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intheorangebedroom · 10 months

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 1

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Guilt is a wild trip, but so is desire. How the hell did you end up in this divvy motel? And now, what's next?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings. Now I'm off to disappear for another month, heehee. To anyone who celebrates anything, happy whatever you celebrate. Ily 🧡

@frannyzooey And to you, Kelli… Thank you 🧡 Thank for your help on this chapter, without you it wouldn’t exist. Arguably, without you I wouldn’t exist (my gothic ass) and without you I would certainly not be writing at all. You’re the kindest, most generous, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, you shine so brightly and I love you more than all the Frankies from all the universes put together 🧡✨

Word count: 6.5k

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Chapter 1: Dirt

Guilt, you’re about to find out, is an interesting feeling.

A viscous, gluey business that sticks to your skin and clings to your frame. It’s a prickling tickle under your armpits, a rigidity in your legs. It’s a tightness in your shoulders, and it pulls on your face. It has a density, and it’s tangible, not only do you feel it, you see it in every mirror, every reflective surface.

A pervasive, shape-shifting torment that unfurls gradually, and comes in many colorful shades, when you begin to take in the gravity and the ramifications of your actions.

The first wave is darkened by fear, black as petrol, trickling down your insides when he says his name.

Frankie.

Like an invitation, an opening. Gaping, abysmal, pulling you in and you remain silent, struggling on the edge of it, grasping for balance. Drawn in, but too stunned to let go and dive in yet.

It’s a violent crimson, next, shame creeping over you when you walk back inside the bar to retrieve your purse.

Facing Mark is difficult, but talking to him is beyond your strength. You gesture toward the handbag waiting for you on the other side of the counter. He hands it to you in appraising silence, judgmental, surely, and you smile, or you wince, you can’t even tell. With shaky hands, you fumble inside it for your wallet, his green gaze strained on your face.

You know that your entire appearance gives away the narrative of what just took place in the back lot of his establishment. Your face is flushed, your lips swollen, your hair undone. Your clothes are rumpled and in his eyes, you will from now on and forever be this woman.

After what feels like several minutes, he takes pity on you, and reiterates his offer. You’re good, he says. Sweetheart. The first pint’s on him.

You don’t stay long enough for a second drink, however.

Back outside into the muggy night, you crumble onto the passenger seat of your car. The polyester lining of your skirt clings to the bare skin at the back of your thighs, damp with sweat and what is left of your inconsequential desire, and you feel appallingly filthy, bone-deep disgusting.

Guilt washes over you in blue waves of regret, welling under your eyelids when you notice that the red truck is gone. And with it, the gaping, abysmal possibilities of another you, reinvented with him.

The shaking starts as you’re driving, trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. A brutal, chilling comedown, guilt experienced in bright and blinding yellow at the belated realization of your betrayal.

How easily, how rapidly you forgot, trapped under Frankie’s gaze, coming undone between Frankie’s hands, that your life isn’t truly yours. That it has never been. You’re not on your own, no matter how much you long to be. You have never been afforded the privilege of independence, nor do you possess the necessary strength to break free from your family.

And who has Frankie betrayed? What faceless, nameless woman has he gone back to? Remorse blends in with envy and resentment, painting green ring-shaped stains in your peripheral vision as you get out of your car and into the lobby of your building.

Eyes to the floor, you step into the elevator, this oversized coffin lined with mirrors reflecting your image with a silent scoff. There’s dust from the gravel on your leather pumps.

Inside your apartment, the clickety-click of your heels on the tiled floor bounces off the walls of your skull. You hate that sound, eminently cold and giving away your presence.

The living-room television is on, probably set to a news channel, most likely broadcasting a financial show in which white men over 50 listen to the sound of their own voice and debate about obscure economical regulations you’re supposed to care about.

Adrian’s already here. Uncharacteristically early. Friday evenings usually mean late night poker or whatever his own excuse is to get away from your cribless home.

Hoping to go unnoticed so as to avoid him, you take off your shoes, but it’s too late. He calls out your name from the kitchen, his intonation surprised but cheerful.

Head hanging low, heartbeat picking up, you make a silent dash for the upstairs bathroom, remorse so pungent you fear no shower can ever wash it off your skin.

Under the scolding high-pressure stream, you scrub your body raw with a soapless loofah, but there is no scrubbing away the feeling of those hands over your skin.

Eyes drifting closed, you lean your forehead against the anthracite marble of your Italian shower, and let your chest heave around a suppressed sob.

Guilt, shame, and remorse are powerless to outweigh your want, undeterred, unabated, unquenched.

Back in the parking lot, it had been a moment before you were able to push away from the side of the truck and stand upright. He stood there, silent and immobile in front of you. Waiting, as if to shield you from the street and the rest of the world. Silence hanging charged and heavy between you, as you wouldn’t offer your name in return.

When you started moving toward the bar’s entrance, he stepped aside, and that’s when your body moved of its own volition. You took his hand in yours, palm against palm, trembling fingers wrapped around his knuckles.

“Can I see you again?” you asked, pleaded, begged. You didn’t recognize your voice.

He swallowed hard, shook his head at you for the third time, and squeezed your hand in his bigger one.

“I don’t think so. You know that’s not a good idea,” he said.

—

Grief settles like dust over the first weeks of September.

You are surprised, almost shocked, to observe how little your life has changed. You get up in the morning, you shower and get dressed, drink coffee, go to work. You attend meetings about maritime trade regulation, sitting at your father’s side, go over endless spreadsheets detailing import-export profit and loss, you pretend to understand them, and you pretend to care, like a pretty human puppet.

You come home at night, skip dinner when you can. You lie in bed next to Adrian. You seek out warmth where there is none. You perform sex without satisfaction.

There has been no question asked. No suspicion, no doubt cast.

You wear the same clothes, drive along the same roads, walk around the same hallways.

And no one seems to notice that you are different. That you experienced imperious want and incandescent pleasure. That you carry a secret. Nestled, dormant and quiet, between your lungs, like a wild and unknown creature.

Whatever part of him you welcomed inside you transformed the hollowed spaces of your existence. It redefined the void, creating a place of your own where to curate your new desires.

His lips on your lips, your body molded into his, and pressed against your hips, an unfulfilled promise for more.

In the palm of your hand, the ghost sensation of Frankie’s hold, now forever gone and lost, and your highlighted loneliness feels like a barless prison. On your own, always, again, to divert the old familiar pain of being you.

Weeks go by. The guilt recedes, and sadness takes its place, like clockwork, like physics. Like a new sort of weight coating your limbs. A nostalgic longing without any object.

In the idle moments of your day, when you’re stuck in traffic, in a meeting, or in a conversation, your mind wanders back to him. The solid slope of his shoulders. The strong span of his back. Muscles bunching up under your grip. His scent, his curls, his taste. An organic trace seared into your being.

His rebuttal, after he’d given you so much, felt less like a rejection than like a refusal to heed a deeply rooted instinct.

His stare was no longer hard and cold. It carried only sorrow and loss.

Does he think of you like you think of him? Does he miss the contact of your skin, or the abandon of your kiss?

Did he walk away from your embrace with something to keep, like you did?

Day after day, summer fades into fall, the change hardly perceptible through the consistently sweltering weather.

Day after day, focusing becomes tricky, finding sleep more and more difficult and your train of thought turns downright maniacal.

Ava’s calls go straight to voicemail.

More often than not, you start drinking as soon as you come home to fence off the tears of exhaustion, hoping Adrian won’t notice. Another line you had promised yourself never to cross, and under the combined effects of the alcohol and the antidepressants, you feel drowsy and dizzy, increasingly disconnected from your reality. A nagging sting settles on the left side of your lower abdomen. But you don’t mind the pain as much as you mind turning into your mother.

Some days, you think you’d like nothing more than to give way, allow yourself to drown into the proven refuge of self-abuse. Whenever you indulge the thought, soothing images spring to mind, oil on canvas, deep green, tender brown. Ophelia, crowned with wild flowers and rings of violets, sleeping peacefully in a shallow stream.

When you finally return to the Hole in the Wall, it’s only with the hope of hindering your impending tailspin.

In the parking, after turning off the ignition, you sit in your car for the whole of five minutes, staring numbly at the dark lot where the red truck had been parked.

Mark’s hesitant greeting puzzles you; by now you have lost most of your ability to read people’s reactions.

You walk to the counter and choose to sit on one of the high stools. Somewhere deep down, you enjoy his distance; you relish the sadistic pleasure of reliving the humiliation you felt standing before him, freshly fucked dumb on a total stranger’s fingers.

Besides, you’ll take the attention, however uncomfortable it may be.

“Long time no see,” Mark says, and you produce a poorly executed smile.

“I don’t know… two weeks? I’ve been busy,” you add as a way of apologizing.

“It’s been a month,” he replies curtly.

You try a brown ale, this time, rich and bitter. He busies himself behind the counter, cleaning and wiping, while you drain your glass in silence. You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re drinking too fast. Nausea laps against your diaphragm. It’s the last missing scene from this scenario: you, throwing up in the toilet of his bar.

You’re considering leaving when he speaks again.

“Trucker hat dude came by.”

Your head shots up and you glare at him, eyes widening under your pinched brow, a new wave of sickness nudging further up. He gauges your face, twirling a towel inside a pint glass, waiting for your answer, but when you give him none, he goes on.

“Did he…” he starts, and his eyes slowly go back and forth between yours, “he didn’t hurt you or anything? Cause if he did, if you wanna press charges, I can—“

“No,” you cut him off, “god no, I’m fine. I’m perfectly ok,” you add unnecessarily when his gaze narrows.

He pauses for a moment, like he’s the only one who can judge if you are, indeed, perfectly ok, before he faces away from you to put back the clean glasses on the lower shelves behind him.

When he’s done, he turns back around, props his hands low on his hips, and for the first time since you’ve entered the place, he stands perfectly still.

“He’s been asking about you.”

Between your lungs, the creature begins to stir.

“He came back,” you say, surprisingly matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Asked if you come here every Friday.”

Piece by piece, your mind starts swiveling, sluggish and blunt after being successfully dulled out by the past couple of weeks of excessive drinking. You picture his tall figure standing in the small bar, perhaps he sat on the stool you’re sitting on now? Did he lift his cap to comb his hair with his fingers before he spoke?

Mark is talking again, and it’s a conscious effort to bring your attention back to his words.

“Asked if you always come on your own. If I know your name.”

“I never told you my name,” you panic, “what did you tell him?”

“I see your name every week on your AmEx Gold, sweetheart, but I kindly told him to go fuck himself,” he scoffs.

His sardonic tone snaps you out of your drifting daydreaming. Your face immediately hardens. You sit up straight, drawing further away from him and he seems to change his mind. He’s softer when he speaks next.

“Look, I don’t know what’s the lowdown between you two, you understand? And anyway, I’m not in the habit of discussing my regulars with just about anyone. That kinda goes against the job’s ethics, you know what I mean?”

You shrug away the rational, albeit patronizing explanation with a huff of annoyance. You feel more alert than you have in weeks.

“When was that?” you ask.

“Last week. Thursday, I think.”

“Shit.”

Mark lets out a heavy sigh, resembling that of an exhausted father, and he opens the cash register.

“He left a note for you.”

—

An address. Written in all caps, black ink on a white piece of paper torn from a lined notebook. No phone number, not date, no time… and no name. Just the address. Under the feeble cabin light of your car, the paper looks old, like it’s been carried around tucked inside a wallet for years, and time has turned it yellow.

The coordinates on the dashboard GPS are identical to the ones on the paper. They were identical back in the parking, at the bar, when you typed them in; they were identical at every single red light you stopped at and checked. And they’re still identical now, glowing in blue letters, cold and synthetic, above the message You have reached your destination.

You raise your head again and stare at the building in front of you.

It’s a motel. One floor, L shaped, slightly sloping roof. With wrought iron details, a porch hanging low and square wooden pillars demarcating each room, nine of them in total. On the right, underneath a bare bulb, a large ice machine gleams like a beacon for lost time-travelers, next to a pay phone with a cut-off cord and a missing receiver. On the rear end of the building, to the left, above what looks like the reception, a 4 feet tall sign spells MOTEL in red neon letters.

At its height, the place probably looked nice. But that was a rough 55, 60 years ago, you estimate. Now it’s nearly derelict, with visible cracks streaking the yellowing walls, several broken drainpipes, and a missing number on the door of room 7.

If you cared about these kinds of things, you’d figure that the diversion of the main road further south is responsible for the motel’s decaying state.

Your attention is elsewhere, as usual. The parking lot is deserted, save for three vehicles. The red truck is here, parked a couple of places away to your right. Engine off. Empty.

The drive here from the Hall in the Wall was nearly an hour long. The car cruised along poorly lit, narrow two-lane roads, lined with luxuriant vegetation, dense and confining in the pitch darkness of the suburban night. You’ve lived in Tampa your entire life and have never set a foot in this part of the Bay Area. Technically, you’re not even in Tampa anymore.

He’s inside one of these rooms, somewhere. Waiting for you, and that thought alone makes your breathing difficult and your hands clammy.

What now? What’s next? Are you supposed to walk up to the reception and ask about him? A tall man wearing a trucker hat? Frankie?

And what will happen, once you’ve found him?

This is ridiculous. Sordid. It’s gone too far, whatever that is. A motel outside of town. The worst possible cliché. The most degrading place.

Between your lungs, the creature is clawing at your chest.

You shift nervously on the creaking leather seat, exhaling long and shaky, no longer repressing the memory of his sturdy fingers curling inside your warmth, of his tongue swirling inside your mouth. The instant intimacy of your furtive encounter, that turning point, when he briefly relinquished his control.

A chorus of voices rumbles like tumbling boulders inside your head, a cacophony of rules and guidelines, tacit and unspoken, ingrained and internalized. But with every passing minute staring at the bright motel sign, your resolve grows surer.

The yellow curtains ripple behind the rectangular window of room number 2 and you quickly pull the key out of the ignition. Grabbing your phone from the dashboard, you stuff it inside your purse, which you slide under the driver's seat.

Eyes locked on the curtains, you make a fast-paced beeline to the door. Around you, the night is bustling with the sounds and noises of the invisible wildlife. Revealing nothing, containing so much.

With a quick rattle of your heels, you step under the porch, hand extended and ready to knock on the door when it opens for you.

Oh he’s broad, so much broader than you even remembered, blocking the entire doorway with his frame, blue jeans, black shirt, and this goddamn hat that’s already haunting your dreams and your nightmares.

Looking down on you, irate, defiant, daring you to push him aside and enter. Behind him, the room is plunged in darkness. Above you, the porch lights cast a warm hue on his face, that fails to soften his expression. The crease between his brow is deeper than your fears.

You take a step closer, on instinct, but he moves to the side as if to avoid any contact with you and you enter the dark bedroom, carried by your momentum.

Guilt will come back to you later, sporadically, in episodes, but for the most part, you forfeit it wholly when you cross the threshold of room number 2.

He closes the door behind you and flicks up the toggle switch near the door frame. Two quaint lampshades blink to life on the headboard, casting a warm, subdued light. There’s no AC, or he hasn’t turned it on, and the atmosphere inside the room is already stifling, charged with his scent.

“Took you long enough. Thought you wanted to see me,” he grunts, and the creature purrs inside your chest.

“I did. I do.”

Stopping in the middle of the room, you turn around to face him. He’s standing tall and firm and mighty, feet planted apart on the carpeted floor, arms crossed over his chest. Yet you note his hands are splayed across his biceps, as if he were attempting to hug himself.

