#i'm new to writing fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

utterlyazriel · 1 year ago

Text

how long have i searched for you?

azriel finds his mate in the most inopportune time and he convinces himself you haven't sought him out for good reason. he couldn't be more wrong. word count: 4.6k & god bless @strangerstilinski for making this fic ever get written <3

Though he'd deny it if ever asked, most of all to Cassian, there was a part of Azriel that had spent years upon years yearning for what it would be like when he met his mate.

A chance encounter. A friend of a friend. A shared look across a crowded room, your eyes catching, where you both suddenly just know.

A thousand possible ways to meet, to find each other. Azriel had run every scenario through his head, ten times over, both soothed and aching at the dreadful mixture of hope and doubt he had. With his rotten luck, he was probably doomed to a life without ever finding his mate. If he even had one.

However, in all his years of hoping and wishing, not once could he say that he'd imagined meeting his mate the way he did.

In a flash; a brush up during the battle of Velaris, where you, a healer, had stumbled into his life. There had been only a moment amongst all the chaos, where this deep strong pull had risen in his chest, glowing and hot like he'd never felt before.

His head had snapped around, finding the source in a heartbeat. Everything leading to you.

But it hadn't been the time, no matter that you had clearly felt it too, the glow, the pull, given away with your wide eyes and parted lips. Battle was being sieged on Velaris and despite every instinct in Azriel that roared at him to stay with you, to take you from the danger, he had a duty to fulfill.

And then, even once the battle finished, the war was waged and won, when was there time? Azriel could feel it in him, the yearning that seemed to sing from his very blood — he itched to go find you. However, there was still much to do, still orders from Rhys to carry out, mission and meetings to attend to.

Besides, you hadn't sought him out either.

So, when the chaos calmed finally and he finally had time to breathe, Azriel did not seek you out. He waited. He longed.

But if you wished to stay away and never see him, then Azriel would respect it. He would never impose on your life if you did not wish it, no matter how long he had waited for his mate.

One month of quiet life rolled on.

Today, the weather in Velaris greatly contrasted his state. Exhausted from his mission and a tad more scratched up that he had hoped to be, Azriel feels like a cloud on the city's sparkling sky. He's dirty, half soaked, and probably dripping blood and mud all over the tiles.

Gods, he was tired.

The fly back to the House of Wind had been harder, his landing a little ungraceful due to the slices he bore on his wings. Not the worst of his injuries but still, they throbbed painfully and Azriel felt the rivets of rain and blood trickling along them. His wings gave a little shudder and even his shadows seemed to droop.

"And he returns—" Cassian's voice announced his arrive before his feet had even touched onto the balcony. Upon the sight of his brother, hunched and not his usual self, his tone shifted quickly. "Holy Cauldron, what happened to you?"

Azriel bristled, schooling away his sneer at the thought of the fight he just won. He rolled his shoulders back, biting back his wince at the tenderness of his wounds, and grimaced.

"Same thing that always does, brother."

Cassian frowned, his concern evident with the furrow between his brows. "You're going to see a healer."

His tanned hand gestured to Azriel's drooping wing. His question was more of an instruction. Azriel felt apprehension roll through him, torn between the sweet relief he know would come with having his wounds tended to and the first healer he could think of: you.

He shook the thought away. Nearly two months since he'd first seen you had passed and he found himself infuriated with how his brain seemed intent on taunting him. You pervaded his thoughts just as frequently as you did on that first day, even with your distance.

"Madja does not reside here anymore."

"So?" Cassian pressed. "Gods, I will take you myself if I must."

Azriel huffed. He knew Cassian could make good on his words and as another ache rippled through his back, making every slice on his skin known, he let himself relent. Besides, what were the chances of his healer being you?

"I will go." Azriel replied, straightening up his slumped shoulders. A hint of smugness crossed Cassian's face before he smiled, genuine as he lay his hand on Azriel's shoulder.

"Before you go," Cassian said, beginning to grin. "Did you wipe the floor with them?"

Azriel's lips quirked, a semblance of a smile. He inhaled, preparing himself for one more course of travel before he could rest. "Of course."

