyone at the front door!”

Uzi's oil went cold.

“She's not here?”

N raised an eyebrow. “No. She told us she was going to find you.”

Uzi replied in a semi more panicked tone. “She told me she was coming here to help Dad pack.”

“Huh? I finished packing almost a week ago.” Khan piped into the conversation, furrowing his brow. “Nori knows I always…” he trails off. “Prepack.”

Uzi looks at him, finding his face a mix of worried and devastated. “Dad?”

He's looking at the suitcase the navy blue suitcase he had filled before Nori even returned. He went towards it and unzipped it.

Untouched.

“She didnt pack.” Khan says stiffly. “She was always picky about what we packed for any trip and she didn't even look…” He stands, a weird form of determination on his face. “We need to find her.”

“What are you-”

There's a bloodcurdling scream from the hallway, which seems to trigger several others as drone feet begin to stampede through the halls.

The three adults look at each other, the eldest opens the door and…

There's oil spilled in the hallway, a drone without a head spread eagle out onto the floor, footprints in the surrounding puddle from people running to get away.

“RUN! She's gone-!” A drone running past gets lifted up into the air with purple solver by thier neck, in a split second thier body folds backwards, snapping them in half as they screamed.

…

The rot was in the bunker, it was spreading so fast it was hard to keep up with, black tendrils snaking across the floor, the walls like feelers from a giant octopus. The Doorman family could only look on in horror as another drone got grabbed by one and cried for mercy as it grew up their leg and over their spine, consuming them utterly.

N stepped forward and began to torch the growths, handing Bishop off too Khan as he burnt away the blackened tendrils, making what seemed like the whole bunker shake and scream in agony.

The Uzi looked past him, past the drones still being digested and wriggling from beneth the wall of flesh, and stared at where she knew it was coming from…

Doll's old room.

“Son! Don't bother! Just run to the shuttle!” Khan called out to him, but Uzi shook her head. “No! Make a way towards Doll's room!”

“Dad. Run to the shuttle. Take the kids with you.” She grabbed the pouch with Tera inside and put it in Khan’s free hand. “if we're not back in ten minutes… leave without us.”

N listens without question. Khan stands dumbfounded for a moment. “What about you!?”

“We'll be right behind you! We're buying time for everyone else to get out! Go!” Uzi shouted, flashing her father a fleeting last look before he stumbled backwards and ran- holding both his grandchildren tightly.

N carves the path quickly, charing the wall and every surface the flames touched. Uzi climbs on his back to make separation impossible.

“W-why are we doing this again!?”

His question is answered by their arrival to Doll's now open room, tendrils spilling out so rapidly it was hard to keep up with. Uzi raised her hand and began to help slice through with the solver and-

And…

And inside the God forsaken room, in the center. Attached to the growth from the back and arms and… everywhere. Was Nori Doorman.

Or what used to be Nori Doorman.

It turns. Tendrils all stopping at once. The body it inhabits is near limp, more dragging itself along then anything.

N stares and trembles, holding the tip of his flamethrower up and aimed and absolutely ready.

“U-Uzi-i!” Her mother's voice skips, warps and repeats. “Uzi.”

“You didn't ha-have to see this.” The hologram displaying the finer details of her mother's body falls. In it's place is a grotesque mass of spindly legs, tendrils and claws, many cameras working as eyes.

“You cou-uld have died t-thinking your family was ba-ack together again- oh well.” Her mother's voice fades out, and is replaced by monotone and robotic, limbs twitching and lurching.

N breaks into a horrified expression. “Cyn…?”

“Hi! B-Big Brother.” It replies. “M-my first host! H-how nostalgic. Hand Clap.”

“What…”

“Oh!” it sounds excited. “Allow m-me to. Detangle those, c-crossed wires. Giggle.”

“I have been. U-Underground, for y-y-years, matter collecting. To con-consume the planet. Smiley Face.”

Uzi closes her eyes as her heart breaks for her mother all over again. It wasn't real, none of it was real, just a trick to get into the bunker… to get close.

“We all came h-here t-t-together. Remember?”

N furrowed his brow before memories hit him like a runaway bus. Stress lines appearing on his visor.