Perhaps that’s when you convince yourself Frankie is not his real name. Somehow, it makes it easier to believe you’re not the object of his ire.

“Your friend didn’t tell you–”

“He’s not my friend,” you interrupt. “I only got your note earlier. Tonight.”

You let the implication sink in and your gaze travels down to the dip at the base of his neck and back up. The square, yellow bedroom provides you with the brightest environment you’ve ever had the leisure of observing him in.

He’s beautiful, stunning, really, with unique and complex features. Almost pretty, but in a reluctant way, as if it was irrelevant to the life he’s chosen and led. His face speaks so loud, washed over by so many emotions, frustration, doubt and anger, and that lingering sadness in his dark eyes that tugs at your heart and twitches your fingers.

“What’s your name?” he asks, tilting his chin in your direction.

Janet Leigh’s face pops up in black and white inside your mind, driving through a curtain of strident violins, skittish eyes flicking between the road ahead of her and the rearview mirror.

“Marion,” you answer, inexplicably.

“Marion,” he repeats, and you know he knows you’re lying.

Unable to hold his gaze, you look away to the side, and he gives you time to take in the surroundings. The medium size bed with a stained, synthetic bedspread, the practical, shipped furniture, an angular chair and a desk surmounted by a rectangular framed mirror, the antique cathodic TV set hanging from the wall in the corner. The brown carpet. The yellow curtains. The painting of the Appalachian.

And whatever your face says then makes him huff.

“Not what you expected? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?”

You look at him again, stunned, lost, hurt maybe, that he should recognize you for what you don’t want to be.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before,” you tell him in a small voice.

He shakes his head, like you aimed to wound, and unconsciously, your fingers find your sternum, jittery, anxious to appease this wild creature scrabbling against your rib cage.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head again, or still, “and you shouldn’t be here either, this is bullshit.”

And he’s right, once more, he is right, neither of you should be here. All the lines you walked, all the rules you abided by, meeting expectations and doing as you were told, and you still end up here, on the outskirts of town, in this gloomy motel. Facing this stranger, begging to surrender to him, with your heart in your hand and your life on your lips.

Eyes strained on his, you move closer, cautious, with your palms upward, as if he were to jolt and scurry away if you were too sudden. If you tame him, perhaps you will tame the wild creature between your lungs as well.

Drawn to his skin, you brush the tips of your fingers along his bicep, and the taut muscle thrums under the freckled, tanned surface of him.

He’s holding his breath, hardened face, hardened stare, deepening crease, and your fingers skate up along the slope of his arm until they meet his hand.

He’s difficult to catch, you think, even when willing to be caught, but it’s now very clear what you want for yourself. You want him.

It matters not that he belongs to somebody else. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you too. Despair and desire have brought you together, combined, conjoined, converging.

Your hand travels round to the back of his arm, soft and feather-like, up under the hem of his t-shirt, lifting his sleeve. His eyes are boring into yours. You lick your lips, slowly, and lower them to his skin. A light kiss, testing, tender and wet, and underneath it, a tremor.

There’s a terrible density to his body. He’s tension and heat. Pressing your parted lips to his shoulder, you let your tongue peek out between them. You take in the tangy taste of him, it travels through your body like lava, like syrup, heavy and sticky and sweet and it pools down between your hips.

He’s completely still, eerily so. Emboldened, hopeful, you tug on his t-shirt, tentatively at first, and when he doesn’t stop you, when he unfolds his arms, you pull it off his frame, the hat coming off with it. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his naked head full of curls, lush and tousled. You want to run your fingers through them. You know that’s probably not a good idea.

His chest, broad and solid, fills your vision, and your hands fly to his sternum where you press them, chasing something invisible, roaming up the plane of his chest, as delicately as possible. Your fingertips drum lightly along his collarbone, as if you were seeing him with your hands, as if all your senses were necessary to take in the whole of him.

His frown turns imploring, his breathing shallow.

“Tell me your name,” he murmurs, his deep baritone a pleading husk.

“You can call me whatever you like,” you answer, lifting his hand and taking his two first fingers into your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You cradle them with the flat of your tongue, brushing against the callous tips of them, saliva flooding your mouth around the salty taste. A moan escapes you, imperceptible, and his jaw ticks around a curse, something you don’t make out, something in Spanish, you’re too dazed with want, too dumb with thirst.

Fire licks up your spine when he moves, fast and sure. His hand tangles in your hair and he sharply tugs your head back, his fingers popping out of your mouth with a hanging thread of saliva. His face has become a threat, a warning, a promise. He’ll give you what you want until you regret asking for it.

His mouth crushes yours, teeth colliding, and his tongue is inside you, swirling and licking.

Like a dam that gives, his strength breaks and sweeps over you, crushing you into his chest with his hold and his kiss, fingers gripping your hair, your ass, and you let him have it, let him bruise your flesh with his need, scraping your fingernails up his arms, on his back.

You’re smiling into the kiss, with relief and eagerness, squirming into him and he hardens his hold before releasing you, swift and sudden, grabbing your blouse and pulling it up in a feverish movement that you follow, lifting your arms like a docile little girl. A seam of the silky fabric rips around your shoulders. You don’t notice it.

His face dives into the crook of your neck, the scruff of his beard grating your skin, and he sinks in his teeth, sucking hard and feral, and at first, you melt into it, before you remember. You force his chest away with both palms, whining, urgent, plaintive, “I can’t– can’t have marks,” when what you really want is to be covered in him.

It makes him chuckle, and it sounds like a growl, so terribly dark, so profoundly disillusioned, that you shiver in the heat of his body. He squeezes your breasts through the thin cotton of your bra, it’s brutal and it hurts like retaliation.

“Get fucking naked, Marion.”

Drawing away from him, you start working the button and zip fly of your skirt with fumbling fingers, blood beating fast and booming in your eardrums, while he toes off his shoes and undoes his belt buckle. Hard metal, the same one that was scraping against your belly when he was crushing you into his red truck, into white-hot pleasure.

His skin looks amber and smooth under the mellow lighting, the harmonious muscles you guessed under his shirt on the very first night highlighted in shadows. A soft belly, and a long, sideways scar on his left side. Would he tell you the history of his wounds? Will you ever have the chance to ask?

Your skirt crumples at your feet, you’re lost in the sight of him, arms falling limp at your sides. Self-consciousness skirts the edges of your lust. This body that you neglect and ignore at best, despise and mistreat if given the chance, will it be worth anything to him? Will he want you like you want him? With determination. Without dignity.

When he pulls down his jeans and his boxer briefs in one deft motion, your eyes widen, but he’s grabbing your arm already, spinning you around like a doll and throwing you onto the bedspread. He climbs on the bed after you, the mattress dips with his weight.

His firm hands spread your legs; he’s manhandled other bodies before yours, the skill evident with his dexterity, the experience obvious in his assurance, and you want to be all of them at once, lovers and enemies.

His hand rubs over your damp panties and you buck into it, trying to raise yourself on your elbows to turn around. You want to see his face as he touches you, see his reaction at the evidence of your arousal, you want to watch his eyes when his cock breaches you, but he presses a large hand between your shoulder blades and pins you into the mattress with a grunt.

He’s unlike anyone you’ve known before, brisk and rough and domineering, and you blush at your inexperience, at his irreverence, when he yanks your panties to the side and spits on your folds. The sheer obscenity feels like a reward for coming this far.

Sprawling your arms forward, bunching the slippery fabric of the bedspread in your fists, you brace yourself, the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance.

He shoves himself inside you to the base, and you cry out at the blinding intrusion, the strength of his thrust hauling your body forward on the bed. With a harsh grasp, he slides you back down on his length and you bite down another cry, flesh gushing through the splayed fingers clutching your hips.

Crouching over you, he presses his forehead heavy against the back of your head.

“Don’t move,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “don’t fucking move.”

His cock pulsates angry and swollen inside your throbbing pussy, his chest pressing down on your back with each uneven, shaky breath burning your nape.

Sitting back, he wraps his right hand around the strap of your bra and twists it around his fist, pulling on it for leverage as he begins to fuck into you. The thin elastic bands bite into your shoulders, raspy vibrations echoing from your throat straight into the bedding with each of his rhythmic pushes forward.

He’s too much, too fast, too sudden. And he picks up the pace, forcing your right leg up with his knee and angling up his strokes, reaching deeper inside your core. He’s going to puncture your body from the inside, and you contract tight and rigid around his length, writhing underneath him, until he leans into your neck, close to your ear with a command, voice low and gravelly.

“You want it, just fucking take it, then.”

That wild thing inside your chest is swelling, madly swirling, your slick floods around his drilling length. Closing your eyes, the side of your face smearing makeup on the bedspread, you nod with just enough strength to exhale a breathless yes.

Yes. Yes, you want it, just like so. You want to be used, shattered, obliterated by this man.

And so you relent. Curling your fists and sinking your fingernails into your palms, as the pain turns to pleasure and he rams into your taut heat, rams against your cervix, bending you backward, spine ready to snap with each forceful shove.

The room is filled with the explicit sounds and noises of your emerging dirty secret. The relentless smack of his hips against your ass, the lewd squelch of his cock slamming in and out of your cunt, the creaking bedding, his feral groans, your grateful moans.

He’s miles away from you, but that’s what you came here for, drain the sadness from his eyes, make it yours, understand. If you’re only going to have him once, then you want it all.

But his rhythm is faltering already, and it stops abruptly. He releases his grip on you and pulls out with a loud curse, leaving you empty, for all those things you never wanted in the first place to fill you up again.

You feel his knuckles brushing against the swell of your ass as he strokes himself into his release. He loses his balance, and braces his hand next to your face to catch himself as come spurts hot and rich into the curve of your arched back.

He slaps his cock into the cleft of your cheeks once, twice, pumping out the last drops of his spend, and he collapses next to you, with a grunt when his back hits the bed, his chest heaving with exertion.

Unshed tears weigh down your eyelids. Your heart rattles against your rib cage, frantic and irregular. Your blood is thick as molasses, of amber and gold, coursing dense and languid down your limbs, but your nerves are crackling like electrical wires of blue and purple.

The creature between your lungs has tripled in size and your sore cunt throbs with your suspended orgasm.

Sunk into the mattress, you’re unable to round your back or turn your head towards him. Everything hurts. Everything is alive.

Reaching back blindly, you dip the tip of your fingers into the pool of his spend, and bring them back to your lips. Tasting him with delight and a quiet, strengthless moan.

The mattress moves with him as he shifts on the bed, and you feel the warmth of his large hand covering the expanse of your lower back.

Before you can relax into it, he flips you on your back with an easy strength, and you wince with the sudden change of position. What a mess you must look like, flushed face, sweat-damp hair, clotted mascara.

He’s heavy, in his straddle of your thighs. He brings his hand to your mouth, and you open up for him, pulling out your tongue to lick his come-coated palm, wrapping your lips around his fingers as they glide over the hot wet muscle. You swallow his essence with fluttering eyelids, grateful, tears rolling down your temples.

The soft light catches at the sheen of sweat gleaming over his chest, like he’s made of gold, leaning over you like a magnificent and merciful god, like you’ll grant him everything, and you bask into his radiance, your lips pursed into a new smile around his digits.

The frown that hasn’t left his brow softens ever so slightly. His throat bobs, corded muscles, pebbled skin, the tension barely relieved. His fingers slip out of your mouth and come to cup your chin, so gentle your mind fails to comprehend. His touch lingers, warm and relenting and it becomes a caress, trailing down the line of your throat and coming to rest over your beating pulse at the base of your neck.

“Are you real?” he asks, sorrow blurring his dark eyes.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, beading sweat, beading tears. “Make me be.”

He breathes in deeply, and perhaps it’s the first time in years he breathes in so freely.

“Okay,” he nods.

Slowly, with the tip of his tongue darting between his parted lips, he tugs down your bra to the side. His calloused palm finds the soft swell of your breast, and his warmth radiates through your skin. His hold strengthens, he pinches your nipples with his two first fingers, the ones you took in your mouth earlier, harder, until your mouth goes slack with pleasure and with pain, and you keep smiling at him through it all.

Loose, trustful, pliant, you watch as he drags your panties down along your damp skin and spreads your thighs. He pauses, eyes on your core and you lie still, exposed and opened, feeling no shame.

His curls, matted with sweat, are stuck in locks to his forehead. Where was he, when you were still hopeful? Were you too young for him, then?

He dives between your hips, and his teeth bite into the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerk, palm pushing feebly onto the crown of his head and he freezes, eyes shut, like he doesn’t have enough willpower to let go, like too much of his control has already waned and thawed.

“Please,” you coo, “please. I’ll get in so much trouble.”

And your heart sinks a little with apprehension because, surely, he’ll scoff at you again, but instead he just lets go, bringing his fingers to your swollen folds to part them.

A small whimpering sound escapes you when he latches his lips around your clit, but the sensation is nothing like what you anticipated. Of his previous roughness, only the bruising digging of his fingers into the plush of your hips remains.

His mouth is warm and soothing, a liquid caress, the touch from the tip of his tongue precise but gentle. He shifts with a soft groan, applying more pressure and you keen, head trashed back into the bed. Instantly, he adjusts his grasp, pulling you closer to his face, suckling on your clit with more insistence.

The smooth skin of your calves brushes over his shoulders, your heels digging into the muscles of his back and you’re reminded of that first night again, when he swiveled around to meet your gaze, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare. Your orgasm builds up fast, embarrassingly so, encouraged by his heavy breathing fanning the soft curls on your mound.

The wild creature melts into your blood and flows down to your core, branching out to every nerve from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. And when you come, you come sharp and bright, with your hand clasped over your mouth to muffle a loud mewl and your back arched from the bed.

He forsakes his restored restraint when you recoil from the overstimulation, hardening his hold and fastening his mouth over your cunt to lap up your release, tongue diving in, greedy, burning your walls.

You’re still shaking with the aftershock when he releases you and rises above your trembling body. Lying his forehead on your belly, heavy head, heavy breathing, sweat dripping on your skin, he stays there until his breathing slows down, falling in rhythm with yours. You reach down for his hair, threading your fingers through his curls, at last, and he gives in, leans into the tenderness of your touch.

A stray tear slides down into your hairline and it’s over, he’s gone, standing up, his broad back turned to you, gathering his clothes and dressing up.

The notion of the world around you resurfaces. Outside, tucked away in the heart of the night, countless other wild creatures dwell and carry on, moved by fear or desire, and you lie still in that crushing knowledge. Soon, you will have to leave this bed, confront your solitude to theirs.

You roll to your side and curl up on yourself, drifting with the soft droning from the sleeping creature between your lungs and the sweet soreness thrumming between your hips.

He’s at the door, putting his hat back on, when you call out his name.

“Frankie.”

It passes your lips for the very first time, a long kept secret, a forbidden vow, a usurped oath, and immediately you want to say it again. You want it to be real. You want it to be yours.

Frankie pauses and tilts his head towards the bed without facing you completely.

“Thank you,” you say.

He opens the door to a draft of air wafting in, charged with the salty, humid scent of the faraway bay. He’s about to cross the threshold, and disappear into the night, when he speaks.

“The room is paid for til morning. I’ll see you next Friday.”