—

The second flight had agony clawing deeper within his wings, a protest with every strong beat of them, as he flew to the Apothecary down amongst the city's heart. The surging pain fought for his attention, like a poison writhing beneath his bones, and Azriel was nearly embarrassed at his hard landing.

It was loud, his boots slamming down into the pavement before the Apothecary, his wings flaring to catch him. He could feel the tremor in his muscles, each leg held taut. He looked up at his destination.

The building before him was a sage green, white trims around each of the windows. Within, through the panes of glass, Azriel could see a healer jump at his sudden entrance. His shadows wisped around him rapidly, as though they might soften his abrupt interruption.

Azriel straightened up, tucking his wings in as he reined himself in. He could feel his emotions boiling up within him, swirling and rising as he peered in the window before him. Apprehension tinged with something he wouldn't acknowledge, something too close to hope.

The glow in his chest was back. You must be near.

Azriel wasn't sure what was winning; the absolute urge to follow the tug on his chest to find the person on the other end of it, or the part of him that would prefer never knowing if you wanted him or not.

The bell above the door jingled quietly as he pushed it open. He was careful to mind his mess, far too aware of how he was tracking half a mountain of dirt in with him. Eyes scanned over each thing in the room, calculating in a way he always was.

Around him, his shadows had gotten zippier, darting about and back to him; as though, they too, could sense the nearness of his mate.

The Fae behind the counter stared, wide-eyed, whether at his shadows or simply himself. Azriel willed them to calm as best he could. They were being unnaturally eager to leave his side.

"Hello," Azriel started, unsure on the proper procedures. He wondered if just gesturing to himself might work. The Fae behind the counter, a fair women with dark hair, seemed to finally shake herself out of it.

"Hello!" She amended her behaviour quickly. Her hand waved behind her, gesturing to the corridor that stretched out behind her. "Let's do something about those wounds. If you head down and take the last door on the left, y/n will be available to get you on the mend."

The name she spoke sent a pang through Azriel and he wondered, he hoped, if a name that beautiful could potentially belong to you. Maybe, he would be better to request someone else, if it was you down the end of the hall. Hesitance kept him rooted to the floor. His eyes sweeping down the hall and back to the Fae woman before him.

"Thank you," He finally murmured. His began walking, passing the counter and heading down the hallway — mindful of his drooping, tired wings that threatened to leave a trail behind him.

Final door on the left. Azriel paused before it, deciding to knock before he entered. He could hear someone inside, bustling around in the space. His knuckles grazed against the door.

"Come in!"

A voice like honey called out, wrapping around him like the softest silk, every nerve in him trilling and burning. Azriel swallowed heavily, knowing who must be on the other side of that door. He should walk back up that hallway. He shouldn't go through this door. He should give you the privacy you so clearly desire.

And yet, the warm glow in his chest urged him forward, urged him closer, and Azriel couldn't resist being selfish. Just this once, just to see you once more. He pushed the door open and slid silently in the room.

You're everything.

Gods, as he laid his eyes on you now, Azriel had to commend himself for ever managing to keep himself from you. You’re ethereal — and the glowing tug on his chest had expanded ten-fold as you turned to face him, every ounce of his being yearning, aching, to be closer to you.

Azriel was a strong man but even he couldn’t help the way his body swayed closer, a ripple passing through his wings subtly. They gave a tiny shake behind him. His shadows seemed to be dancing across his shoulders, gleeful in their wispy movements.

Even his pain had been put aside for this moment — dialed down to barely a twinge as he drunk in the sight of you before him, his eyes scouring your face for every detail he could, lest it be the only time he got to.

Faintly, he felt his lips twitch. His hands curled up at his sides, a minuscule motion. You’re… very beautiful. You’re everything he’s been waiting for — and Azriel is sure that shine of the night sky he adores so reverently is rivaled only by your eyes.

“I—” He remembered himself, the word rasping out before he could stop it. He realised he was not sure what he intended to say. “Forgive me.”