The pods. They were all locked inside the pods, rows and rows of them, he remembered looking at V, at J, both offline, strapped in thier seats the same way he was.

He turned his head, looking out the pod window…

“W-Whoops.” Said Cyn, Master. “Early B-Bird.” Master opened the door and paused, hovering over a button that was strapped to his chest.

“Hmmmm. Non-issue. You are just- E-E-Eager Beaver.” If it could smile it would be. “Good Boy.”

It patted his head. He had a smile on his face. Why was he smiling….?

“I will be right behind you. C-clear the way. B-Buddy.” It flicked a switch and they were suddenly hurtling down- his memory fuzzy from there.

The memory ends. And he's looking at Master It. Again.

“Good Boy.” It repeats. “So eager to please.”

N growled, anger displaying on his face.

“Why my mom! Why do- any of this!?” Uzi shouted, stepping in front of end with a similar look of rage.

“Old Hosts are e-easier to… e-emulate.” It replies and then seems to make a shrugging motion. “Boredom.”

“Just like this. C-Conversation.” It prattled out… and just like that, the tendrils began to spread again. “Bye-Bye.”

N immediately bathed the room in fire, blasting until his chassis was nearly as hot, Uzi grabbed his other hand and began to sprint.

“L-Let's just go! We're out of time!” She screams, tear in her eye and panic everywhere in her voice… the planet begins to shake, the walls cracking, letting in even more flesh into the bunker.

N looks at her, hard and aggressive face falling into soft and he grabs her and flies as fast as he possibly could.

They ignore the screaming of the drones that didn't make it in time…

…

Khan sprints towards the open ship door, 300 or so drones having already made it. V's standing at attention, keeping the growth as far away from the shuttle as she can.

The hoard is upon them, banging against the fence, scrambling over top each other to try and climb it, V's burning them in piles, but that just allows the the climb higher.

“Khan! Get in we gotta go!” V shouts. Another torrent of flame leaving the end of her arm.

“N and Uzi are still in there!”

“What?!”

The ground rumbles and splits, black spilling out ofcthe ground as the planet begins to fold in on itself, both V and Khan have to catch themselves from falling.

“I-I!”

V has no time to respond. The pouch holding Tera suddenly splits in two, Tera falling out the bottom and landing directly onto ground.

“Shit! S…” Khan leans down to grab her and stops.

Her eyes are yellow, her entire body shuddering like she's having a seizure, a horrible digital warped screaming noise escaping her mouth, foamy oil coming up and filling her mouth and throat and the oil pooling around her.

Khan screams. V does too.

Next->

[kurokawaia]

❛ Marriage ❜ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ²

Lan Wangji X Fem!Reader

WC; 5.4k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW; x fem! reader, afab reader, cunnilingus, oral -> female receiving, overstimulation, come eating, squirting, virginity taking, slightly rough sex, cervix kissing, hickies, marking + probably more i can't think of lmao

REQUEST? YES (link to the request)\

⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮 :: When her husband comes back to Jingshi reader asks for Lan Wangji to consummate their marriage because she believes its her duty to do so, to satisfy him in bed. Wangji only takes this so far by giving his pretty wife head. Only then a few nights later, Wangji comes home late from hunting and then there they make love to each other.

1.4k more than what i intended to write but thats okay...

part 1 | part 2

m.list | mo dao zu shi m.list

The night air was cool, crisp, with just a low noise of nocturnal creatures stirring in the darkness. The moon cast its silver light onto the landscape; in vain, it was unable to still your fidgeting. Lan Wangji had gone on a night hunt, so he had left you alone in your chambers. That is one of those moments when all will be well, and you know how capable he is at anything bound to come his way, but yet something nags in the pit in your stomach at his absence beside you, to put all at rest.

Those hours ticked so slowly, every single minute pulling on for such a length of time. You walked up and down the room, him on your mind all the while. The strong, silent support had just interwoven itself into the bedrock of your existence, and now that it was gone… you were lost. Finally, you could take the taut silence no longer and went to stand by the window, looking out into the darkness in the vain hope that his familiar silhouette would come toward you.

You finally heard the sound of footsteps as the first light of dawn tinged the world beyond. Your heart lifted within your chest as the door creaked open and you turned to face him. It was Lan Wangji. His robes were not as immaculate as they usually were—slightly ruffled by the night's activities—but his eyes were clear, the calmness sculpted into them once more.