****

Additional note: I woke up on day and decided to build a multiverse of orange bedroom Frankies 🧡 For those who've read PTMY, can you spot all the clues? This Frankie is really pissed off, though, but I kinda like it. I hope you'll like it too 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @your-voice-is-mellifluous @mylostloversbookmarks @readingiskeepingmegoing @lovesbiggerthanpride @youandmeand5bucks-blog @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @southernbe @blackvelveteen1339 @anoverwhelmingdin @casa-boiardi @nandan11 @jessthebaker @pedroshotwifey @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @noisynightmarepoetry

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pedroshotwifey · 5 months

Text

To the Flame chapter 16

Series masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Javier Peña x afab!reader

Chapter w/c: 3k

Chapter warnings: mentions of physical abuse, talk of suicide, manipulation, mental abuse, description of injury, controlling behavior, comfort, crying, javi being a dick, javi being "nice", reader being ✨delulu✨, idek how to tag this shit anymore, i think i might be gaslighting myself 💀

Chapter Summary: You get a glimpse of the man you used to know while you try to sort out your feelings in the hospital. You're faced with a tough decision---did you make the right one?

A/N: Don't know what to say about this one. Yes, we all want to scream at reader, yes, we all want to scream at Javi. Scream at me if you'd like and I'll happily scream back 😭 Love you babes!

******

You’re not dead, but you really wish you were. Your body aches more heavily than it ever has. Every breath you take is a massive effort and every twitch of your fingers sends a twinge through your entire body like a shock of electricity. You don’t know what’s easier—breathing deeply or taking in shallow breaths. Deeper means that your chest has to rise and fall painfully with the movement, but shallower makes you feel like you're not getting an efficient amount of air. You don’t want to decide, so you just lay on the kitchen floor and let your body do it for you.

You don’t think Javi’s here with you, but you honestly could care less if he is or not. All you have to do is turn your head and look around, but you don’t think that’s possible for you right now. You can feel the way your throat has swollen and would pull tight if you tried. You just want to lay with your pain for a while and let it consume you so you don’t have to think. Though your head pounds painfully, it’s the clearest it’s been for weeks. You know you’ll have to get up at some point, but that point is not now.

You can feel every organ individually, the way they struggle to work with every second that passes. Your lungs heave and sputter as you try to suck breath into them, and you’re suddenly curious to how they’re working at all. There’s no way for you to tell how long you were out or how much water you consumed, but you can only assume it was close to your limit. You thought you were going to die, you really did.

You have no idea how long you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, before you hear the click of the door opening, then several sets of footsteps making their way inside. Their voices are muffled by the staticy noise in your head, and you frankly don’t care enough to try to figure out what’s going on.

Javi’s blurry figure comes first, leaning over you as more people crowd in.

“Sweetheart?”

His dampened voice sounds panicked. You couldn’t give less of a fuck. You know that you’re probably going to be fine at this point, but you almost wish that you weren’t just to spite him. Suddenly, the light comes on, and your head starts to pound even harder. You close your eyes.

***** When you open them again, you’re in a bed. Not yours, though, you can tell immediately. There’s daylight in the unfamiliar room coming from the window on the other side. So you know you’ve been out for a while.

It takes a moment for you to remember what happened—why you’re probably here. And it’s with that realization that the pain returns. It’s more dull this time, immediately making you thankful for whatever meds they have you on. Just the underlying tightness throughout your body is enough for that.

You blink and look around a bit, trying to scan your surroundings without moving too much. But when you spot the chair in the corner closest to you—who’s sitting in it—your adrenaline spikes. Javi sits up out of the chair as soon as he sees your eyes open and on him. He moves to the side of your bed and your body jerks away from him on instinct.

“Get away from me,” you bite, though your voice is so strained it’s nearly incomprehensible.

You can see hurt flash in his eyes for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced by anger. You don’t have time to dwell on that short moment of vulnerability before he has his hands on you, trying to hold you steady as you thrash and try to yell for help. He knows you won’t be able to muster up enough noise to be heard.

“Fuckin’ stop and listen to me,” he spits, and you do, letting your body go limp before it gets any worse. You lay there and look him in the eye as silent tears sting your cheeks.

“You’re going to tell them you tried to kill yourself,” he says calmly. You don’t realize you started shaking your head until he grabs your chin and stills you. “You’re going to say you couldn’t handle the stress of the move and you tried to drown yourself in the sink when I got home and found you.”

You say nothing, because you know there’s no point. Why waste your breath and hurt your throat even more?

“You tied a scarf around your neck, attached it to a weight, and threw it into the sink.”

Oh, God. It makes you want to throw up, how elaborate his lie is. That would explain the bruising on your neck. He thought of everything, covered every track. You know you must be looking at him with pure disgust, but you don’t dare change your expression. You want him to see you, what he’s done to you, how he’s made you feel.

There’s suddenly a knock at the door, and Javi’s expression changes to something almost tender. The hand tightly gripping your face moves to cup your cheek, the other to pet your hair. You feel panic and frustration crawling under your skin, consuming your body until you think you might scream. This is your chance to get away from him, but you know you won’t.

All you have to do is tell the doctor you want to speak alone, tell them what’s happening, and you’ll never have to go back. But what if he didn’t believe you and you only make it worse for yourself? Or worse than that, what if he does, and you’re taken away from Javi. Exactly what you want, but also the last thing you can ever imagine happening. He’s still there, you can’t leave him. He’s still there.

So, even as it crushes your soul and makes your heart jump wildly in your chest, you say nothing as Javi calls for the doctor to come in, and a man in a white coat steps inside with a clipboard. He smiles at you, his eyes full of so much pity that it makes you swallow.

“Glad to see you up, honey. We were real worried for a second there.”

You say nothing, just watch the doctor as Javi continues to stroke your hair, then places a kiss on your head and backs away for the man to check on you. He comes to your bedside, opposite of your husband, and places his hand on your forehead.

“Still no fever,” he mumbles to himself, jotting something down on his clipboard. He brings a hand to your neck next, lightly pressing on the skin there with three fingers. He grimaces slightly. “Throat’s still very bruised and swollen. How bad does it hurt when I touch it here?”

He moves his hand up and places his fingers on a spot right under your jaw and to the left, putting a small amount of pressure there. You try not to flinch. It’s not a lot of weight at all, but it hurts like hell. You can only guess that’s where most of the bruising ended up.

“Hurts,” you rasp. The doctor puts his lips into a thin line and brings his hand back away. He writes something down and then sets the clipboard on the nightstand.

“How long have I been here?” you question, voice barely a whisper.

“You’ve been in and out for about forty-eight hours now,” the doctor tells you, glancing at his watch. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember it, you weren’t very cognizant.”

You nod, resisting the urge to look at Javi. Instead, you let your head lay back on the pillow and inspect the water-stained ceiling tile above your bed.

“When will she be cleared to come home?” Javi asks from where he’s sat in the chair.

The man sighs contemplatively. “If all her vitals stay about the same as they are now for the next few hours, hopefully tonight. We would like to have somebody come talk to her to see where she’s at mentally first, since you’ve said that you work and she stays home. We don’t need her trying something like this again while she’s alone.”

“I can take time off,” comes Javi’s quick reply, making something twist in your stomach. If you weren’t so mentally exhausted, you might be surprised about that. He had told you before that it was hard for him to just take days off. Though you suppose it would make sense for him to be able to request time for a family emergency.

“I think that would be best, but we’re still going to have someone in to talk. We need to assess her cognitive functions as much as we need to make sure she’s not planning anything drastic.”

Even though you’re not looking at him, you know Javi’s jaw is clenched. You know he’s smart enough to hold his tongue to not give himself away, even though he wants to protest more. He doesn’t trust what you might say while you’re alone, and frankly, you don’t either.

“Can he stay in the room with me?” you croak.

There’s a beat of silence as you look back to the doctor. He looks at you, then to Javi, then back to you. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk alone? The social worker we have on staff is very—”

“I’m sure,” you cut him off. “I want him here.”

There’s a sickening sense of betrayal coming from yourself as you decide your fate. You don’t know why you’re doing this, but you do. It hurts your head to try to decode what you’re thinking half the time these days.

The man watches you for a few seconds, obviously trying to gauge how much of a mistake it would be to let you make this decision. “If that’s what makes you comfortable, we can do that.”

There’s a wave of relief as Javi leans forward slightly to cover your hand with his.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he comforts. You visibly relax, letting your body slumping down into the mattress. You let yourself zone out for a bit while Javi and the doctor talk for a minute more, just savoring the warmth of Javi’s hand touching you so gently, so caring. You know you have his approval right now, and it feels so good to bask in it.

You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep when the doctor leaves, trying to have Javi like this for as long as you can. You’re transported back to one of the first dates you went on with him, leaning up to him in his truck, his free hand over yours as it is now. The smiles you exchanged, the kisses, the laughs. It hurts so fucking bad. To think you’ll never have that again.

Tears trickle from your shut eyes, a quiet sob leaving your lips even as you try to contain it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Javi consoles, genuine sympathy in his voice. It makes you want to cry more. You open your eyes and Javi gets up from the chair, coming to the bed as you begin to sob. You don’t know how to explain to him the grief you’re feeling over him when he’s right there, but you don’t have to. You sit up the best you can and he cups your chin again, watching you tenderly with furrowed brows.

“I know, honey, I know,” he coos before tucking your head to his chest. “I’ve got you. Get it all out.”

And you do, you wrap your arms around him and cry into his chest until you can feel his shirt soaking your cheek. You shake and heave and clench the fabric until your tears go thin and start to burn your skin.

He’s patient with you, holding you the entire time, whispering reassurances and rubbing your back, holding your head to him. It feels like your Javi. Yours. But it only makes you miss him more because you don’t know if it’s true. Don’t know if he’s snapped out of this awful trance that’s consumed him, or if he’s only here momentarily when you need him most. Either way, you let his care overwhelm you, let yourself drown in the affection.

****

It’s only when you open your swollen eyes a few hours later that you realize you’d cried yourself to sleep in his lap. You’re laying down now, Javi in the same spot he was the first time you woke up. There’s a woman in the room talking to him, but you’re too groggy to think about what they’re saying. More nonsense about your mental state, you’re sure.

And just like that, the love that had consumed you a few hours ago starts to fade. Your mental state. The carefully constructed lies you’re about to tell this woman. She turns to you when she sees you try to sit up, rushing to your side with a gentle smile.

“Careful, don’t want you straining anything,” she says, placing her hands on your arms to help you. You nod at her, still trying to wake back up. Your eyes hurt from crying and your head is throbbing again. You really don’t want to talk right now, but you know you have to if you want to get out of here.

“You know why I’m here?” the woman asks gently. Her name tag reads Chloe. She looks a bit older than you and has the most beautiful green eyes you’ve ever seen. You decide you like her.

You nod, then realize it’s probably better to be verbal. “Yes,” you tell her.

She nods understandingly, rubbing your upper arm in a comforting motion. “I’ve been told you’d like your husband to stay in the room while we talk?”

You confirm again, glancing at Javi, who seems to still be in whatever state he was earlier.

“Alright, I’m just going to ask you a few questions, and then we’ll get you out of here. Sound good?”

You nod, swallowing the thickness in your throat. “You mind if I sit?” Chloe asks, gesturing to the side of your bed. You shake your head no and she makes herself comfortable, clipboard in her lap. She doesn’t even look at Javi, which relaxes you a bit. Her sole focus is you.

“I know it’s not going to be easy, but I promise to be patient. You can take all the time you need. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” you reply before you change your mind about doing this with Javi.

“Okay. Can you tell me how you tried to take your life last Friday? In as much detail as you’re comfortable with.”

You take a deep breath, force yourself to not look at your husband, and pray you don’t mess this up.

“I tried to drown myself,” you lie quietly. “I tied a scarf around my neck and attached it to a weight. Then I filled the sink with water—.” You have to pause, emotion hitting you hard all of a sudden. You blink and swallow the lump in your throat. “I filled the sink with water and threw the weight in.”

Chloe nods somberly, watching you with the same pitying look the doctor had earlier. “It’s okay to cry, honey. It’s a hard thing to talk about. You’re very brave for doing so.”

You listen to her, bowing your head and letting your tears overflow. They’re slower than the ones you’d cried with Javi. More quiet. They feel more like defeat than grief. Chloe writes something down and looks back at you.

“And why did you feel like that was the best way to achieve what you were trying to do?”

You bite your lip, contemplating for a second. “Because I knew it would work over everything else. I thought it would.”

She jots something down.

“There are no firearms in your house?”

“Only mine, and it stays on me all day,” Javi provides before you can say anything. Chloe whips her head around to him.

“Did I ask for your input?”

“No,” you say, before whatever just happened could escalate. The last thing you need right now is Javi getting angry. “Just his.”

She turns back to you, gentleness returning to her face. She again scribbles something down.

“Two more,” she tells you. “We’re almost done. You’re doing really well.”

You nod at her, giving her a small smile.

“Do you wish you had succeeded? Why or why not?”

You answer quickly, maybe a little too quickly. You hate the way you still feel like you’re lying when you tell her no. “I was just overwhelmed that night. I was lucky that Javi came home when he did.”

She nods, writes something down, and asks you the last one.

“You’re not going to try to take your life again?”

“I’m not. I don’t want to die.” It almost hurts to have to say it. You don’t even know if that’s true. You put on a brave face though, needing her to believe it even if you don’t.

She writes the last thing down and smiles at you. “Okay, I’m going to go talk to some staff and get you ready to go home. It was very nice to meet you. I hope things go well in your future.” She holds her hand out for you to shake, and you do.

“Thank you, it was nice to meet you, too,” you tell her honestly.

You wait to hear the click of the door before you look at Javi. He doesn’t look angry exactly, but you can tell he didn’t like Chloe at all. But he still nods approvingly at you, taking your hand again.

“You did good, sweetheart,” he says.

***** A couple of nurses come in about an hour later to take you out to Javi’s truck. They watch as he helps you in, waves his thanks, and gets in the driver’s side. You cuddle up next to him like you used to, and a calm feeling starts to ebb its way into you. He holds you tight the entire way back to the apartment, and after cooking you dinner, holds you tight as you fall asleep. This. This is why you stay.

*****

What are we thinkin'? 👀

Series taglist: @corazondebeskar @yorksgirl @nerdieforpedro @axshadows @melaninmommy

@survivingandenduring @kewwrites @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @missladym1981 @sofiparallel

@koshkaj-blog @sheepdogchick3 @movievillainess721 @jessie8605 @casa-boiardi

@justlulu @iamsherlocked-1998 @hjzghi-blog @glitterymanboy @letstalkaboutshtufff

@untamedheart81 @1nsommia @joelmillersblog

#pedro pascal #fan fiction #ao3 #pedro pascal smut #smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #javier pena x reader #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #dark javier pena #dark pedro pascal #dark fic #ttf #to the flame

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cookie-crumblr · 11 months

Text

The smell of smoke

Innocent F! Reader x M!Yandere Bully OC

Part 1~

His Info: 🖕✨

Part: 1 2

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

CW: !F reader, use of she/her when referring to reader, reader has a vagina, reader in a skirt, YANDERE, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, name calling (bitch, slut, ), BULLYING, non con touching-shoving stuff like that, non con exhibitionism, burning, hand gag, non con oral on m!, severe violence against reader, non con foreign object use in vagina, SA by ml!, sadism

“Ooof!” the wind is all knocked from your lungs as you slam yourself into something solid right outside your dorm room door.

“Want sum bitch!?” A tall, strawberry blonde guy shouts as he shoves you away from him.

Your poor body slams into a wall, you squint at the pain and at the same time a lewd warmth starts to seep between your legs.

A fist punches the wall above your head causing your eyes to shoot open.

“hah, this bitch thinks she’s cute or sumthin’” His other hand roughly pulls your skirt up by the hem, showing your little-white-ribbon-having panties to all his friends.

They laugh and leer at you.

“Oh, what’s this,” His fingers roughly press under your hood, “She’s fucking wet, what a slut. Trynna look all innocent an shit” he spits.