You seem perplexed by his words if the wrinkle between your eyebrows was an indication.

One of his shadows snaked down his arm, flitting out to meet you and Azriel felt himself flush slightly. He called it back sternly and silently — only more embarrassed when it didn’t listen, circling your wrist and tickling its way up your arm.

But there was no apprehension in your face, nor in your laugh which felt like a shot of espresso to his system, as his shadows continued badgering you. Something close to mortification crept up his neck as two more shadows darted out to join the first, curling excitedly around your neck like a lover would.

“My apologies,” Azriel forced his mouth to work. “They are not usually so… misbehaved.”

You waved him off, another laugh tittering from your mouth as a shadow curled over your ear. Surprisingly, whether through some bond or not, he knew that you were not afraid of him in any sense.

Your hand waved him over to the table set up for patients, ushering him over. “That’s alright. You can tell me what I’m to forgive you for as I look over your wounds.”

Azriel didn’t move. His feet felt rooted to the floor, heart turning itself inside out. Did you not know? Could you not feel it? Were you simply sweet enough that you would still tend to him, heal him, even though you knew and had decided to keep your distance?

“I…” He selected his words carefully, watching you closely. “I did not wish to make you see me if it was not on your own terms."

You were setting up your items on a silver tray beside the medical table and when you looked over your shoulder, you seemed confused that he hadn’t moved. You urged him over with a jerk of your chin and a smile that melted through his chest, hot like candle wax.

“Nonsense.” You patted the table invitingly. “C'mon, you’re dripping blood on my floors.”

His politeness had him standing up straighter, wings bunching up as he realised they had begun to drag along the ground. It was the thing that finally got him to move, his feet stepping forward in an instant.

“I’m—”

“Kidding. I was kidding.” You intercept his apology easily, eyes bright.

Something preens within him at how you knew what he would say so soon within meeting him. Azriel took another step and let himself sink down onto the padded table, his wings resting gently around him. Even seeing you, talking to you, is not enough to chase away his fatigue. You hand him a clean cloth to clear the muck from his face and he does so silently.

“Are you fit to remove your leathers?” You asked, your gaze turned analytic as you scanned over his muscled body for his injuries.

Azriel nodded, not trusting his voice. As each piece of armor was pulled off, not a wince in sight, he was surprised at the flustering feeling within him. It was light, just a ball of nervousness, tinged with embarrassment, in his chest — which made no sense. As he pulled the final layer of clothing from his chest, Azriel realised that this feeling wasn’t coming from him.

You were staring as politely as you could, eyes darting around the injuries scattered across his torso but with a nervous flush to you. Your eyes flitted across his chest, once, twice. Barely a glimpse— something that would’ve gone unnoticed if he was not the spymaster of this court.

Azriel couldn’t resist. “Everything alright?”

If he had made voice a tad gruffer than usual, that was between him and the Cauldron.

“Yes.” You smiled at him again and it nearly made him miss the pinch in your voice. Nearly. “Just thinking that if you look like this, I hardly want to imagine the other guys.”

Azriel bit back his smile, only half succeeding in hiding it. It was wiped as you finally stepped closer, examining him properly. A furrow between your brows. Azriel could feel the hot burning want to smooth it out with his thumb, to take your worry from you.

His shadows had slipped further from him, more and more of them following your gentle hands as you skimmed atop his skin, deep in thought. They swirled around your hands, festering where you were nearly touching him, and Azriel desperately willed them to relax. They did not obey.

“The shadows,” He began, already apologetic.

Your eyes flashed to his and then back on the laceration splitting the skin on his shoulder. You pulled one of your hands back, just an inch, focusing on how the shadows followed you. Tiny wisps dancing around your hand, light touches that reminded you of a thousand tiny kisses.

“It’s alright.” You hummed, sweet with a smile. “They’re sort of lovely.”

And if Azriel had felt your momentary fluster, he had no doubt he would be unable to hide the swell of surprise within him.