"Wangji," you breathed, feeling the wash of relief from head to toe as he finally arrived.

He stood there, his eyes locking on yours, and even the tension in your shoulders seemed to leave you. "It was a quiet night," he repeated, his voice level and reassuring.

At his words though, you could feel the barrier that time and fate had thrown up like an invisible wall between you, the same one that haunted your marriage. With feelings heightened by his absence, you felt a desperate need to close this gap tonight more than ever.

"Wangji," you started hesitantly, your voice quivering with fear. "I've been considering… about us, about our marriage."

His brow furrowed slightly, a hint of his concern in those eyes. "{Y/n}, you should rest. It has been a long night."

You shook your head as determination thrummed in your heart. "No, I have to say this. I understand the why of our marriage—the duty and the honor—but I want more. I want to be close to you. I want us to be truly united, not just in name."

He took a step closer, his gaze unbreaking from yours. "We are already so close, my bondmate; we do not have to be in a hurry."

He inhaled deeply, summoning all his courage. "Please. Lan Zhan."

The moment his birth name left your lips, something in him shifted. His calm and cool exterior shattered, and raw emotion flirted in his eyes. In a second, there he was in front of you, cupping your face with his hands as he captured your lips with his in a fervent kiss. This kiss had the intensity of everything compacted into it that left you breathless.

Breathe hard, his forehead hung over yours, the moment he let you go. "You don't even know how badly I wanted to hear you say my name, without my telling you, since the moment we met," he said, his voice hoarse with longing. "But we can't rush into it. Not until you're really ready."

You nodded with his words, even as your heart almost broke with longing. "I get it," you whispered, your eyes filling, "I just. I want to be close to you."

He brushed a tear off your cheek with his thumb, not really touching your face. "Fine."

At that sudden change of heart, shock moved your eyes up to his. "For real?" you said, a slight shake in your voice.

"So you want this, don't you?" Wangji asked you.

How Lan Wangji has waited for this moment. Wangji wants his wife with some untranslatable primal need, but he doesn't want to take away her virginity just because she feels it's her responsibility to do so. He wants to wait for that moment where his wife grows to desire him as he does her.

Wangji wants her to love him—really love him—but he gets no prize for refusing her when she looks at him like that, all piteously wide, doe-eyed stare.

The breath on your face was warm, steady, almost demanding, and Lan Wangji's arms held on a fraction tighter. Pulling back a little, you met his gaze. Inside the inferno of your chest, his eyes were burning.

"Lanzhan," you whispered back, his birth name seeming more right on your lips.

His eyes had softened to the sound, and you almost could read the longing and love he held for you. You couldn't contain yourself, so you bent down over him, pressing a gentle kiss onto his forehead. He tensed slightly under your touch.

You went on, bestowing soft kisses all over his face, on the bridge of his nose, on his cheeks, in the corners of his eyes. Each kiss was a promise, an unspoken word of just how much you felt your love for him would overpower you. His skin was warm under the press of your lips, and you felt his heart quicken.

"Zhan," you murmured between the kisses, "I want to show you how much you mean to me."

His hands drew a little tighter, the knuckles digging into the fabric of your robes, one at your back and another at the side. His eyes slammed shut as, with a small exhale, his lips parted ever so slightly. You kept peppering his face with soft kisses, light as feathers but so ripe of emotion.

Finally, when pulling back, his eyes slowly opened again, this time all darkened with desire towards and something deeper, more profound in nature. He reached out and cupped your face with one hand, his thumb tenderly stroking your cheek.

"You are everything to me," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "But we must take this slow. I want you to be ready."

"I am! Please, Lan Zhan," you beg, though it felt like you had to do this since you are husband and wife, but there was a throbbing need in you, a need to have him touching your body, to have him fill you up to the brim.

"Lay down on the bed," crooned Wangji as he followed your movement down to the bed, and you hesitantly lay down.

This was your duty as a wife now wasn't it? You have to make sure you please Lan Wangji, alright.    Lan Wangji was trying so hard to give a shit as he had his own urges. He has been in love with you for much longer than he can remember and here you are, wanting to please him, willing to have his cock stretch out your pretty pink virgin cunt.