In one blink he’s roughly assaulting you, the next he’s leaving with his friends laughing about you on the way.

You fix your clothes as you stare after them and try to calm your racing heart.

At least you won’t see him again…

You make it to your class only a minute late, and find a seat open in the back.

While you doodle puppies in the margins instead of taking notes, that same guy slams down a book on the table next to you.

You glance up to his chilling smile, “Listen bitch, I know you want this,” He grabs his crotch, “but I’m not fuckin’ interested, gotit? so move.”

“Th-there aren’t a-any seats op-” you peep before being cut off-

“Not my problem.” He sits and leans back, his ankle crossing his knee.

From a pocket somewhere he pulls a pack of cigarettes, and sparks one, his curious and agitated eyes not leaving yours.

The professor walks in at the same moment “Ezra, put it out.” he says without even turning to look.

In that moment his big hand covers your entire mouth forcefully, his lips come close to your ear, “Don’t scream, or else,”

As you grunt out in confusion and reach up to try and pry off his hand, you feel the searing hot pain of him putting out his cig on your thigh.

The pain is white hot, searing and blinding.

Your scream is muffled by his hand, and tears prick at your eyes.

Nobody even turns to look.

You claw at his hand.

His breath tickles your neck, “I said~ Don’t. Fucking. Scream.”

Goosebumps prickle all over your flesh.

“Now yer gonna get it, bitch” he nips at your ear while his finger trails your jaw. A shiver ripples through you.

For just a second too long he gazes into your eyes, your heart beats thunder in your ears.

You’re a frozen deer staring into the headlights of your doom.

Ezra moves a hand to your throat and tightly squeezes. You strain to breathe and fail to notice him opening his pants.

he shoves your face down into his lap.

For a second you can breathe and you gasp, trying to take in any air at all, and instead getting a throat full of dick.

“Mmmf!!!!!” Your throat contracts painfully.

He pushes his hips up and your head down further so that your nose presses against his thigh.

You can’t breathe at all!

He knows it and rotates his hips, grinding into your face harder before he pulls you off of him enough to get some air finally.

That doesn’t last long before you’re shoved back down.

It feels as though he doesn’t even want to come. He’s literally just holding you there to torture you.

You get only the air he allows you.

Tears roll helplessly down your face, mixing with snot and saliva alike.

This lasts the entire class period. Him keeping your puffy lips pressed against his body, and only giving you air when you’re just about to black out.

It didn’t take long for you to just give up the fight entirely.

He finally lifts you off, his still rock hard dick bobs as you leave it, before standing straight back up.

He lets you drop onto your desk.

You let out a shaking groan, while you catch your breath.

“Not gonna give anything t’a bitch like you,” he stands to leave and spits onto your back.

You run from the room, to the relative safety of the laboratories.

In the reflection you inspect your bloodshot eyes, and the red spots on your face from the oxygen deprivation.

Remarkably, you make your next class on time.

Though, your heart pounds, terrified of the possibility that he could just walk through these doors too.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

The rest off the day passes without incident but the memory stains you. It keeps flashing through your head. you keep sighing deeply, the air you’re getting not feeling like enough.

You’re zoned out while you walk to your dorm room, not even feeling happy to finally be so close to your bed, so close to salvation…

Everything good left in the world is torn from your reality completely, and utterly when your book bound arms slowly bump into the back of someone once again.

You know who it is before you even focus your eyes…

Your body shakes violently as you begin to sob again.

“You just don’ fuckin’ learn, do you, bitch?”

“What’s this chick’s problem?”

“Yeah, she obsessed with you or sumthin’?”

“Dunno. wha’ d’ya say? Ya obsessed with me, slut?” his head tilts as he smirks.

You continue to cry and sob louder and louder.

“The fuck? We’re talkin’ t’ya, bitch,” his smirk morphs into a snarl.

“I-I-I’m s-sorryyyyyy” you stumble over your words as you choke over your tears.

“Did I ask fur a fuckin’ apology?” He grips your hair and slams your head into a cement brick wall.

“Ahh haaaaa!!! Noo!! P-leaseeee!! Nno!” You plead desperately while you try and weakly push your body away from the wall, blood pours from your forehead into your eyes. The blood burns and makes you squint, your vision blurred and crimson.

He pulls you up to his slightly tilted face by your scalp, “Choose your next words carefully, bitch” his breath tickles your lips.

“S-s—sorr-yyyy” you don’t know what you did to deserve this. You don’t know what he wants from you. and you honestly don’t know what is going to happen now.

“This your room?” he uses your jaw to spin your head painfully around, “Get her fucking keys.”

His friends surround you both as hands grope you and fondle areas that definitely don’t have pockets until the jingle of metals can be heard.

You’re still sobbing and his hand is still grasping a fist full of your locks.

The one with the keys unlocks the door, and you all flood into the room, Ezra forcing you forward.

Your roommate wakes up from her nap in shock, “Wh-what’s going on!?”

“Get ‘er out.” He commands his friends, as he throws you onto your bed. “Somebody get this bitch’s clothes off. Now”

“Y/N!!!! Y/N, Oh my gods—Stop!!!!” Your roommate screams as the force the door into her face.

His eyes scan the room as he lights up another cigarette. He finds the first thing he can shove into your vagina, and grabs it.

You’ve been kicking and pleading for them to stop as they stripped you. “hold her down.” he says, and they do.

Whether you’re lucky or unlucky is up to you, as he holds up a wooden handled broom from the corner before snapping it in half.

“N-no!”

He throws the half with the sweeper away and comes at you with the other.

“Which end bitch?” he holds the thing up for you to see.

“ROUND!” Your brain at least works when it desperately needed to.

“Glad you’re finally fucking getting it,” The broom handle still struggles to go in despite how wet you are.

He shoves past where your body wants it to stop.

He shoves it in and out of you while his friends hold your limbs spread apart.

He pinches and slaps your clit, bruising your mound.

Your body convulses as you cum, Ezra shoves it in as hard as he can before backing up and pulling out his phone.

His friends continue to hold you as he snaps a few pictures of your body, with your pussy exposed, and a broken handle sticking out of you.

You twitch in their final grasps, before Ezra flicks his still lit cigarette at you, and they let go.

He practically rips the door off the hinges and he ducks to leave.

Your roommate rushes in after they’re gone and calls an ambulance for you.

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zablife · 2 years

Note

4.) “I wish we could just run away!” The Great Gatsby Prompt

How you doing today Lee and maybe I request either maybe Thomas Shelby or maybe Alfie Solomon’s for this prompt ideas?? Please and thank you and congrats on again your 1k followers that is super exciting ✨🙌🏼😍🤎 I hope your having a fun and celebrated day

Prompt-"I wish we could just run away!" w/ Alfie

“One more kiss, dove,” Alfie pleaded, pressing you against the rough bricks lining the dark alley. You giggled as you strained to reach his handsome face. He looped a strong arm around your waist to bring you closer to his waiting lips and you unconsciously moaned into him as his warm breath radiated over you in one final goodnight kiss.

You weren’t sure how this kept happening, but Alfie always managed to coax a few more minutes from you before you scurried off home to your parents. It usually meant a scolding from your mother as dinner sat cooling on the table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. A wonderful man loved you and you loved him in return. There was only one problem, your father would have locked you away in your room forever if he knew you were dating a member of the local Jewish gang much less the head of it.

Over the past few months your parents had encouraged you to consider proposals from several eligible bachelors, all of whom were upstanding members of the community. To their dismay, you had refused every one, finding some flaw that made each man unsuitable for your hand. However, you knew you couldn’t continue this charade forever. You would have to tell them about Alfie sooner rather than later.

With a lightness to your step and stars in your eyes, you entered the dining room only to be met by an unpleasant sight. It seemed your parents had invited Leonard Roth, a brutish young man you had known since childhood, now a successful businessman. He was by far the wealthiest suitor you'd had, but his manners were sorely lacking. You'd spent several dates fighting with him even though you knew your mother would be appalled by your behavior. Although Alfie had thoroughly enjoyed your retelling of events and praised you for standing up for yourself.

You stopped short at the sight of Leonard, remembering how you'd refused his proposal six weeks ago. Arriving home in tears from your last date with him, you informed your parents he was condescending and arrogant. You intended to remind them of this fact, but before you could open your mouth, your father took an unusually harsh tone with you.

"Y/n, this foolishness of you refusing proposals has gone on long enough. Mr. Roth has been gracious enough to forgive your insults and is still willing to marry you. Your mother and I have accepted on your behalf," he said sharply and you knew he would not accept any arguments on the matter.

You stood before the table speechless, tears beginning to well in your eyes as you studied the smug grin on Leonard's face. "He's willing to forgive me?" you asked incredulously. Deciding you would never stand for this, you found the courage to run and you didn't look back, even as your mother called after you. You didn't stop running until you reached the distillery, hoping Alfie would still be there working.

"What the fuck is it now, Ollie?" he grumbled, before realizing you were the one standing before him. He paused for a moment, eyes scanning your tear stained face and heaving chest. "Pet, what's happened?" he asked, standing to slowly make his way to you. He ran a hand over your cheek and you swallowed the lump in your throat, as you searched his eyes.

"It's my parents. They're demanding I marry that awful Leonard Roth," you confessed.

Alfie's eyes darkened and his voice lowered as he replied, "That fuckin' cunt again."

A tear rolled down your cheek and Alfie wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "Alfie, what am I going to do?" you sobbed into his shirt front.

He stroked your hair gently as he mumbled, "Well you ain't marrying Leonard fucking Roth, right? Cause you're my girl," he said, holding you firmly to his body. You breathed in the scent of him and it calmed you.

Running a hand along his broad back, you whispered, "I wish we could just run away."

Alfie pulled you away from him and looked into your eyes. "What did you say?" he asked with furrowed brow. You bit your lip wondering if you'd asked too much of him. Perhaps he wasn't as serious about you as you thought and you silently cursed yourself for outing your secret desire. However, you'd already said it and now all you could do was repeat yourself, hoping he felt the same.

"I said, I wish we could run away. I want to be with you, Alfie," you said in a loud, clear voice so he understood your intentions.

He broke into a grin and your heart felt as though it would burst as he replied, "Fuckin' hell, dove. Then let's do it. Marry me!"

🍾 Spill champagne~Request a juicy blurb that will make you spill your drink using this drama prompt list.

Written for my 1K celebration.

#zablife1K #Alfie Solomons blurb #Alfie Solomons fanfic #Alfie Solomons x reader #Alfie Solomons x you #Alfie Solomons x y/n

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theawkwardterrier · 2 years

Text

(might not be our time yet) that doesn’t mean I ever love you any less

A Steggy Secret Santa gift for @bearholdingashark! I tried to get in a potpourri of your requested tropes - hope you enjoy, and have a very happy holiday and/or end of 2022, and a great year ahead. 😁✨🎁

Summary: Five times Steve and Peggy almost asked each other out, and one time they actually did.

AO3 link here.

They have precisely thirty-six hours leave in London, and Steve knows that he could be spending it somewhere other than this.

The rest of the Commandos are either out on the town — he'd heard bids being tossed around the departing group for a variety of pubs and dance halls, not to mention the USO — or enjoying a hot shower, clean clothes, as good a meal as can be managed on rations, and a long sleep, all well-deserved after several unrelenting weeks in the field. Steve had managed to get out of the first option by reminding them that he needs to give Phillips the latest, but that's finished now, and more than a little part of him would actually like to be getting on to the second (just because his body can put up with the strain of it all, and better than most, doesn't mean that he actually enjoys it) but still he doesn't leave HQ.

His excuses — checking for any mail, finding someone to talk about requisitioning new socks and underthings to take with them when they leave because the fellas deserve it — are wearing thin even to his mind when he hears her voice.

"—so type that one first, then have it delivered to Stark for him to take a look at as soon as possible. And don't simply let his eyes wander over it, Private. Actually make him read it."

Steve grins and turns around.

She is bent over, marking something in a file, her back to him as he comes over.

"I don't know how you expect that poor kid to make Howard do anything. The guy might listen to you, but he isn't scared of anyone else that way, not even the commanders."

Peggy makes one last note before setting down her pencil, but he can see her awareness of his presence in the set of her shoulders. When she turns around, she has one eyebrow raised, her lipstick-perfect mouth neutral, but there is a smile touching her eyes.

"Howard's afraid of me, then? In that case, I suppose I shall have to hope that the private uses that to his advantage."

Steve shrugs slightly, but can't help the grin flashing around his own mouth. "Well, he's at least intimidated, though that might have something of a different connotation for Howard."

"Doesn't everything for that man?" she says dryly, and he wonders if most people would be able to hear the reluctant affection beneath the words; he wonders if the him of a few months ago would have, before he spent time with her, before he had a chance to understand so many of her different tones and have all sorts of stories, stored up moments of observing the way she was with Howard and with Phillips and with Steve himself.

He realizes that he's been silent for a beat too long, so he clears his throat and says gamely, "At least I've started picking up on that — less of a risk for...misunderstandings."

"Well, we wouldn't want any of those," she says, and actually laughs. The sound flows through Steve's backbone and has him laughing in return.

Their eyes catch and, while the moment doesn't fade, he feels the humor between them soften.

"I heard that your mission was a success," Peggy says, leaning a hip against the desk beside her, eyes still looking up at his. "I'm quite glad to hear it, Captain."

Steve nods, trying to keep his voice level so she doesn't guess that he's had the sudden, snatching urge to take her hand. "Everyone made it back okay. Maybe would have been a couple fewer close calls if you'd been out there with us this time, but you've got things to do, and we didn't do too badly considering."

With gentle contradiction, she says, "I dropped in on Phillips after my meeting to find out whether you—to see if your after-action report had been filed. I think you did a bit better than not too badly." Before he can protest, she adds, "I wouldn't have minded a chance to be out in the field again myself — one might think that considering my skills, I'd be assigned there more often, but I suppose being relied upon for my mind and my strategic abilities is no insult. Still, either way, you not only located and eliminated the Hydra base, you made several new contacts, and if I'm correctly reading between your carefully worded lines, managed to save Dugan from himself yet again," and he feels the compliment settle across his shoulders.

"Well, everyone made it back okay," he repeats softly. The warm weight of her words is still upon him, and perhaps that is what has him opening his suddenly dry mouth to say, "We’re here until early Thursday, you know. I am. I don't know if you're done for the night, but—”

"Carter!"

It's late enough that the stricter secretaries have gone home, or else one of them would surely snap at even the famous Howard Stark for his complete lack of decorum as he shouts and shoves his way into the main room of the bunker.

"I could kiss you for this, Carter — and I will if you're up for it — but I guess that can wait. First I need you to come over to the lab with me to talk through the findings. Your private's already putting a pot of coffee on so we can have a night of it." He brandishes the sheaf of paper in his hand triumphantly. "Thank God the kid dropped your name when he did, or I might not have even read this damn thing."

Peggy snorts lightly. "How very flattering, Howard. To be truthful, I had nearly thought I was free for the night, but if you go back to the lab, I suppose I'll join you shortly."

"Well, don't take too long waiting around. I don't know how long history can wait." But Howard sounds more gleeful than annoyed as he turns again, examining whatever documents Peggy had sent over for him as he returns toward the door once again, taking one last opportunity to give a half-distracted, "Nice to have you back, Rogers!" before he disappears down the hall.

Peggy turns back to Steve, shaking her head slightly. "The man certainly does know how to interrupt things in his favor. What was it that you were going to say?"

But Steve only shakes his head. "That's okay. Sounds like there's history to be made, and you're the one to do it. I'll talk to you about it another time."