You finally pulled your hands back, beginning to circle around the table to take a closer look at his wings. Azriel couldn’t repress his shiver at the thought— his mate, so close to something so precious to him. He was torn between emotions; his body buzzing at the thought of your touch and his mind adamant that you wanted to keep your distance for a reason.

“I must say, I have heard of Illyrian wings before,” Your voice breathed over his shoulder, distracted by the view. Without meaning to, Azriel’s wings gave a little twitch. “But never seen them this close. They’re very beautiful.”

Azriel blinked and willed himself to remain neutral even if all his shadows seemed to give him away; their flitterings only increased at your words.

He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Then there was a soft touch along the leathery skin of his wing, your fingers, tentative and gentle. Azriel swallowed the noise in his throat. His wings gave another involuntary shiver.

“Is it alright to… touch?”

It’s sweet of you to ask even though he’s sure you’ll have no way of healing him if he says no. Azriel steeled himself, forcing himself to remain neutral.

“Yes,” He murmured. The wounds across his torso had already begun to heal themselves, his Fae blood clotting and knitting the skin back together at an achingly slow pace. He was too tired to heal himself properly. He had known his wings would require the most attention.

It was an effort not to jump when your touch returned, tiny fingertips that felt startlingly warm suddenly. Azriel could feel the tendrils of your magic as it poured out through your fingers, a healing salve to the agony of his wings. It felt so good he struggled to not sigh aloud, his scarred hands flexing in his lap.

“You know,” You began, voice quiet. “I was hoping you might seek me out but perhaps, for a less painful reason.”

While Azriel fought to keep his head from snapping around, his shadows did no such thing— all of them jumping from their usual hiding place. He swatted at them, mortified at how revealing they seemed to be in your presence.

Still, there was no battling away the kernel of hope that sat deep in the pit of his stomach, mixed tightly with disbelief.

Another touch along his wings, another warming healing glow. Azriel cleared his throat and fought to keep his voice even.

“You were… waiting for me?”

Gods, he couldn’t have sounded more pathetic if he tried. But his head was spinning, the glowing pull on his chest tightening, the kernel growing larger and larger. You were waiting for him, you were waiting for him.

“Of course, why would I not be?”

“I…” He had never been so lost for words in all his centuries of living. Never sure how deep the rift within him ran, a part of him convinced that the reason he had not found a mate in all his time was because he had not deserved one.

“I did not want to impose on you, I know that not all—”

It was all coming out wrong. Azriel reined in his rampant emotions, the swirling of his shadows dimming for a moment. Your hands had paused their ministrations on his wings, listening intently. He couldn’t bear to turn to face you as he spoke.

“I wanted to give you space to decide yourself. To leave the decision in your hands. Because I would understand if—”

He cut himself off with a sharp inhale. Voicing it, suggesting the possibility of you hoping and waiting for a mate all your life, just as he did, only to be disappointed that discover it was him— he couldn’t say it aloud.

He was sure you must be able to feel his fear and clamped his mental shields down as tight as he could. He would not guilt you into this.

“I can see why the Mother made us mates.” You mused after a moment.

Azriel nearly shuddered at the word, at you referring to him at your mate so casually— a yawning chasm of want spreading over his entire body. Gently, slowly, your hands began to work again.

“Here I was,” you continued, voice light and hands warm. “Thinking that, maybe, the shadowsinger had his duties and would come find me if he wished. And that I would understand if he never came to find me at all.”

This time, Azriel could not resist turning around to see your face. His heart ached terribly to hear what you had thought. His shadows spun around his shoulders and as he turned, they twisted and ran for you.

“No,” He said severely. He couldn’t help the way he shook his head, like a petulant child but you were just so wrong. “No, I— I’m sorry, I never meant for you to think— please forgive me.”

Despite his evident distress, you smiled easily with a little shake of your head. “There is nothing to forgive. It would be, well, almost hypocritical if I let you apologise for doing the same thing I did to you.”

Amongst his relief, Azriel felt his chest pulse in adoration, a smile forming on his lips. Twisted back on the table, your hands mending along his wings, the thing he’d wanted for — had spent so many years envisioning — finally finding him. He would not have it any other way.