But he won't take you tonight, he'll savor you tonight, having you beg for more on his tongue until you can't even think straight. Until you recognize your feelings for him. 

Lan Wangji unties your pretty white and blue hanfu robes, the colored robes that distinguish you as a Lan, that display that you are the Hanguang-Jun's wife.

Even more, you are lying naked on the bed, while he was fully clothed. You didn't know what to do or say because you are his wife; hence he could do with you whatever he wants, and him doing anything with you did not include you asking any questions about it.

"Just stay still and don't move," Wangji said, and you nodded at his serious statement. He was just dying to take you right there and then. You looked so small, vulnerable beneath his broad, huge body. You nodded at his stern statement, underlining the word 'don't', as your body stiffened rigid underneath him. He almost held that lingering fear inside him that maybe you would break.

Wangji brushes that thought out and gets things going to feel the good. Not that he feels the same about it, he does this so that you would later understand how much you would need him physically.

Wangji cranes his neck forward, pressing kisses to your soaked clit through your underwear, making you want to clench your thighs around his head. His head was in the way of you doing so, Wangji's hands gripped onto your thighs, reminding you of your place.

"Lan Zhan," you breath out, not knowing what to do at the foreign sensation.

He simply showed no desire to stop, because after all, he was doing it not just to satisfy his needs. Your soft thighs were locked on his broad shoulders, holding you in bed. He did this not just to satisfy himself, but also for your good.    Lan Wangji really wished you to wake up to your needs; otherwise, he would do something he'd regret.

You moaned, hands getting knotted within his long black locks. His bun at the top of his head had come loose, and the essence of his back fell free. Your back wanted to arch away from the tingling sensation, to squirm out of his hold, but you were immobilized—utterly weak under his touch.

"You, stop moving," he intones with a milder iratedness and you obey, trying your utmost not to twitch with the kisses he lathers onto your clit through your wet panties. Lan Wangji moves the fabric to the side, baring your wet folds, and he doesn't hesitate. '

He waited for far too long to finally have a taste of you, and Lan Wangji was going to enjoy himself like there was nobody else there—with you, with your puffy little clit between his lips, sucking it until you came over and over again, with his tongue. Push you with his tongue into overheating.

The grip on your thighs strengthens as you feel his nose bump against your sensitive clit, and your fingers tighten on the hold you had on his hair. A mewl slipped past your plump lips, and the groan of satisfaction rippled through him into your folds. His tongue drags from your soaked hole up to your clit, and moans slip from your lips.

You're desperate to remain quiet and not make any of those lewd noises ring out past your mouth. One of your hands falls from his hair and moves up to cover your mouth which Lan Wangji didn't like one bit. 

"You cover your mouth again and I won't be too nice," Lan Wangji says sternly, pulling your hand away from your mouth, which causes a yelp to leave your lips.

Lan Wangji wants you moaning, whimpering as loud as possible, with your head thrown back hard against the fluffy pillows beneath you and your back arched into his tongue, that is sucking lewdly on your aching clit.

That was the moment when thighs clenched around his head through his restrictive hold, and a moan reverberated into your clit that made you grind down against his face. A chant of his name was spilled from your lips, and he reveled in every second of it.

"Lan! Fee. Zhan! Fee.funny!" You whimpered out, that weird feeling in your stomach as something built up inside you, and you didn't know what it was. "Zhan! St'op!! Fee. weird!!"

"Shhh," Lan Wangji cooed to you against your clit, and you moaned again, the coil in your stomach growing tighter. "You getting close, that's all."

Your eyes widened as he said it. This is what an orgasm would grow to feel like. It feels so good. Closer to your orgasm, two fingers pushed through your folds into your gummy walls, and they immediately found their place. Fingers pressed up against that soft spot deep inside your walls every time he curled his fingers when he inserted them in at a quick pass.

"Yes, that's it, {Y/n}," he moaned against you, his hips rutting into the mattress, trying to relieve some sort of sexual buildup that was anything but getting better.

He was in such dire need of you.

The way your hips pushed back into that rough grind onto his face elicited a groan from you. "Good girl," he praised.