Studying him for a long moment, she says slowly, "I suppose I am. If you're certain...." At his nod, she closes the file on the desk with one hand, still watching him, and holds it at her side. Finally, she turns toward the door too. Just before she goes through it, she adds, "I do hope we have a chance to see each other again before your leave is up."

She's gone before he has a chance to let the words whisper out of him: "So do I, Peg."

But they don't.

ii.

It was not common knowledge how long Peggy Carter had spent with Dr. Erskine.

She got the credit for extracting him, of course, at least from those interested in offering her even the most basic, begrudging acknowledgment of it. But few knew that she had spent time in his laboratory afterward, that they appreciated each other’s senses of humor and would take turns bringing food that reminded them of home. Later, she and Steve would speak of him with the fond remembrance of too-brief acquaintance that they had both wished had been longer.

It had been just long enough, however, for him to ask — quietly, illicitly, with the guidance of his own moral compass — if she would be willing to test the first batch of the serum he had been brought over to work on.

It truly had been the first batch, and he hadn’t yet realized the importance of the vita-rays. But although she might have had a sense, the vaguest inkling about her reflexes or strength or healing, not even Peggy knew for certain what her time in that lab had gained her: not during the war or her missions in the field, not during the storming of the Hydra headquarters, not as she followed Steve onto the Valkyrie, the energy of the Tesseract still swimming in the air.

They are both still awake after the radio cuts out, after they have said the goodbyes that they can to Howard and Phillips and the Commandos. Peggy looks over at Steve’s tight jaw, at the way that his hair has fallen over his forehead; she remembers how young he is, how young they both are, even if they’ve never gotten a chance to feel it. She wants to forget that they’ll never have the chance now.

They’re already close to each other, positioned together by the controls at the front of the diving plane. After all this time of reminding herself why she can’t, it turns out to be a simple thing to reach over and take his hand.

“What would you say,” she starts, making an effort to keep her voice level, to sound calm and nonchalant even as she has to speak over the wind. “What would you say if I asked you to meet me at the Stork Club, a week next Saturday?”

He laughs a little, although she can feel the clench of his fingers around hers, can see the way he is gripping something small and round in his other fist. “I’d say they’ll need to play something slow. I still haven’t gotten a chance to practice my dancing, and I’d hate to step on your toes.”

“I wouldn’t care.” She swallows, trying to pretend that her voice had not wavered. “I’d take every dance even so.”

“Even if I was late? I’d want to buy you flowers, but I’d be so nervous I’d forget until the last minute and have to go back.”

She smiles at that, the details he is adding to the fantasy beginning to spin it out into something real. “Well, you might be due a tongue-lashing when you finally arrived, but you remembered my favorite flowers were irises, so I suppose I can forgive you.”

And you were there. We were there together, she thinks, squeezing his hand.

“Irises. Of course.” For a moment she has the urge to laugh: it sounds as if he is taking notes, as if this is information he will need to access and act on in the future rather than the two of them pretending in these last moments. “And I’ll have made a dinner reservation at Le Pavillon for after because I heard you and Dernier talking about your favorite French dishes often enough, but we’ll have been dancing so long that we missed it.”

“I hope that my toes can hold up for such a thing, but I guessed that we’d be late — it’s quite the pattern of yours. And I’d remind you then that I’m perfectly happy without anything formal, so we’d find our way back to Brooklyn, to some little place that you knew.”

“We’d talk and eat, and stay so long that they’d be mopping up the tables around us.” It is getting harder to hear him, the pressure immense in her ears. It must be getting harder for him to speak, but he continues anyway. “But we wouldn’t be ready for the night to end.”

Her heart is beating too fast despite her attempts at lightness and calm as she picks up the story again. “So we’d just walk together until sunrise.”

“And we’d know that we were going to have other nights just like that one, and plenty of hard times and boring ones too, but that we’d make it through it all together.”

She smiles then, and so does he, and she wonders how much they are smiling to comfort each other and how much is the true happiness brought on by the comfort they have brought each other in imagining that other life.

“Yes,” she says. “Together.”

And the plane hits the water, and they go under together, too.

iii.

Even after months, there are some days where Steve doesn’t let himself think about all that he left behind: the Commandos and the rest of their lives, the chance to mourn Bucky after the war beside those who loved him, his own sense of stability and understanding of the world around him. He thinks that he’s adapted relatively well, and yet there are still times when the memories will wrap themselves around him, or he’ll realize all over again how very different everything is, how out of place he’s found himself among it all.

He doesn’t even want to think about how much worse it would have been without Peggy there beside him, understanding both the strangeness and his frame of reference, understanding him. He hopes that he’s done the same for her, the only other shipwrecked survivor on this island where they will, it seems, have to live out their lives.

And that’s exactly why, in the time they’ve been in the future, he hasn’t acted on the instincts that he’s already been suppressing for years now. He thought that she might have felt the way that he did — they’d gone down together dreaming a future between them, after all — but he can’t be certain if it was just comfort she was giving him, or being embroiled in the moment, or needing distraction, if whatever spark she might have felt has been extinguished beneath the pressure of these last months. Bucky’s voice might be in the back of his mind (Just talk to her, you punk. You’ve got a brain and a voice, so use ‘em!) but his best friend wouldn’t understand how it is between them, how impossible it seems to try to test everything when it is so very possible that simply asking the question might ruin things, might leave them each alone when they need each other more than anything, more than ever.

But for each saucy, side-mouthed remark that she directs at him before turning back to make easy, considered improvements to whatever mission plan they’ve been assigned, each time she interrupts whatever Tony is saying with merely a raised eyebrow and a small “hmm,” or neatly flays some television personality so that all that remains is the most strained smirk, each sparring session that they engage in or diner meal that they have together…each minute that they simply spend together, the harder it is for him to recall the significance of his old reasoning. And as the two of them settle in further, finding a level of confidence both in this time and among the Avengers, even that reasoning seems thinner. They are no longer so fragile here. They have other things and people they can rely on if needed. If he asked and she said no, would it truly break either of them?

There is nothing special about the day he decides to try. He returns from assignment and asks JARVIS whether Peggy is in the Tower and realizes that it is always the first thing he asks when they’ve been apart.

As he approaches the lounge area that she likes best, he doesn’t even know exactly what words he is going to use — not the most advisable plan, considering, but he recognizes that if he thinks too much, he’ll backtrack on the decision, and now that he’s made it, he doesn’t want to do that. She’s forgiven him for plenty of verbal missteps, and he thinks she’ll forgive him this one too (not to mention that if she turns him down, a little fumbling over his words won’t be what either of them remembers).

Her back is to him as he enters the room where she’s sitting curled on one of the cushy couches, so he clears his throat, but can’t bring himself to start in with anything further. Trying not to wince at the impoliteness of not starting with at least a little small talk, a better transition, he takes a breath and says, “I—I had a question for you, Peg.”

She turns then, looking up at him just as he’s coming around the couch toward her, and he can tell immediately that she’s been crying.

The signs are so small — a touch of smeared makeup, a bit of dampness at the edges of her eyelashes, a very slight disturbance to her breathing — that he isn’t sure that anyone but he or maybe Natasha would notice them. He sits down beside her and takes her hand without thinking about it.

“Monty’s daughter passed,” she says quietly. “His granddaughter called to tell me, which was terribly kind. It just happened, and it’s late there.”

Steve has the strange, vertiginous feeling that he’s becoming at least slightly accustomed to. He knows in his mind that Jacqueline Falsworth was in her late seventies. He and Peggy have seen her face, have spoken to her via video call, the way they did with all their friends’ family members they could find. And yet his mind also resists the idea that she is anything but the bushy-haired, brightly smiling schoolgirl from the picture Monty used to keep on him. Steve had once sent her an old Star Spangled Show program that he’d signed because she’d made some comment in her letters about missing the Captain America film shorts. Dum-Dum used to refer to her as the littlest J, teasing Monty that he’d practically named his child after himself but at least it would help her fit in with the group when they all met after the war.

There isn’t need for any further explanation for why it has struck Peggy, armored and indomitable, the way that it has. He can feel the idea of it sinking into him too: that even these tenuous connections to their old life, the life that they might have had, are breaking around them, and that he does not know whether they can build the new ones fast and strong enough to hold them.

He holds her instead, putting his arm around her in silence, and they sit there for a long while. When they finally get up, the room grown dark and the two of them slightly stiff, she inquires, voice a bit hoarse, what he had wanted to ask her. He shakes his head and tells her that it isn’t the time just now, that it can wait.

He’s already waited this long, after all, and despite all the ways he feels ready, he doesn’t know that they are, yet.

iv.

Staying in the Tower made sense at the beginning, but after a while, when they both decide around six months in that they’re ready for a change, it only makes sense to search at the same time and even to combine their efforts a bit. And, when they actually take in the price of real estate and both find their sensibilities offended by the idea of paying so much, it only makes sense to begin searching for someplace together.

(They also add housing inequality as an issue to bring up next time they speak to the press. Neither of them asked for a platform, but they certainly use it now that it's there.)

Luckily, those same sensibilities mean that they're each perfectly fine with the small bedrooms boasted by their eventual apartment. After tenements and dormitories and temporary shelters, bedsits and barracks and battlefield tents, their place actually feels like something of a luxury. Besides, they have a decently sized living area, which is where they spend most of their time when they're home, talking through the day, bickering over what to watch on television, and sharing takeout food (which Peggy considers one of the great benefits of this century.) They aren't, however, exactly home often.

Not every mission requires both of them, or even one, but they're called away on SHIELD business with a fair amount of frequency. Still, Peggy finds even that is improved by their living together; there is something nice about having Steve call from his room to hers that he's packing the upgraded earbuds Tony made for both of them, or in coming home to find that the coffee maker is already on with her favorite mug beside it and there's a note from Steve saying he's gone to pick up fresh bagels because he'd heard she was on her way back and thought that she might want to talk.

She considers, more and more often these days, asking him if he might want to be something more than friends and roommates and fellow-travelers, if he might consider becoming the sort of partners she had once thought they would. The reasons that they have held off until now are clear to her, and yet she thinks perhaps they are finally ready for it, the idea settling into her mind, hopeful during the times that they are together and yearning during those that they are apart.

Their mission tonight involves the STRIKE team, never Peggy's favorite. There's something about them, even beyond the fact that they always seem more willing to listen to Steve than to her, that has her radar tingling, but she's never quite been able to pinpoint what or catch them at anything. Regardless, they accept the plan of action that she and Steve lay out readily enough, and she steps away to inspect her weapon once more, the rushing sound of wind and speed filling the cabin as Steve and Natasha chat through their final checks behind her.

"You know, if you ask Kristen out, from Statistics, she'd probably say yes," Nat says casually, and Peggy very carefully continues focusing on her ammunition.

"That's why I don't ask," Steve replies, and there is that slightly insolent tone she's familiar with: not cocky in the sense of arrogance, but just that little bit of couldn't call my ride and thank you, sir and the hell I can't — I'm a captain! cheekiness that she knows so well. It has her smiling.

Natasha is familiar enough with it at this point as well, bantering back, "Too shy, or too scared?"

Peggy can't quite identify what it is — the extra beat he takes to respond, perhaps, or a shift in his footing — but there is a very subtle change to him, even before he speaks, his tone more serious. (She would say more honest, but Steve always is.)

"I'm not looking to be fixed up right now. A relationship...Well, I'm not exactly hoping for a Kristen." She knows that Natasha is looking at him, likely giving that sharp-eyed, assessing stare of hers, but Peggy can't bring herself to turn, not even as Steve pulls that smart-mouthed spirit back over himself and adds, "Besides, what I really am is too busy," not even as he hurls himself out of the jet, likely without a parachute. She needs the extra moment to keep herself blank before allowing Nat to turn that gaze on her in turn.

She is lucky that she has the mission to distract herself for the next several hours. As they return home, however, she leans against a bulkhead with her eyes closed, and although she can pretend to sleep, she cannot pretend away the disappointment which layers within her. He isn't ready or seeking to be with someone, and she respects that, but she has waited so long and she had hoped...

Still, she will have him on the sofa beside her discussing modern animation techniques, or whichever Agatha Christie she's been catching up on most recently and which he'd stolen from the end table, or whether they're meant to get an anniversary gift for Tony and Pepper. She will have him calling to her as he comes in from after a run, and trading unprompted raised-eyebrow glances during Avengers meetings, and at the midnight quiet kitchen table while they sip quietly from their cups of tea and don't have to pretend away to each other the nightmares of cold and war and lost things.

She does not have him the way that she wishes that she could, but she does have him, she has their home and all that they share together, and that will be enough.

And yet she still hopes it only needs to be enough for now rather than forever.

The trouble with being in love with Peggy Carter, Steve continues to find, is that she can be frustratingly opaque. He's known her in two centuries at this point, thinks he is more familiar with her than practically anyone else here and now. And yet there are those moments, the ones that loop behind his eyelids at night, the ones he is certain must be obvious to anyone looking, but which she never mentions or pursues, and he cannot figure out why.

Sometimes it is a small thing: the two of them on their couch, laughing over something or quiet and simply together. She will touch his arm or tuck her cold feet against his warmth, and their eyes will catch, something settling over them, a peaceful intensity, the fact that they are alone ever more obvious. Sometimes it is increasingly evident: planning and strategizing more on instinct than anything said, or unerringly seeking each other out after the latest battle or catastrophe as the others watch, relief masked beneath traded banter.

As the moments stack up, more days with them than without, he knows that he cannot be imagining them. But she seems to break their gaze first, letting that sharing slide away, and so he takes the cue from her, much as he'd like to move forward to something new for them, something more, something he's thought was promised or inevitable for so long.

He begins to wonder if he was mistaken all this time, if he misread or exaggerated things that he thought were understood between them. He begins to wonder whether he could have been wrong about all of it.

Or maybe she's changed her mind.

This idea isn't impossible — she has always felt almost laughably out of his league, after all, and they've been through so much since they first met. Whatever she had once felt suited her about him might be gone, or she might need something different, might have found something — someone — that appeals more to her. But he understands too why a person as forthright and in control as Peggy might avoid saying anything: she doesn't want to hurt him, doesn't want to take the chance of disturbing the dynamics of friendship and cohabitation and team.

He wants her to be happy, even if it isn't with him. But he still can't help but be grateful that he'll have even this bit of her for at least a while longer.

The urge he has to talk to Bucky about all of this is different these days, no longer quite so scabbed over or distant now that they know he's alive and out there and coming back to himself, but also nothing that Steve can act on. Still, he has the inkling that if they could talk about it, his best friend would just end up telling Steve that he's always made simple things complicated, and the way he feels for Peggy Carter is pretty simple when it comes down to it so maybe he should just give in and ask her to see a movie, regardless of whether it means disrupting the balance of what they have now.

(He imagines reminding Buck that you can watch pretty much anything from home these days, pictures that eye roll in response. Bucky would probably be the type to still go to the theater.)

But it is more complicated than that, at least for Steve. Because he values his and Peggy’s time together, however it comes. Because she is the only one who understands, and he doesn’t know how he would have managed if he had woken up here alone.

Because he loves her, and wants the them of it for as long as he can.

So he focuses on enjoying each morning of running side by side (Sam setting his own pace as he remarks dryly that he’s glad that they have each other because no one else could keep up) and getting breakfast at their new favorite bagel place, each day of working together to keep the world safer, each night of taking Mr. Cavendish to the grocery store because his son who usually does it broke his leg or helping to host superhero-themed pajama storytime at the local library (and even returning later by popular demand and just because they’d enjoyed the children’s bright excitement). He takes it all in, and reminds himself that if he ever thinks of more, it does not mean that he is unhappy with what he has, what they have together.