“I’ve waited for you for five hundred years.” He croaked.

Your eyes widened a fraction and you blinked owlishly at him for a moment as his words sunk in.

“Well,” You chuckled somewhat awkwardly. Azriel could feel the nervousness radiating off you in waves. “I hope after that all that waiting it wasn’t too underwhelming—”

“It wasn’t.” He interrupted. “It isn’t. You’re…”

It was an effort to restraint himself — to not be too much, too soon.

“Despite the knots we both seemed to tie ourselves in,” He huffed a silent laugh, melting as you relaxed too. “Please believe me when I say I would not have it anything other way.”

You glowed, a sweet emotion singing from you so loudly that Azriel couldn’t not feel it. You hadn’t accepted the bond yet and still… he could feel the strong emotions as they rippled through you. Joy. He was so happy that it was joy, more than anything else. His shadows seemed to be split between the two of you, protecting you as much as they did himself.

Then suddenly, your eyes widened again, as if another thought had occurred to you.

“Wait a minute, five hundred years?” You repeated his words back to him with an air of disbelief. “You’re an old man!”

His laugh escaped him before he could capture it, entranced at your delightful quick wit. Your eyes were bright, your pretty mouth pulled into your smile.

The ache in his wings had dulled almost completely and Azriel absentmindedly noticed you had managed to heal up the majority of his wounds during your conversation. They fluttered appreciatively and your eyes darted back down to them.

“Is that to be a problem?” He teased lightly.

Your obvious flustering pooled off you, sliding down along the bond even as he felt you desperately trying to curb it. Even then, you couldn’t resist another glimpse at his toned back.

He certainly didn’t look like an old man— not with the taut tan muscles of his back, his large biceps, nor his handsome young face. His hazel eyes watched playfully as you allowed yourself one long look over him.

“Nope,” you said decisively, pressing down your grin. You held your hands up defensively, as if it would aid your point. “No problems here.”

Your footsteps were light as you rounded the table to face him from the front, your healing job completed. For a quiet moment, Azriel could only stare — holding his breath, waiting.

He schooled away any thoughts of how much it would hurt to part from you, now that he had finally found you, and spoke again.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” He said, hazel eyes fixed on your own. He made sure his emotions were unwavering, that you would not feel swayed to spare his feelings. A shadow skittered across your shoulder.

“I want you to be sure. I would never want you to feel as though you had no choice. We— I can wait, I have waited years for you, I can—”

His words were smothered in his own breathy gasp as you reached out, one finger trailing across the peak of his wing. Something like pure desire shot down his spine and he did everything in his power to hold in his growl.

“Something told me that would get you to stop talking.” You said, with a hint of teasing.

A seriousness flicked across your face, settling into your expression as you took in the male before you, your mate — and you could feel his want, the enormity of his yearning trickling down the bond— and yet, you knew that he would walk away from it in a second if you asked him to.

You had no intention of doing any such thing.

“While you may have me beat on the waiting,” You said softly. It didn’t feel right when you’ve only just met him to reach out, but the urge swims within you anyways.

You reached out to touch his face, your hand as soft and warm as a sunbeam on his skin.

“I do not wish to extend that waiting for any longer, my mate.”

Your words had an instant effect, a shudder that passed across his face, eyes fluttering, the flick of his wings spreading out and forwards, as though reaching for you. You kept your hand steady.

Azriel allowed himself to lean into your touch. Allowed every feeling to flow down the warm tug in his chest, over the bridge that kept him inexplicably connected to you — overwhelming bouts of relief, of love, all of it unrestrained. And he could feel you on the other end, meeting it all with the softest, kindest assurance.

“Can…” He murmured, nearly embarrassed. He would have been if you were looking at him any way other than completely adored. His shadows had finally slowed, soft caressing motions along your shoulders and neck. He dared to ask. “Would you say it once more?”

You smiled, brighter than the sun and softer than moonlight, unable to resist your temptation to get nearer to him. You inched closer, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him greedily, knowing he was doing the same. Both of you desperate to memorise each other, despite knowing you had forever to come.