You chant his name, broken letters, and his movements, quicker, hungrier; the single hold he had on your thigh clamped tighter. The coil in your stomach just wound tighter, and the fingers locked more around his locks; they kept him in place, but he groaned more into your folds.

It only pushed me right over the edge, for a moan to spill from the lips at the moment that he pressed his tongue hard against my clit—what was once a soft scream leaving your mouth. The coil in your stomach now unleashed, his face totally drenched. Lan Wangji lifts his head out from your drenched folds; his chin is soaked with your cum.

Your chest heaved with the aftermath, breasts falling to the side from your subtly arched back. His chest swelled with a need for you but he wanted to wait for you; wanting to wait for you to want him. He wants you to want him out of love for him, not respect or responsibility as his wife.

Just your pure love, that's all he wants.

'I'm not through with you," were his final words just before his tongue started, once again, to toy with your clit, over except for you.

"Lan Zhan!" you cried in shock from how overwhelmingly the sensation was, a loud moan slipping past your lips, and your thighs clenched extremely tight around his head. This time, he wouldn't let you block his airways, his hands trying to pry open your thighs. And this time, he really would make you come with nothing but his tongue.

And so you did, a thousand times. Over and over your clit throbbed and ached. Your pussy ached and gaped for more, but he didn't give it to you. You'd begged for him to stop, but you knew he wouldn't. Lan Wangji knew you didn't want this, no matter your actions and words. Your cunt begged harder for more and more releases.

Lan Wangji continued to lap up from your folds, and you were definitely sure of a different sensation bubbling inside. "Zhan! Wait!" You whimper, but still your juices spill out from your cunt all over his face, the liquid obviously wetter than earlier.

Lan Wangji stood from between your legs, the realization that it was you who just squirted. A wave of tiredness swept your countenance and you sluggishly went down like a sack of potatoes, submitting to the warm clutches of slumber, and Lan Wangji sighed. Before Lan Wangji could allow himself to catch some sleep beside you, he had to tidy you up, which he did, cleaned you up quite nicely before he changed the sheets without waking you.

The week after that night in Jingshi was spent with a rededication to closeness with Lan Wangji. Every shared glance and every touch, however fleeting, was a promise of deepened feelings, an unsaid understanding that their bond was growing.

But tonight, the hours inched by, and Lan Wangji had not come back from his night hunt. Anxiety began gripping you in earnest as you strayed to and fro across the chamber, filled only by the doing of such a thing. The night was painted as if to be colder, darker, and one couldn't shake away the fear that maybe something happened to him.

At that very moment, you had been about to head out in the search of him yourself, when the door slid open soundlessly and Zewu-Jun stepped inside. His face was calm but serious.

"{Y/n}," he spoke softly, "Lan Wangji has returned. He is safe."

Relief washed over you, wordlessly brushed past Zewu-Jun amid the aching drumbeat of your heart. You entered the courtyard and found Lan Wangji standing there. A little tattered, with worn spots in his face, was the only flaw in what otherwise was him being all right. At the sight of him, relief came pouring through you, and with it trickling down all worry and fear.

"Lan Zhan!" You choked out, hurtling towards him.

He turned at the sound of your voice, and his eyes widened in almost surprised realization as you closed the distance from him. You didn't bother to say a word; instantly, you just threw your arms up and about him, squeezing him as hard as possible for reassurance that he was actually here.

"Zhan," you started, your voice trembling. "I can't… I can't hold it anymore. I-I've been so scared that I was going to lose you. But then I thought… I realized how much you meant to me."

He pulled his face back just a little so he could see down into your eyes. "{Y/n}…"

"I love you, Lan Zhan," you cried, breaking to pieces inside of yourself. "I love you so, so much. I can't bear the thought of being without you."

His face softened a fraction, eyes alit now with relief and joy in equal measure. "You love me?"

You nodded your head, feeling the weight lift off your chest. "Yes, I do. More than anything."

Lan Wangji's eyes sparkled, then he took you again, drawing you close. "I love you, {Y/n}. So much, for so long. To hear you say it… It means more than I could ever have asked," he stuttered.

He bent forward and took your lips in a kiss that spelled all the passion and love ever withheld. His arms tightened around you as well, through which you felt all his feelings, all that depth stored in every touch, every move. In that kiss was a mixture of relief, desire, and intoxicating love.