Despite all that is involved in helping to trying to root out and crush Hydra for good (not to mention the business of organizing the Avengers so that the ordinary crises they’re meant to handle are still covered even without the structure and support of SHIELD) they do get a good bit of time when it is just the two of them, ordering takeout and spending the evening together in their apartment.

Tonight it is burgers and fries and Meet Me in St. Louis — it had come out before they went into the ice, but they hadn’t had a chance to see it.

“She really is—was terribly charming,” Peggy comments, reaching over absently to take one of his fries, although he can see that she still has a few of her own left. Steve doesn’t comment on it, only finds his mouth turning up at the corner as he nudges the biggest one toward where she’s reaching before he turns back to the screen.

“It’s a shame what happened to her,” he agrees, watching Judy Garland’s Esther shift from moving ever so carefully about the room in her corset to rushing out to meet John Truett at the door. Another thing they missed, another thing they wouldn’t have been able to prevent even had they been there. “I remember going to the American Theater to see The Wizard of Oz, how her voice filled up the place and you just wanted her to get home.”

She makes a small sound of agreement. “I saw it shortly after it was released in London — January 1940. Everything outside was so tense then. I didn’t transfer to Bletchley until the next month, so I was bored daily by office work while at the same time being completely overwhelmed by knowing everything that was going on that I couldn’t do a thing about. But for a few hours, I just suspended my disbelief and allowed myself to be there instead of where I was.”

He starts to respond, but she adjusts herself in her seat and ends up three inches further in his direction, near enough that he can feel the skin-close warmth of her, and even though it isn’t a new sensation anymore, he still has to catch his breath and try to remember what they were talking about. Glancing at the television, he snatches up a cue from the conversation playing out there.

“Speaking of suspending disbelief, it’s hard to imagine that this guy would spend the whole picture trying for a chance with her and then let things fall apart over a tux and a basketball game run too long.” He’s been in the twenty-first century for long enough to know that everyone calls them movies now, and he usually does too, but it isn’t awkward if some of his more natural vocabulary slips into conversation when it’s just him and Peggy.

“I suppose you’d never disappoint a woman like that?” she asks, and even though he knows that she’s only teasing him, that it must be a gently amused reference to that first conversation of theirs (I think this is the longest conversation I've had with one) he answers seriously, unable to stop himself.

He keeps his gaze focused on the screen where Esther is crying theatrically into her pillow, although he barely registers the scene. “If I was lucky enough to get that sort of chance,” he says slowly, “I’d be looking forward to it too much to get distracted by games, and I wouldn’t let anything else stop me either.”

He turns to look at her then, and finds that she is already watching him. Their eyes meet first, holding, and he feels between them not just the lightly traded flirtation of those past shared glances, but the weight of his love for her, all that they have been through beside each other then and now, the perfect understanding and utter confusion and the waiting and the hope…

They’re going to have to look up how to remove grease stains without damaging the couch, because the fries scatter as the two of them move toward each other, but he doesn’t pay that more than the vaguest attention. He knows that this isn’t exactly the way to treat a lady, especially one who’s his teammate and roommate and friend, and he promises to actually take her out sometime soon, but in this moment, there is Peggy’s mouth moving perfectly against his, her hands warm and sure on his shoulders, and his thoughts are half Finally and half More.

He is in the midst of trying to figure out how exactly to get to the more — Peggy seems to have some idea, and he’ll happily follow her lead — when he begins to register a noise in the room beyond the movie still playing on the television or the low, contented sound that Peggy is making in her throat. It persists for long enough that he forces his mind to whatever level of attention he can muster, trying to identify what it is.

Peggy has noticed it as well, pulling away just far enough to catch her breath and say, “I think it’s your phone.”

For a moment, he can’t quite identify or remember what she is talking about. Then he reaches into his pocket and finds his cell phone, still cheerfully piping out something about “a little bit of Monica.” (Tony has a habit of swapping his ringtone around, and although Steve has definitely gotten better with technology, the process of switching it back somehow still always eludes him.)

Then Peggy’s phone is ringing too, a standard little chime, and they both look at each other and know that they don’t have time for more now.

As they ready themselves to meet Natasha in the car already idling on the street, as they strategize in the Quinjet and deal another blow to Hydra alongside their friends, there is barely a moment to think about what has happened. But as they head back, everything calm and victorious, Peggy begins to keep her careful distance from him, only giving him the occasional assessing glance.

It was a mistake to her, he suddenly understands, and the horror of that, the exact thing he’d feared, drains everything from him.

All those years of feeling but ignoring his own pain, of clenching his jaw and moving forward anyway…they must have been preparing him for just this.

He keeps his distance right back.

The trouble with being in love with Steve Rogers is that he is good at concealing his emotions most of the time, but it works far less well around people who know him and he is a terrible liar in any case.

More specifically, the trouble is being in love with Steve Rogers, having kissed him and wanted to continue doing so while also realizing that he likely needed time and space and, considering the speed and amount of space he’d put between them afterward, it seems that she was right.

And she can swallow down her own disappointment and try to regain at least some of what they’d once had, but Steve is being so terribly awkward about it.

By unspoken mutual agreement, they spend less time alone together in their flat, instead busying themselves with work or taking turns volunteering for missions where they aren’t strictly necessary. Even when they do manage to sit together for breakfast or to relax in the evenings, there is something so very stilted about it all, the ease they’d had with each other, the comfort that gave, lost to them now.

This was exactly what she had worried would happen. Her imagination hadn’t told her, however, how very much it would hurt.

She accepts that she is going to need some time to move, if not beyond this, then at least somewhere further through. And so, when she stays at her desk much longer than she needs to instead of going downstairs to attend the Christmas party that Tony had insisted on throwing for the team, she does not make excuses even in her own mind, only issues mental congratulations once she’s finally forced herself out the door.

The lift lets her out near the lounge; already she can smell a variety of foods, all likely tremendously expensive recreations of holiday classics. Her light, nearly silent footsteps are covered by the chatter and the low background of cheerful music coming from the lit space, even as she gets closer.

Just as she is about to step through the doorway and greet everyone, she hears Thor’s voice, boisterous with what she assumes is an early indulgence in something aged ten generations in Asgardian barrels, saying, “Captain, you don’t seem to be joining in the celebration. Are you not fond of this festival, or are you still feeling the effects of your marital falling out?”

Peggy presses herself hastily against the wall, although she can still hear what sounds like an actual spit-take from Tony.

“How exactly can Cap have a marital anything? I think I’d remember that invitation, or else I’d’ve listened to my dad telling me bedtime stories about whether you wore a tux and how you parted your hair and how he pressed the flower from your buttonhole—”

“Are you not married to Agent 13, then?” says Thor around his words, sounding confused, then adding, as if to ensure that Steve is thinking of the correct person, “Your Peggy? Peggy Carter?”

Steve says, “No, Peggy and I…We…” Pressing closer and extending every bit of serum-offered extra senses, she thinks she can detect just the slightest hitch in his breath. “Peggy and I aren’t together. I don’t know why you thought that we were.”

For a second, there is silence, even the song in the middle of changing over. Then Maria Hill says, bold and dry and matter of fact, “Probably because you’re in love with each other, if I had to guess.”

Into the still-evident quiet, Steve manages to stutter, “We—What—”

Gently, Pepper says, “I think she means…the way that you are with each other.”

“The way we…?”

“Come on, Steve.” That’s Sam now. “We’ve all seen those looks between you two. Hell, sometimes you get so deep into focusing on each other that it’s like the rest of us don’t even exist.”

“That’s not—”

“And you are always by each other’s sides, whether in battle or in celebration or simply as a part of life,” Thor adds. “And each time you speak of returning to your shared home, you do so with great joy.”

“Of course we—”

“Could be the way that you finish each other’s sentences, and understand references that the rest of us don’t,” Bruce contributes.

“Sure, because—”

Around what sounds like a mouthful of food, Clint says, “You respect each other. You cooperate. You can argue and compromise. That’s all important.”

“Well, we’re friends, and—”

Natasha interrupts Steve with such simple authority that it barely even seems to register that it’s happened. “Even knowing that you aren’t together, there’s just a way you watch each other when you think no one else is paying attention — it’s obvious that you both want something more, and I don’t know what happened between you two, but you should do what you can to fix it.”

“Maybe I can’t!”

Steve must have been sitting, because Peggy can hear him on his feet now, the sound obvious as the rest of the group hushes at his uncharacteristic outburst.

“Maybe it’s one of those things that can’t be fixed,” says Steve, softly now. “Not when she doesn’t want what I do.”

Whatever bright, casual energy had been filling the room has faded with those words, with the true vulnerability there.

Alone in the hall, Peggy closes her eyes and thinks about best intentions, time, and chances. When she opens them again, she finds Steve just past the doorway, already looking right at her.

“Come on, Cap,” Tony calls. “Don’t leave before the party’s really gotten started. We’ll brainstorm ways to get her back—”

“I don’t know that you’d be my preferred source for those,” Pepper mutters.

“—and you’ll get to open your Secret Santa gift.”

“I’ll open it another time,” Steve says, not taking his eyes off of Peggy. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for that right now.”

They are lucky that none of the others follow. She hears someone, maybe Rhodey, mumble that they either have to get better at throwing parties without awkward incidents or stop throwing parties altogether, and then Thor distracts everyone by discovering the karaoke machine. She wouldn’t necessarily put it past Natasha, or possibly Sam, to intuit her presence somehow, but she and Steve remain by themselves as they walk quietly back to the lift.

The atmosphere here is different: brightly lit, and JARVIS’s voice has that surrounding quality. The two of them stand against the back wall as the numbers trip downward.

Finally, into the silence, Peggy says, “They do still dance, you know. Here and now. If that was something that you wanted.”

He is a very solid man, Steve Rogers, tall and broad and sturdy in ways both obvious and unseen. His hand trembles, just slightly, as he takes his phone from his pocket and unlocks it.

“This is where I hoped to get to take you,” he says, and she sees that the browser is open to a page for an establishment called Swing 46.

“I’m free on Saturday,” she tells him, their whole past, even its pain and troubles, fitting into its place as the foundation of their future. “And every day after that.”

Steve smiles, and takes her hand, and they forget all the rest.

Coda

Breaking several laws of physics, he is home by 3:48.

#bearholdingashark #Steggy Secret Santa #Steggy #Steggy fic #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter

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overlyimmersed · 1 year

Text

Reborn Fairy AU(SDS-RBF-215*) Timeline Part 2: Season 1.

Part 1

💖During Series: Season 1💖 ✨Kingdom Infiltration Arc✨

✨ Maranwe finally works up the nerve to check out a larger settlement, having heard a number to strange rumors more recently. She arrives in Liones, in a human disguise, early in the morning. By midday all hell will have broken loose.

Humans running all over shouting about "The Seven Deadly Sins", explosions, collapsing buildings. As she's trying to make sense of the chaos, all of her perceptions are struck by something achingly familiar. She can sense Harlequin, but not just him, Helbram too. How can that be?

She struggles through the crowds in in the wrong direction, towards the apparent source of danger rather than away from it. Eventually she chooses to drop her disguise and just fly.

She finally catches sight of the two fairy boys, just in time for Harlequin to land his finishing blow. Maranwe blitzes forward as fast as she can. Just as Harlequin kneels beside his dying friend to return his helmet, a familiar feminine voice splits the air, screaming Helbram's name, and she's just suddenly inches in front of him, knelt at Helbram's other side and pressing her hands against his wound. Her eyes are spilling tears and her face look absolutely panicked, but she's diligent in pressing the wound.

As he watches her desperately try to staunch the bleeding, Harlequin notices slivery, shimmering light starting to pool in the major wound, and even shine from inside every other cut and scrape on Helbram's body. She's just aimlessly pouring her own body's energy into him, desperate to keep him alive.

Helbram, his voice still strained and struggling despite her efforts to help, tries to tell her it's pointless and she's wasting her energy.

She says she has to try and grits her teeth as she focuses even more power into him.

Harlequin tries to agree with Helbram, worried Maranwe will wind up hurt as well if she keeps this up, but Maranwe cuts him off. Through her teeth she says "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Harlequin is at first taken aback by the hint of venom in her tone, but realizes that it makes sense for her to feel that way. She doesn't exactly know what's going on or why, she just knows she saw the two boys fighting and now Helbram is going to die. Honestly, it's amazing she isn't screaming at him.

Helbram actually agrees, though more genuinely, encouraging Harlequin to go help his friends. Unsure of anyway to help this situation further, he does so, leaving the two alone.

They stay that way for a while, Maranwe pouring her own energy into Helbram's body and him too weak to properly protest. Though several times he tries to persuade her to stop. At one point he tries to broach a serious topic, "Something I've always wanted to tell you…" but she cuts him off. She won't allow anything that sounds like a goodbye. Mostly they wind up reminiscing.

A long silence settles between them after Maranwe had blockaded his attempt at a love confession. Though it's hard to simply stay that way. To stay quiet, when there's so much missing time between them. When this is their reunion. "…I really am glad to see you…" Helbram says after a while. His voice is hushed and strained, as it had been the entire time. Her efforts are keeping him alive, but that's all they're doing. She can't actually heal him. "I'm glad to see you too," she returns, her own voice strained as well from her work, and sore sounding as she speaks through tears she can't stop. "Though, I wish I'd gotten here a little sooner…" regret drips from the last couple of words. "No." It's resolute, even through the tension, "No. It's best this way." When she had first started this futile delay, he'd placed a hand over hers to try and stop her and it's stayed there since. Now he weakly squeezes her hand to punctuate his resolve, though he stops just a second after. Not because of the effort it takes him to do it, but because he sees her cringe slightly, having to compensate for even that minute use of energy. She tries to play it off, ignore that part and just answer his words. To that she gives a humorless smile that looks more like a grimace with her teeth gritted like that, and a huff of insincere laughter. "I don't understand why you keep saying things like that." "Just trust me." He has to be short with his words, not wanting to cost her anymore energy than he already is. Besides, he hardly wants to see whatever expression she'd make if he explained every terrible thing he's done over the centuries. Or even just today. Though he doesn't feel great that Harlequin is getting to blame for it. But he can explain the truth to her later. Once she's run out of energy and can't delay this well-deserved inevitability any longer. "I'm glad-" he starts again, though it's cut by a hitching breath, "I'm glad… that you're the last thing I get to see." A fresh wave of pain washes across her features, and she grits her teeth so hard she worries for a second that they may break. "Don't say things like that," her voice hardly sounds different from his, strained and full of agony, like breathing is a monumental effort. "Don't-" her voice breaks as a breath gets caught in her throat "Just- Stay. Please…" He can't help smiling a little, though he's not entirely sure why. "Don't… be scared, Harlequin'll-" "I'm not!" She cuts him off, the force behind the words causing it to come out as almost a shriek. She draws a labored breath to steady the sound, "I'm not scared. I just… I just want you by my side."

✨ Helbram is healed with everyone else when Elizabeth's unbridled power washes over the capital. Maranwe is elated, though that doesn't last very long as Helbram collapses again when Hendrickson is defeated.

Feeling rather vulnerable in the city full of humans with an unconscious loved one to worry over, Maranwe takes Helbram out of the capital and finds a large hollow under some tree roots in a nearby woods to hide in. She works rather quickly making the hollow homey, mostly just trying to keep busy so she doesn't panic. She sets up a fire pit and makes beds of moss and tends to Helbram who's kind of in and out of it the whole time.