Your nose brushed his and you nuzzled against it gently, eyes sliding closed. Azriel released a shaky breath, his scarred hands clenching tightly in his lap, terribly overwhelmed in a way he’d never been before. If you had peeked over his shoulder, you might have seen the slight quiver in his wings.

“Azriel,” you whispered. “My mate.”

The shadows around both of you suddenly laid down very still, as if they had encountered a feeling within their master that had not yet before; a calming tranquility. The moment lingered as you let your words sink in, watching his closed eyes. You let yourself steal this moment with him.

“Though,” you pulled back from him, watching his hazel eyes open again. The shadows around him picked up, lazily flitting around. “If you want to get all cleaned up before dinner, you best head home soon.”

“Dinner.” Azriel repeated, the smallest scrunch between his eyes.

You stepped back from him, smoothing your hands down your front almost nervously— but no, it was closer to excitement, he realised.

“Dinner, yes.” Azriel said, catching on, his wings flaring out for just a moment. You grinned, endeared entirely by all his little tells despite his apparently stony demeanour. You could see him beneath it, the soft kind Male that the Mother had made for you.

“It would be an honour.” He added seriously, finally getting to his feet, preparing to leave. You ached at the thought — but more of you preened, knowing you would see him not long after. His seriousness made you laugh.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda intense?”

Azriel smiled, his shadows moving more deftly now. “And yet, never has it sounded so sweet as it does coming from you.”

You flushed and it was made entirely worse by the chuckle you felt down his end of the bond. You jabbed him in the shoulder, a bit miffed when he didn’t sway in the slightest.

“Alright, no more mud on my floors.” You ordered, faux serious as you pointed to the door. “I will see you later tonight.”

“Promise?” He asked, once more to check— but mostly to see that elated grin he was already falling in love with.

“I swear on my mate." You promised back, delighted when he grinned — properly, teeth and all — and you stole one final glance at your forever as he disappeared out the door.

part two here

#hi! if you're reading this i'm new here! :D #well #i read these books awhile ago but... new to writing... for azzy baby <3 #so feel free to tell what you think (unless you think it suckssss then keep that one quiet ples)#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic

3K notes · View notes

moongothic · 1 year ago

Text

Crocodad AU where immidiately after having left Dragon and his baby boy Crocodile finds an 11 year old Robin. And while he's 100% only recruiting her so they can make a beeline for the Poneglyph and Pluton in Alabasta by the two of them... Crocodile accidentally sorta kinda adopts Robin.

At this point Robin's been running for her life from the Government for three years so her deep trust issues and fear of betrayal are starting to take root in her little heart. Like perhaps they haven't taken fully over yet, and being still a child I'm sure Robin might've still had that genuine hope that she could find a safe place to stay in. But I'm sure the though of "what'll he'll do with me once he gets what he wants?" would be nagging at her at the back of her mind. Meanwhile Crocodile's struggling between the pain and hurt he's already gone through and given him his trademark trust issues, as well as the aftermath of The Dragodile Divorce. But he also has his Fresh Paternal Instincts and probably misses his baby. So when given a small, scared child who is running for her life, being chased by the very same Government that'll want his son dead if they ever find out about him... Yeah that might fuck with your brain a little

You know this post was supposed to be just that first paragraph and just a few footnotes from the following two paragraphs. And then I kept on Having Thoughts. And I kept on writing them down. And oh no what happened when did this post get so long (Look I was going to either kept on writing my Additional Thoughts in the tags or I just put them in the actual fucking post)

Like considder this: based on this one SBS, we can kinda tell that if Crocodile was given a chance to raise a child, that child would be a spoiled little shit, right

So in this scenario, where Crocodile's looking after lil Robin, would he be kind of torn? Unsure how to feel about her?