And then, without realizing it, the kiss deepened, and you only got yourself lost. The world around you just seemed to fade away—there was only you, Lan Wangji, and the beat of both of your hearts that now thumped against each other.

The spell was broken, and you turned to see Zewu-Jun standing a few paces away, the expression a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment.

"Sorry," he apologized, "but this is not your Jingshi. This is the Hanshi."

His smile warmed as you realized where you were, and a blush started to creep up your cheeks. Still holding your hand, Lan Wangji's thumb rubbed lightly over yours.

"Thank you, brother," Lan Wangji said, warmth flowing in his voice. "We will take our leave."

You never released his hand from yours until you both reached your own chambers, and you never felt like you were floating.

You both rapidly went back to the Jingshi, and the two of you never waited for a moment: his lips were on you. His face closed an inch towards yours in a gentle purpose, and all of a sudden you felt the soft brush of his lips against your own. Across the impassable physical distance, Lan Wangji's hand slides through the back of your neck, and you can feel the warmth of his touch seep into you as you flutter your eyes and close them halfway in satisfaction.

The hand cradling the back of your head, holding it in place, suddenly changes from cradling to directing your chin upward, and your stomach swoops in a sickening wash of vertigo. Lan Wangji's face falls, and his exhale is strong over your neck shell, the pulse of scalding heat almost tangible. A second no more, and it leaves an electric impression in its wake.

While his lips are at yours, his other hand cradles your neck from behind, providing an overall warmth that leaves a shiver running down your spine. His lips press again into yours. The rhythmic dance of our tongues surprises you, and you are lost in that tender exchange. You bury your head in the security of Lan Wangji's shoulder, pulling away from the overwhelming intensity. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shoulders for grounding in the now.

Lan Wangji gently manipulates your head to an upward tilt using the tips of his fingers. The moment your eyes lift, meet his, it's all clear, and the flutter in your stomach is palpable. He bends his head to the side of yours, his breath intoxicatingly filling the sensitive skin next to your neck. In another moment, the sensation of warmth coursed into every part of your body and you felt the electrifying connection that joined you both.

His fingers trace down your spine, and somehow it feels like little trails of tingling fire. Lan Wangji's lips find yours once more, in a tender way that deepens this connection between the two of us. The room fades as we become entrenched in this shared intimacy. Your fingers trace at the small of his back now, tracing gentle patterns, and you savour the closeness that lingers between you.

A broken kiss seals together our foreheads, our breaths intermingle in the silence as Lan Wangji meets your gaze, a gaze that he lets an upswell of feelings warm in the shade of water that is shadowing down his face. There is an unspoken understanding in the charged atmosphere, and as his thumb brushes against your cheek, there is a bond—if the words aside should be counted—forged between both.

"Lan Zhan," you exhale. "I want you. so badly."

You back from the desk, and Lan Wangji is matching the action never letting go as you back across the room and to his bed for support. The baseboard of his bed hits on the back of your legs, bending your knees, and you sit back at the edge of his bed.

You offer liquid grace from the table, your every motion definitive, and subtly Lan Wagnji takes your lead. His hands on your hips remain firm and reassuringly in place as you back up, step by purposeful step leading us towards the bed.

So you rise onto the bed, and, by this time, Lan Wagnji is there, too, rising from the Hanfu on a slide, expectation sits still in the space. I slip off your own with a malevolent eroticism. And so, showing without a word the fragile form beneath, I abandon you in your bra.

LAN WAGNJI'S HAND goes on a longing journey: the palm trails up your hips and waist, leaving the rest of the hand to hold your thigh flush against the side of his body—the room charged in the way that we negotiate the unspoken performance.

Wan Wagnji kisses you again, deeply and passionately.

I gasp under the sheer sensation being pounded into my wanting body, and then, in sheer anticipation, your back arches equal to his. The room seems to shrink, not large enough as he unclips your bra and drags the feverent material off your breasts.

His fingers lightly tease the skin above your collarbone. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.

You take in a deep breath before pushing softly against his lips again, and breathlessly answering, "I'm sure."  Hardly setting your words in a breathy sort of utterance to escape from tremors reacting to the touch already, "I will do anything for you," you add, sighing into your mouth as he brings his lips to mine again.