Part 3

#seven deadly sins #nanatsu no taizai #7ds #nnt #seven deadly sins AU #nanatsu no taizai AU #7ds au #nnt au #seven deadly sins OC #nanatsu no taizai OC #7ds oc #nnt oc #7ds fairy #nnt fairy #Reborn Fairy AU #SDS-RBF-215*#RBF timeline

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sennamybeloved · 2 years

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getting ready for bed.

✨ — ship: senna x lucian x seren (s/i)

✨ — cw: a very brief mention of weed.

✨ — summary: a polyamorous triad's antics as they get ready for bed. nothing too special.

✨ — from @timothymcgees’ drabblecember prompt list :) i really like this challenge and i plan on doing a few of these. this is way longer than a drabble is supposed to be, but that's... fine. reblogs are appreciated as always!

Seren always draws out her gaming sessions into the late hours of the evening—or all the way into the early hours of the morning if she can manage it. Even when she’s exhausted, demotivated and annoyed, she can’t bring herself to put the controller down.

This only becomes a problem when it’s very late and she has somewhere to be in the morning. She knows she needs to sleep, but five more minutes wouldn’t hurt, right? She just wants to take this bounty, or grab this last collectible, or buy a new saddle and maybe a new horse too. Then she’ll go to bed, she swears!

But alas, it’s never that simple. Her partners have to pry her away from the screen almost every single night.

Tonight, she predicts them. She’s mindlessly tapping away at her controller, slumped over in that old, dusty beanbag chair of hers when she hears Senna and Lucian begin to move around upstairs. She glances over at her phone, which sits on the floor beside her, to check the time. 11:20 PM. Yeah, okay. She needs to get off her ass and get ready for bed.

Senna, who’s already in her pajamas—a black tank top paired with colorful, fluffy pajama pants that have stars on them—comes down to the living room to collect her phone charger. As she passes Seren, she taps her on the shoulder, “C’mon. It’s time for bed.”

Seren groans in childlike annoyance, yet she’s very quick to stop what she’s doing and close out of the game. She’s exhausted, that much is obvious; she can barely keep her eyes open.

“When do we have to get up tomorrow?” She calls over her shoulder. She knows they have to go grocery shopping in the morning, so she knows the answer is early, but how early, exactly? She wants to gauge how screwed she is.

“Uhhh… like, eight.” She calls back, already on her way back up the staircase.

Okay. That’s not too bad. That’s like, uhm… more than 5 hours of sleep, she thinks.

Seren sighs through her nose. The end of her tail flicks against the ground in overtired agitation as she shuts her PlayStation down for good. It takes her several long moments of silent encouragement to will herself to her feet. She grabs her phone and her blanket—a thin Dollar Store blanket with a fox printed on it—and begins the long trek upstairs.

All the lights are on. The bright, yellowed light strains Seren’s eyes, despite having spent the previous hours staring at an even brighter screen.

Lucian and Senna are going about their nightly routines, darting between the bathroom and the bedroom, washing their faces and changing into clean, comfy clothes. Seren doesn’t have a nightly routine. She simply collapses into bed and passes out for ten, sometimes twelve hours. She wants to do that now, but the only thing that stops her is a hand grasping forearm, yanking her towards the bathroom.

“C’mon.” It’s Lucian’s voice, deep and gravely and commanding. “Brush your teeth.”

Seren grumbles as she’s crammed into their very small upstairs bathroom with the pair of them and practically shoved against the sink. With a defeated sigh, she drops her fox blanket on the floor and snatches her toothbrush- no, wait, that’s Senna’s toothbrush. She grabs her toothbrush and smears a glob of toothpaste on it, holding it under the running facet for a little too long before sticking it in her mouth.

Lucian mirrors Seren, moving much less lazily than her. No one in this house had a history of great self-care, but Lucian and Senna have a history of being motivated to take action long before Seren is, so as they assume better habits, they force her to as well. She’s grateful for this.

“Do we have a shopping list?” Asks Senna, who’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, tucking her curls into a satin bonnet. "I know we need eggs, bread, uh, cereal... but what else?"

Lucian spits out a mouthful of toothpaste before replying. "I wrote a list. Don't worry."

“Don’t we-” Seren tries to speak into her toothbrush, but she stops herself. She, too, spits out a mouthful of toothpaste and wipes off her mouth before starting over. “Don’t we have to meet Akshan for something too?”

“Uhuh. That’s why we’re going so early. He couldn’t meet us later, for whatever reason.” Senna responds, the annoyance in her voice very clear.

It feels like they're always meeting Akshan for something. No one but the person who orchestrated the meeting knows for what. It's usually for something really stupid, too. Once, it was for a giant variety pack of Monster Energy. Around this time last year, it was for marijuana seedlings Senna had offered to pay for. Those really got them through those late winter months. Seren hopes that's what it's for this time.

“Huh,” She shrugs, wearing a sarcastic smile on her face. “Busy man.”

Senna hums. “I doubt it.”

Lucian splashes cold water onto his face, drying himself off with a very old and overused hand towel. He tosses it aside into the overflowing dirty laundry basket afterward.

Someone should do that laundry, Seren thinks. It's not gonna be her, though.

Pulling away from the sink, Seren goes to leave the bathroom. However, she's quickly grabbed up by Lucian, who takes hold of her face this time.

"Wait," he says. "You still have makeup on."

"Uhg..." Seren groans, halfheartedly struggling against his firm-yet-gentle grip on her jaw as he reaches onto a low-sitting shelf, pulling a single makeup wipe out of a dispenser and bringing it up to Seren's face. It feels cold and wet against her skin, making her groan and grumble some more. He wipes off a layer of foundation, concealer, and powder she's had caked to her face since early this morning, as well as faded eyeshadow and black eyeliner. One makeup wipe was hardly enough for the. job, but Lucian made it work.

"There. Don't that feel better?" He says in a half-teasing, almost patronizing way, and Seren glares at him. While doing her best not to get caught in the crossfire, Senna takes the filthy makeup wipe out of his hand and places it in the trash.

"I'm going to bed," She announces pushes her way past the two of them.

"Uh, I am too!” Seren pulls away from Lucian's grip, who lets her go without a fuss since he's done with her anyway. She scoops her blanket up off the floor and practically skips out of the bathroom, towards the bedroom, and into bed. She collapses onto the mattress and worms her way under the covers before Senna even has the chance to get comfy.

Seren hears Senna laugh; a warm, melodic sound that warms her heart and clears her head of worry. "I thought you didn't wanna go to bed," She comments, slinging an arm around the vastaya's body.

Seren snuggles closer to her in response. "I never said that." She speaks into her skin, face nuzzling against her shoulder.

One by one, the lights flick off. First, the bathroom, then the hallway, then the bedroom room, leaving only the dim light of their lamp. It's enough to illuminate Lucian. He slips off his shirt—a big, black t-shirt that's even too big for him, the six-and-a-half-foot giant he is—and crawls into bed with them. He, too, huddles up to Seren's side, effectively sandwiching her between the pair of them.

Seren feels her face grow warm. The feeling of laying between them, their skin touching hers, their hands dancing over her body so lovingly, still proves to be too much for her after all these years.

"I love you guys." She blurts out. She couldn't have stopped the words from leaving her mouth if she wanted to.

She's always worried they find her flirtations incessant, meaningless, annoying or boring, but they smile bashfully and reflect the energy nearly every time.

"We love you too, Seren," Lucian says. He brings his hand up to caress Seren's face; a much gentler touch than the one she'd felt mere minutes before. Callused fingertips dance over her freckled skin, carefully tilting her head towards him. He leans down and kisses her on the bridge of her nose. His fingers lace into her hair as her face—her entire face—rests comfortably in his palm.

Seren feels Senna's arms snake around her waist. She cuddles up to her back, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades before resting her head there.

Seren sighs, long and heavy, her entire body melting into the bed, and into their touches.

Without disturbing the embrace too much, Lucian is able to flick off the lamp with an outstretched arm. He then readjusts himself, wriggling deeper into the nest of blankets, wrapping his big, strong arms around both his partners, but mostly Seren—she feels like the most important person in the whole world right now. She feels like a king or a queen or a god. She cannot imagine a better feeling than this, not even worship.

It doesn't take long for her eyes to drift shut. She falls asleep peacefully in the arms of her lovers.

#i dont think i like this #lotus writes #oh and for extra context seren is playing rdo in the beginning :)#drabblecember #self ship community #selfshipping #f/o community #self ship fanfic #f/o x s/i #self ship prompt #self insert #self insert x canon #fanfiction #* ★ / self insert: seren abaru .#* 💚 / death is drawn to life .#* 🖤 / a steadfast heart .

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batwritings · 2 years

Note

Bat- considering my current predicament (of being fucking sIck-)

Do you perhaps think we could get the bi-con (Welcome to: 🇬🇧✨ being predictable) w/ a sick (masc or gn) s/o? Maybe?

Much (platonic, naturally) love,

🇬🇧✨ (who now has to get blood work- again.)

Poor friend! ; 3 ; Everyone! Please give all your healing energy and love to 🇬🇧✨ while they recover and get some medical treatment! Enjoy, and get well soon!~

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You really hadn't intended to work yourself to this point. Several of your friends had warned you about overworking yourself, but you just didn't listen. Even your lovely partner Eret had tried to take your attention away from your work to no avail. And now here you were, sick as a dog in a quarantined wing in your royal partner's castle.

A rather chilly hand had you stirring from your medicated nap, your eyes barely able to open. The visage before you spun with the rest of the room, causing you to groan and close your eyes again. A soft click of the tongue caught your ears.

"I didn't mean to wake you darling," came Eret's deep, soothing voice. "I was only trying to check your fever. No breaking it yet sadly." You thought drearily how kind it was for this absolute goddess to be checking on you while you were sick. Though she wore gloves ever time to avoid getting herself sick, it was still incredibly kind. He always made sure the leather was cool, a welcoming sensation to your overheated body.

"How's your appetite?" He questions softly, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead. "Feeling up to anything? I could make you some beetroot soup or some stew"

You swallowed as best you could, coughing in the process. "C-can I just get some bread please?" you rasp out. You throat was raw from how much you had been coughing. You hear Eret sigh and force your eyes open to see their worried gaze.

"Of course love," they assure you. They rest their gloved hand on your head and kiss the top of it in place of actually kissing you. "I'll be back shortly."

The moment she's gone do your eyes fall shut again, too exhausted to keep them open for long. When they open again, the sun is setting outside. Sitting in the corner of your room, book in hand was Eret, ever at your side. Beside her was a basket of bread of varying flavors.

As if noticing the shift in your breathing, your king looks up, a worried smile gracing his features. "Good morning my love," they greet, approaching to kneel at your bedside. "How're we feeling?"

You take in his question and assess your body. Honestly all the sleep and water had really improved your status, despite still not feeling your best. "A bit better," you mumble, trying not to strain your voice too much. A cool hand rests against your forehead again, your warm body screaming in relief.

"Fever seems to have gone down a bit," Eret reports. "Let's get you some bread and water. Then it's back to bed alright?" You nod, doing your best to sit up. Your royal partner brings the bread to your bedside, a cool glass of water beside it.

You nibble for a while, sipping intermittently as Eret describes her day. Tales of her interactions and how people missed you made your heart ache, a flame burning in you to make your body heal up faster. You hated being laid up this way, even if Eret's hovering and attention was more than welcome.

Despite the welcome tales, your body begins to grow drowsy rather quickly. As you lay back down, the king comes to kiss your forehead again, laying a cool rag across your head. They make sure it remains in place before kissing you again.

"Get some more rest darling, I'll be right beside you all the way."

#bat writes #anon reqs #🇬🇧✨anon #eret fluff #mcyt fluff #dsmp fluff

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mammonsbby · 3 years

Text

Fear of Falling (in Love)

This is the eleventh part of my “when he knew he loved you” series.

✨My Masterlist✨

Warnings: Angel pining, anxiety (if you squint) Pairing: Simeon x GN!MC Words: 2182

Simeon fidgets with his pen, twiddling it between his thumb and forefinger, before tapping it against his thigh, then against the armrest of the couch. He’s been working on a new chapter of TSL since he got out of class. And for some reason, this sentence just isn’t working right.

While he’s racking his brain, his cell phone starts ringing. He sits his notepad down for a moment to answer it, “hello.”

“Simeon!” shouts Luke, bubbly laughter spilling through the speaker.

“Yes?”

“I’m bringing MC over to make cupcakes. Is that okay?”

Simeon laughs, “well if you’re already bringing them, sure.”

“Okay! We’ll be there soon!” With that, the younger angel hangs up.

Within minutes, the front door opens and the two of you come charging in, Luke pulling you behind him.

“Luke, I need my arms if we’re gonna bake something! Oh, hi Simeon!” you call to him as you’re dragged along.

He smiles softly and waves, “hello.”

The angel listens to the two of you messing around in the kitchen and, now that he’s got background noise, he can finally write.

It’s funny how accustomed he is to your presence. You’re often spotted in the kitchen, with flour on your hands. Or sitting in the living room, playing video games with Luke.

Simeon, being technologically challenged, always declines when invited to join you. But he likes to watch and cheer for the two of you. And talk to you between rounds.

He’s grown to like you quite a bit, which is lucky for him because hardly a week can go by without Luke bringing you home. The younger angel was quite taken with you. So much so that it surprised Simeon.

But, knowing what a tough time Luke was having adjusting to life in the Devildom, it wasn’t all that shocking. You were human. A light in the darkness, so to speak.

Simeon often asks questions, to get to know you better. By now, he probably knows your top three favorite everythings. And if he doesn’t, Luke does.

For instance, he can name your favorite cookies, flowers, color, time of year, and type of pen.

Pen.

Simeon blinks and realizes he’s been staring at his paper and twiddling his pen for several minutes, just thinking about you. He forces himself to read what he’s written so far and his eyebrows scrunch up when he sees your name written several times.

His eyes widen and he scribbles over it until it’s illegible. Then, there’s a clatter in the kitchen, as though something had been dropped.

“Are you alright?” he calls out.

You poke your head out of the kitchen, “I dropped some bowls. Sorry I disturbed you.”

“It’s okay.” Simeon smiles. You smile back then return to the kitchen.

He picks up his pen and starts to write down ACTUAL plot points. And within a few minutes, he’s distracted again, this time by the conversation happening in the next room over, instead of his own thoughts.

“Do you think Simeon will like these?” you ask, as you start to fill the cups of a cupcake pan.

“Probably, he likes all kinds of sweets.” Luke answers happily.

“Hmm. I hope he does.”

Simeon’s lips turn up into a smile. You’re worried whether he’ll like the cupcakes? Has he not at least humored the two of you and tried every single thing you’d ever made?

He hears the oven door shut.

“Okay, now we just have to do dishes and wait!” you say.

“I’ll do them.” Luke offers.

You give Luke a look. “Don’t be silly. We made a huge mess. I’m not gonna make you clean it all by yourself.”

“I can handle it, I promise!” Luke persists.

You sigh, “I’m sure you can, but it’s not fair.”

Suddenly, Luke drops his voice to a low whisper. It’s so low in fact that Simeon can’t tell what he’s saying. He strains to hear, but nada.

A few seconds later, he hears movement and he snaps his gaze back down to his work, not wanting it to be obvious that he was eavesdropping. As you wander into the room, he looks up, as if he were surprised.

“Finished baking for tonight?” he asks, tapping his pen against his knuckles.

You stand at the edge of the room, “sort of. The cupcakes are in the oven so…”

“So…?” he says.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, are you nervous about something?

“Well, Luke doesn’t want me to help him with the dishes. And the brothers are all busy tonight, so would you mind if I hang around here a bit longer?”