Because on one hand, this strange child would have the potential to not only ruin his plans, strip him of his Shichibukai Privileges by outing him and his plans to the World Government, but also put his son in grave danger by extension (if she found out about him having been involved with the Revolutionaries and/or having a child). But on the other hand, his paternal instincts could make him want to spoil this poor little girl rotten. But only because he needs to (perhaps literally) buy her trust so she'll behave. No other reason, he doesn't feel sorry for her one bit, no sirree. (But maybe he did feel sorry for her, since his son could very well end up exactly like her. Poor little thing) (Which is why he needs to nuke Marijoa out of orbit as soon as possible, no matter the cost, and this child can't get in the way of Crocodile protecting his son) (But also this is a child. Like how bad could she be. Besides all he really needs to do to win her trust is be nice and make her feel safe, right?)

Of course, while I'm suggesting Crocodile could have some parental instincts, realistically, he hasn't actually spent any time being, you know, a father to a child (looking after his newborn for an unknown though short amount of time aside), so it's possible he wouldn't even know how to parent Robin even if he wanted to, would he? (Like taking care of a newborn and an 11 year old kid aren't the same either) So if he was kind of just emotionally flipflopping between No Trusting Ever and It's Just A Kid for God's Sake, Crocodile trying to be nice to Robin to make her feel safe and then telling himself to stop being so soft and vunerable... Yeah that would make for an absolute mess of a relationship. (Not to mention, let's be real, dude's a scary motherfucker too, and a bloody giant compared to itty bitty baby Robin. He could keep on accidentally scaring the shit out of Robin (who would be On Fucking Edge To Begin With) by just Being Himself. Like for example, can you fucking imagine if he caught Robin trying to cheer herself up with a little "dereshishishi" only to tell her to stop because "it was stupid"? 'Cause I can imagine him doing that, and boy howdy would that make Robin feel bad)

Or who knows, maybe Crocodile was just Born To Be A Dad, maybe he just Fucking Gets It. Like Crocodile is canonically pretty good at manipulating people to do what he wants them to do (see: how he played Vivi like a fiddle), so knowing Robin's position and understanding how she feels, maybe he COULD completely nail how she needed to be treated. Not being too familiar but still making her feel safe and happy, knowing exactly when to be stern and when to spoil her, etc. Dude just goes off and wins the Dad of the Year Award while being a deadbeat dad himself. The only thing Crocodile would have to worry about then would be making sure HE doesn't get too fond of her. And certainly that could never happen, he's so in-touch with his own feelings and so grounded, he's not a softie, get outta here. Or maybe he does but never realizes until it's too late and good luck backpedalling on those emotions now dumbass

Alright so, the reason I went on that whole rmble is just that like. I'm so interested in the relationship Robin and Crocodile already have in canon. I'm so facinated and curious about how the two feel about each other, considdering they did spend 4 whole years of their lives together as criminal business partners, though neither ever trusted the other. A partnership that was only ended because Robin betrayed Crocodile, out of her own trauma. (God, I want to see these two "reunite" so bad, I want to know how they feel about each other now after the timeskip and Robin joining the idiot in flipflops who foiled Croc's plans)

My question here is just that... if they had met 13 years earlier, would things have been different? Especially if Crocodad Real? Because as I mentioned in the begining, Robin would've been on the run for only 3 years by this point, as opposed to 16 years before running into Crocodile. Simultaneously, this would be before Crocodile went onto spend an entire decade all alone, slowly losing his marbles in his emotional solitude. They'd both be emotionally traumatized, yes, but would it have been as bad in this scenario? Like I did start this post kind of joking about Crocodile adopting Robin, and for clarity's sake I don't think they'd have like a father-daughter relationship nececarily. But it would be a strange relationship still, because we'd have two broken people, both struggling to trust anyone. One who had lost her mother and her only friends, leaving her all alone and afraid while running for her life. The other a father who had just given up his son whom he probably missed dearly. Both having these holes in their hearts from loss of family, holes that could not be filled with replacements. But could they find comfort in each other anyway, because they still as people occupy similar roles to their respective loved ones? If they both could just get over those trust issues?

Okay I've been going off on the Emotional Side Of Things for this AU Concept, THERE'S PLOT TOO

So if Crocodile did pick Robin up like 19 years ago, that should be before he set up base in Alabasta, long before he had built is homebase and financial empire etc.