"I know you would," he murmurs, his hand on your thigh for just a second longer, dragging his two middle fingers down your covered slit, making you jolt and forcing a whimper out of your lips.

Your skirt was still gracing your body, along with your panties. There wasn't even a moment later when your panties weren't tugged by Lan Wagnji and left at an unknown spot. And then the work did commence a heartbeat later when the pad of his thumb teased your clit, back and forth, until he urged a snap of your legs, that brought the smirk leaving hikey in its wake, against the skin of your neck.

Two fingers slid in immediately, inside your heat, and began to curl at your gummy spot. Helplessly you moaned as your arms wound around Lan Wagnji's neck, as if this would help lift some off that pleasure.

"I've found it, have I?" Lan Wagnji asked, slowly moving his fingers in and out of your wet hole and each time he entered again, slowly curling his fingers into your gummy walls.

"You moan as ecstasy sears through each nerve of your body.

"Mmm, please what

"Need you," you whimper out, and he keeps that slow, aching pace. Long fingers curl in at the right time to hit that one spot, which makes you feel so, so good. But he knew that and went on doing this ridiculously slowly, making sure every one of your moans and whimpers was heard.

"More," you choked out, and you felt another smirk roll against his lips.

"You'll get more, I'll take my time with you - " he said to you hotly, breathing into your ear, looking at the task force trailing us, and still wanting to get more out of Light.

"Jus' want you to go f-faster," you say holding back the moan when he curls his fingers once more. "You're such a dirty girl," Lan Wagnji degrades and complies with your request and picks up the pace causing the knot in your stomach to grow.

"Please, please, please," you went on chanting over and over again, asking for an orgasm's release that has a deadly threat lying over your body, "Ngh, Zhan, please."

"Fine, girl, let go," he tells, and a moan of his name leaves your throat. Your back is bending into his chest, his arm slipping around your waist, and you close to him. Lan Wagnji lets himself drop to kiss you again, letting the warmth of the kiss float around when he pulls back. "I'm not done with you; you're going to take my dick all in your tight cunt. You got that?"

You nod dumbly, just wanting to feel the ache deep inside of you.

Lan Wagnji flipped you around, your breast squished tightly against the bed as you felt Lan Wagnji abs press flush against your back which was considerably bigger than your back. His hands gripped the backs of your hands, pressing them into the bed, making sure you wouldn't move out of his iron grip.

He quickly switched his grip, moving your arms to one of his hands and pinned the two with one hand above your head. "Relax," he cooed in your ear, realizing you were tense. 

You felt a big and heavy tip prod at your entrance, you gasped at the thick length. "Lan Zhan," you whimper out. "P-please."

"That might hurt, so breathe," he added, but instead, you did the opposite as you felt your gummy walls invaded by his thick and warm cock.

And Lan Wangji? Dear God, he was trying so hard not to beat into that tight pussy. Your walls squeezed so hard against his dick that he could explode right there and then. "I said breathe. You're too tight." Lan Wangji moaned and the noise went straight to your cunt.

You exhaled the breath you were holding; the initial pain that was there throughout your body had been replaced by pleasure, which coursed now through the veins.

Lan Wangji's breath tickled at your ear, the hot air causing your body to tremble further against his. His cock lodged so deep in your gummy walls it made you mewl out in pleasure, but Lan Wangji wasn't moving; he was keeping himself snug inside your drenched walls, enjoying the pleasure.

Why, had Lan Wangji not mind-hacked himself, he would have combusted right then and there, inside you.

Hot and steamy kisses trail from your ear down to the dip between neck and shoulder, and before you know it, a breathless sigh is escaping you—lips parted just as Lan Wangji rolls his hips into yours with his shaft length, scraping all the sensitive spots of the hot insides of you to elicit a moan to roll off your tongue.

"L-Lan Zhan!" you moan out and your cry is responded to by a deep groan which causes you to tremble beneath him.

But Lan Wangji's legs kept your own spread apart, so that you couldn't move from his trapping embrace while his movements became faster, his cock slipping in and out of your needy hole. He is groaning and panting into your ear.