“Of course not. Join me?” he says, gesturing to the sofa. You smile and go to sit down on the opposite end of the couch. For a few minutes, you sit quietly scrolling on your phone.

But after a while, you grow bored. “What are you up to?” you ask.

The angel glances up from his papers, “I’m writing ideas for TSL.”

“Ooh, can you spoil anything? I’d love to mess with Levi,” you say, a devious glint in your eyes.

Simeon laughs, “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”

“That’s okay, I was just joking.” you say.

Simeon looks over his (very) rough draft and makes a face. Then he reconsiders. Maybe he should ask what you think.

“Hmm, no spoilers really, but does this paragraph read weird to you?” he asks. You slide closer towards him, excited to help.

The two of you whip the paragraph into shape, then return to comfy silence. Simeon notices how you seem to deflate as you go back to your phone, but he doesn’t bring it up.

After a few minutes, you put your phone down and lean back against the couch to rest your eyes. What you don’t realize is how tired you are. Or how close you’re now sitting to a certain angel.

Simeon scribbles down another idea, then he feels the cushions shift and suddenly, you’re leaning against him. His eyes widen and he’s about to ask what you’re doing. But when he looks down, your eyes are closed. You’re asleep.

The warmth of your cheek against his bare shoulder is almost more than he can stand. He swallows deeply, then his eyes fall on your sleeping face. Simeon can’t help but stare.

As if he’s trying to memorize every detail. His eyes trace your eyebrows, your hairline. He notices how your lashes rest against your cheeks. And while he’s looking at you, something dawns on him.

The reason he enjoys having you around. It isn’t just because you’re a good friend to his pseudo-son. Somehow, in these last few month, he’s fallen—

Oh, Father, he thinks.

Fallen? In… love? With a human?

His heart rate increases and he suddenly feels like everyone around can read his thoughts. That, any moment now, the Archangel Michael is going to appear from behind the drapes and rip out his wings.

He gives a quick glance around the room, his superior is nowhere to be seen. He tries to calm himself, breathing slowly and deeply, then he remembers that you’re laying against him and—

“MC! The cupcakes are ready to decorate now!” Luke’s voice cuts through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.

And it’s then that you jolt awake, startled by a loud sound, though you’re not sure what it was. Simeon, in an attempt to seem normal (which obviously backfires), leaps off the sofa and away from you.

Luke gives him a look.

You blink a few times and struggle to hold in a yawn, “what is it?”

The younger boy looks at Simeon, then at you, “I, er, said we can frost the cupcakes now.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, yeah. Okay,” you mumble as you start to stand up. You rub at the side of your face where, unbeknownst to you, the fabric of Simeon’s cape has left marks. You yawn, drawing your hand towards your mouth.

“Or, if you’re too tired, you can come over tomorrow and we’ll do it then. That’s okay, right Simeon?” Luke asks, looking expectantly at his guardian.

Simeon, who is desperately attempting to turn into a statue in the corner, is now forced to speak. His cheeks are darkened, a rare flush to them. You wonder what happened. “Yeah, that’s fine.” he manages.

“You wouldn’t mind waiting?” you ask Luke. He shakes his head. “Okay, then I guess I’ll head home. I am pretty tired.”

Luke comes over to you, “can I walk you home?”

“Oh sure, if you want.” you smile at his politeness.

Concern for Luke makes Simeon temporarily forget his newest problem. He steps forward, “Luke, are you sure that’s wise? You’d have to come all the way back here by yourself.”

Luke’s smile crumbles, “Simeon! I can look after myself. I’m not—”

“He’s right. You’re… capable. But, there are demons all over the place who might try to be mean to you. I’ll call one of the boys from the HOL to come get me.” you say, starting to pull out your phone.

Luke pouts, bottom lip stuck out farther than the top and he huffs, muttering about how he can handle himself. You give a look to the older angel, silently asking what exactly to do. It’s hard to parent a child who is thousands of years older than you.

Simeon, though, seems to have no suggestions. His eyebrows are furrowed and arms crossed. Luke starts to protest once more, but you cut him off.

By grabbing Simeon’s hand.

“Okay, well, you can both walk me home and that way Luke won’t be alone!”

Simeon sputters.

Luke beams and takes your other hand.

–

The three of you hold hands the entire way, you swinging both their arms on either side of you. Luke is delighted by this and he chatters excitedly about anything that crosses his mind.

Simeon, however, remains silent. He is having the most composed breakdown the world will ever see. And if he could, he’d win a medal for the mental gymnastics he’s doing, trying to persuade himself that what he’s feeling is normal. That it counts as friendship and nothing more.

As your entourage nears the front steps of the House, you see a figure at the door. It’s Lucifer getting in for the night. He turns when he hears you approaching and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second at your angelic escorts.

“Good evening,” he says. If Lucifer notices anything off about Simeon, he doesn’t mention it. He simply laughs at your conjoined hands. “Bedtime for the human?”

You open your mouth to deny needing a bedtime, but Simeon beats you to it.

“We thought it best to walk them home.” he says, letting go of your hand.

“Thanks guys. I’ll see you later,” you say as Lucifer opens the door.

“Bye!” Luke says before he and Simeon turn to go home.

“Goodnight chihuahua,” Lucifer says, to Luke’s aggravation. Then, he allows you to enter first, then follows behind you.

“Lucifer!” you screech as soon as the door between you and the angels is shut.

“What is it, MC?” he asks, looking at you over some paperwork.

“I can’t believe you said that. I don’t have a bedtime. I’m an adult!”

“Of course you are,” he concurs. Then he smiles, “by the way, what are you doing back so soon? I thought you’d be there until nine?”

“Oh, I got kinda tired. And fell asleep on the couch a little.” you say, realizing he was right.

Lucifer nods, “bedtime—”

“...for the human.” you finish, starting towards your room. Lucifer chuckles as he heads upstairs to his study.

–

After they return to their dorm, Luke goes to put things away in the kitchen and Simeon goes to finish what he was working on. But he’s… distracted.

What’s an angel to do?

He’s not sure who he can confide in. Most of the demons would make fun of him. And, as much as Luke likes you, Simeon’s not sure how he’d react. Regardless, dumping this on a child is a step in the wrong direction, so he doesn’t even consider telling him.

There’s also the risk of Falling, if these feelings are as deep as he fears they may be. Perhaps he could ask Solomon when he gets in? But the sorcerer is supposed to be gone till morning.

He sighs. And momentarily considers messaging Lucifer, but with the way he texts, it would take him a fortnight to explain the situation. Maybe the next time he and Lucifer are alone, he’ll ask for advice.

Finally, as the night winds down to an end, and he makes sure Luke is in bed, he decides that everything will be alright and goes to sleep.

(In a few days, when he picks up his notes, he finds that he’d apparently dreamed up a new character the other night. One that was shockingly similar to a certain human he knows. He sighs, and puts the papers away. Then he sends you a message, asking whether you’d like to come over.)

—

Thank you for reading! Please reblog!

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<3 Aerie

#obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me simeon #obey me simeon x reader #simeon x mc #simeon x reader #omswd #obey me #simeon #obey me imagines #aerie.fic

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faegirly · 3 years

Note

I see you still have requests open. Could you write g/n reader being let go from Inazuma once the vision hunt degree comes to an end, and reuniting with Kokomi after being locked in there for months (because they got captured so Gorou could take Kokomi to safety after they got overwhelmed in battle)

Hope you're doing well, and thanks

hello there 💫 im doing ok thank you, and im more than happy to write for you again. though i apologise deeply for how long it took. life... was being life and i got carried up with it but I hope you enjoy this ✨

Promises Finally Fulfilled - Kokomi x Captured General Gender Neutral Reader

it wasn't supposed to end like this. yes war is unpredictable, and no matter how much you plan, things can go aray but this... it was not meant to end like this, with you away from your home island, locked in a cell too frigid and unforgiving to describe, huddled in the damp corner of a prison with several others who'd done nothing more than be favoured by the gods, shivering so badly it felt like each shake was fracturing your bones, waiting for a miracle or the end of all hope.

no matter how many days or weeks or months it had been since that windswept battlefield, every second of that last minute at the High Priestess Sangonomiya Komomis side was fresh in your mind. all you could do to pass the time was remember, and let the weight of your agony at being apart from her and your men and your home push the stiff cold of the stone wall behind you deeper into your flesh.

it was a feeling beyond cold, beyond freezing. it was the unyielding frozen grip of frostbite perhaps, a sheer cold that sank and bit and tore through flesh and muscle and bone, scraping talons of splintered ice against your marrow until the ache of it numbed and throbbed from the within the deepest parts of you. you couldn't even escape into your thoughts because all you could see was-

the wind slapped against your skin as you shot arrow affer burning arrow into the throng of kujou commission soldiers, flames ripping out of you as you called for one last push, one last attack.

"WE CAN'T HOLD THEM OFF!" Gorous strained call rose into the roaring breeze, straining to keep his defence up around his squadron while firing arrows as quickly as possible.

he wasn't wrong, but with gritted teeth you knocked a soldier aside and called back, "We can! Just one more-" but before the cry of hope left you, you spotted a flash of brilliant purple light crackling against the pale sky.

squinting and stilling yourself in the blur of watatsumi soldiers and kujou commission officers, you focused as much as was possible on the archer, only for the air to be snatched from your lungs and lost in the violent winds as you saw then heard General Kujou Sara order, "Enough! Arrest all the vision holders! Now!" before letting her arrow fly free, tearing a sharp line through the air around you before striking true in the chest of a young watatsumi solider.

you could see the unwavering determination in her eyes, crackling like the electeo energy on the end of the new arrow she was knocking against her bow, but the cries of your men and fellow soldiers around you as they were shot down, tackled and slapped into chains and shackles.

your eyes span all around the chaos, breath tight in your throat as your heart pounded in your ears. this couldnt be happening. you were so close, but just as you were beginning to lose your footing in the sand, you spotted Kokomi.

your priestess was strong but there were so many soldiers with polearms jutting towards her, ready to take her away. capturing her vision would be a sure win for the Shoguns army, and just the thought of that being a possibility made all the adrenaline in your blood turn to blazing fire.

"YOUR EXCELLENCY!" you roared, launching forward towards the ambush as you drew three arrows, all of them igniting as you knocked them against your bow. scalding hot steam rolled out with your breath between clenched teeth, your heart hammered like a war drum in your throat and as you skidded and then rolled to kneel between the soldiers and Kokomi, you released the arrows into the dry grass before you.

in a searing bloom, the grass caught flame, knocking the soldiers for the Shogun back just enough for you to turn and order to Gorou, "GET HER OUT OF HERE!"

Kokomis eyes blew wide, a strained retorn bursting from her lips, "No! I'm staying with-"

"I will not let them take you, Kokomi! I can't let that happen!" you insisted, eyes burning with sincerity while also trying to take in as much of her graceful form as possible. who knew hpw long youd be captured for. if this was the last time you'd see her, you wanted to take in all she was.

the priestess's eyes filled with tears as she firmly shook her head, "No, I wont leave you behind. I can't!"

the war around you seemed to blur and slow as you looked up from where you knelt before her. she shone in the pale spring sunlight, her ceremonial garments gleaming about her, reflecting against her face and blushed cheeks. you grinned softly and taking her hand, pressed a soft reverent kiss to her gloved knuckles before meeting her eyes again and muttering, "It's alright, your excellency. When the Vision Hunt Decree ends, I will return to you. I promise." and with one more breath, you shot to your feet, ordered Gorou once more, "Go, General! Get her to safety! Now!"

and as he agreed, pushing down his own reluctance to see you taken away, you smiled at them both then ran back into the fight, running into the neverending waves of Shogunate soldiers, doing your best to ignore Kokomi calling your name as it became more and more distant, as your arrows and bow were knocked from your hand, you were tackled to the ground and infront of your fading priestess's eyes, your vision was snatched from the middle off your breastplate.

the vibrance quickly faded from the world as you lay in the dry grass, the clarity of where you were dulled not long after and though you could remember why you were being held down, you could still hear Kokomi calling your name.

you groaned and pulled your knees further into your chest to ward off the drafts that would wind through the cells during the morning count, teeth chattering as the heavy boots of the Shoguns officers echoed from the hall beyond.

you'd lost count of the days, and were beginnning to not bother anymore since the Shogun's determination to enact eternity was immovable and unchangeable, so on this cool morning as the officer stopped before your cell, you gritted your teeth and pushed yourself to stand, prepared for the regular brutality they usually enacted on their prisoners, only to find the cell door wide open.

you blinked at the open space before you, not really seeing anything different about the narrow hall before you and the chill gnawing against your ankles, only for the officer to say, "Inmate number 87-654, captive General of the Watatsumi Island Army."

those words... that title... it sparked a memory in you that was so far buried in your subconscious, it made a different kind of shiver run through you. this time it wad warm, skittish and...

"As per the end of the Vision Hunt Decree, your pyro vision is being returned to you." the officer sighed.

you still couldn't quite understand what he was saying beyond trying to process the odd familiarity the title of General of the Watatsumi Island Army gave you, but as the tall man stepped forward and placed a clear circular disk framed in gold in your palm, a shock of burning heat exploded in your veins. it sent you shaking on your feet, eyes blowing wide as a torrent of memories moving too fast to process roared through your mind. the air was steaming, the crisp light cutting through the bars on the window across the hall slicing and burning into your eyes, but when you finally blinked your sight clear and found a brilliant red pyro vision in your palm, a shaky breath escaped you. you finally remembered.

"Your record has been cleared, General" the officer said, and when you finally lifted your eyes to his he grinned and nodded, "You're free to go."

the words hit your heart as surely as your arrows would hit their target, sharo and true. how long had it been since you'd fired one, how long since you'd fought with brazen bliss as flames as beautiful of as sunsets tore out of your very being, how long since you gave your all to defend your priestess...

"Kokomi..." you rasped.

and the officer nodded, "I'm... I'm sure she's anxious to see you returned safely. Get going would you?"

and at his surprisingly supportive comment, you broke into a smile, nodded firmly and tripped over your feet out of the cell, slowly but surely picking up speed into a run back towards your long departed home.

as soon as news of the end of the Vision Hunt Decree met the ears of Kokomi and Gorou, their first thoughts were to you and no sooner had they burst from within the palace and hurried down the steps did the guard at the base call up, "Your excellency! It's-"

but she could already see you, panting and trembling on weak legs up through the flourescent grassy plains of Watatsumi Island, face matted with tears and dirt, but shining with a renewed hope in your eyes that burned as brightly as the pyro vision clutched tight in your hand.

"General!" Gorou cried out, a sky wide smile bursting into a laugh as he and Kokomi raced down to meet you, his tail batting wildly at his back with every step he got closer to you.

the shimmering light of the clear crystaline sky still seared into your eyes but with each footfall closer to those familiar voices, now raised in hope and life, brought the warmth and strength back into your body. it only took a few more blinks to adjust go the intensity of the glow of Watatsumi Island and after a few more steps, your body collided with the general and the high priestess.

"You're back! Oh my- you're back you're back!" Kokomi squealed, holding you as close to her as possible. her heart was wild with relief, and as she pulled back to look you over, her ephervescent eyes gleamed like luminescent sango pearls in perfect moonlight.

"You came back." Kokomi sighed, her fair cheeks dusted with a warm blush.

and you, gazing up at her for a moment, pulled back just enough to take her hand in yours and press a kiss to her knuckles.

a seasalt scented breeze picked up and swirled around you as you gazed up at her once more, a kind warm smile on your face as you whispered, "As I promised I would... your excellency."

end

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