He was filling you up to the hilt, his tip prodding every hit against that spot which made you moan loudly with pleasure. Repetitive moans leave your mouth while he pounds and grinds into your heat. You had this instinctive urge to press into his length, but it was too heavy; his weight was a force against which you couldn't move. You were utterly hopeless as his thrusts became faster.

"H-ha, you're so big," you mewled out as your body trembled beneath him, and he moved one of his hands off mine to let his bicep wrap around your throat—not tightly but to lift your head from the futon and pillows beneath us. He drew you to him more closely and twisted your head, attaching our mouths in a sloppy, wet kiss. He pushed his tongue inside and groaned deeply at the intensity rising.

Lan Wangji drew back, but thrust harder, hitting your perfect spot. "I feel so good, don't I?" He rasped in your ear as your mouth continued to let out desperate moans.

Tears streamed down your heated cheeks in pleasure as you nodded within his movement-restricting hold. "Such a good girl," He mumbled in your ear chased with a deep groan, your insides clenched at his praise and his hips stuttered in their movements.

You spasmed around his length, your end washing over you, legs shaking as the weight of him pressed down even more than it was. He didn't slow his thrusts, making you whimper in overstimulation, but Lan Wangji helped it; his hips continued to rut into me, further aiding me to ride out your orgasm as he chased his own.

With a groan, his lips mashed against mine once again as his hips slammed into mine, hard, his cum spilling inside you causing you to moan into his kiss.

"'M love you so much," you whimper into the kiss.

"I love you, more," Lan Wangji groaned.

You were sure you were done until you felt his hips roll into yours again and you moaned. "I'm going have sex with you all night, not until you pass out."

The first touch of light that night was just streaming into the curtains, warming the room with deep and rich hues as you moved just a bit, sleeping. Everywhere, small moves each one bringing a reminder of how the previous evening felt and, oh so wonderfully good, sore muscles. Lan Wangji lay beside you in the bed, face at peace, and content, hand lying protectively, possessively over his.

He roused from the brief state of transcendence, returned to his spot, and as soon as he opened his eyes, they met yours. "Good morning," he began in a soft voice.

"Morning," you answered, almost inaudibly and with shyness apparent.

He brushed the hair from your face and whispered, "Are you okay?"

You nodded but wincing a little. "Just a slight sore."

The slightest flicker of concern passed in his dark eyes before he straightened up, extending his hand to help you do the same. "You should sit. I'll bring breakfast here."

As he motioned to leave, you reached out your hand to snag his, pulling him back in for a quick kiss. "Thanks, Lan Zhan."

He smiled, the sight of it filling you with warmth. "Anything for you."

For the next few days, you replayed moments of the night before. The soreness was still there, though met with happiness and satisfaction. And Lan Wangji, as always, was so careful that he practically made sure you had nothing to want for as you recuperated. Insistent on doing most things for you himself, of course, so you could relax and recover.

One fine morning, as you sipped your tea by the window that Lan Wangji had made for you, you just could not help but be full of admiration for how your relationship had transformed. Each and every gesture, each and every look of his that spoke of affection, drew your heart.

"How do you feel today?" he would ask as he passed by to sit with you.

"Better," you leaned your head to one side, resting your forehead against his. "Thank you for looking after me. That's quite a bother and an honor."

He kissed your forehead tenderly. "In my duty and it's always an honor to look after you."

The days which followed were full of soft moments and shared laughter. Lan Wangji was unconditionally supportive and affectionate toward you, which made your recovery much easier. He would find solace in walking the gardens, for he found peace with Lan Wangji. They could stay hours reading in each other's quiet company, basking in the tranquil atmosphere of the Cloud Recesses.

One afternoon, even when you'd just been doing light stretches to work out the lingering soreness, he'd come up to you with a slight smile.

"I have something for you."

You would look up inquisitively. "What is it?"

He holds out a small, intricately carved wooden box. Opening it, you find herbs and salves, all carefully prepared by him to aid in your recovery. "I thought this could help with the soreness.".

Tears of thankfulness welled up in your eyes at this.

"Thank you, Lan Zhan. You're always thinking of me."

He enveloped you in his arms, gently.

"Because you are my everything. Got to make sure you're in good condition when we fuck; can't have you passing out on me now."

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