Now the thing is, while we don't know when, where and how Crocodile learned about the Ancient Weapons, Pluton specifically and how the lead on it would be in Alabasta... Considdering Crocodile did once upon a time aim to become Pirate King, it would make perfect sense if he had learned about Poneglyphs during his past adventures, as he would have needed to get the Road Poneglyphs to find One Piece. And while the World Government did bury the truth about why Ohara had been burned down and why Robin had been given her bounty (remember, the WG claimed it was because she had sunken a fleet of battleships, which she had not, it was because she could read the Poneglyphs), considdering this is a Crocodad AU specifically, you could totally make an argument Crocodile could've learned about what actually happened to Ohara from Dragon and co. So, just to make this AU work, you could just assume Crocodile learned about the concept of the Ancient Weapons from Dragon. And who knows, maybe he overheard the truth about why Robin had been given her bounty from Dragon too (maybe Dragon was able to get intel from Garp in secret) or while going to Marijoa himself to attend a Shichibukai meeting or something IDK.

Maybe he learned about Pluton being in Alabasta before finding Robin by accident, and maybe they made a beeline for Alabasta the second Croc recruited Robin. Travelling takes time and the guy would've most likely had to find an Eternal Pose to Alabasta just to get there (also canonically Robin didn't enter the Grand Line until her 20s so they should've met in West Blue probably, since that's where Ohara was) Or maybe Crocodile had to haul Robin around for a few months while looking for That Missing Piece of Information that would lead him to Alabasta. (Imagine the two travelling from like island to island, library to library, Crocodile trying to find that leads while Robin's just so excited about ALL THESE BOOKS (she's helping too with the research) (but to her, research is playtime, so she's just having the time of her life) (Also, notice how Crocodile's Theoretical Child is a fucking loser ass nerd? Yeah Crocodile would encourage Robin reading and studying, surely. And that would be fucking cute))

But like, once they set sail to Alabasta...

Sure, Crocodile could try to do it The Slow Way that we know he tried in canon, building trust and creating his little empire etc. But also, in canon, Crocodile couldn't have jumped into action head first because without Robin, even if he had found the Poneglyph he couldn't have read it and found the location of Pluton. Crocodile choosing to do it the slow way may have been partially because he didn't have much of a choise and it could've felt like the smarter move long-term.

But in this scenario, he already has Robin. Yes, he could do it the slow, secure way.

But what'd be there stopping him from infiltrating Cobra's palace and kidnapping him (in the night, when nobody suspects a thing), demanding Cobra to spill the beans lest Crocodile kills him and/or his pregnant wife* (*Vivi was born 10 months after Luffy so depending on how long it's been between Crocodad leaving Luffy behind and this scenario... Yeah either the wife is there, still pregnant, or there's a newborn Baby Vivi)

Like it'd be a risky move but depending on how ballsy Croc's feeling and how confident he feels in being able to kidnap the king without being noticed... Yeah he could probably do it. And I'm sure he'd have no problem killing Cobra either, if anything it'd be required if he didn't want the Government to find out he was out to find Pluton, and god knows Cobra would tell on Crocodile if left alive. I could see Crocodad being maybe a little iffy about killing Baby Vivi though (it's not like the newborn baby could report him to the WG anyways), but if nothing else, he just needs to be able to pull off the bluff of his life to convince Cobra to do as he's told. And we all know Crocodile's good at convincing people.

The only question is, how would Robin take that?

Watching Crocodile go into Full Murder Mode, hearing him say he'd kill a pregnant woman/a newborn baby if he didn't get what he wanted? Like yeah, I'm sure 11 year old Robin would be fine with that, that wouldn't make any alarm bells go off in her head at all, it'd be fiiiine. IT WOULD NOT BE FINE, SHE'D BE SCARED SHITLESS. That fear of "what will he do with me when he gets what he wants"? Well, Robin may not have found the answer to that question in particular, but she certainly found the answer to the opposite question, and it's not good

So say Cobra, kidnapped (perhaps with Baby Vivi) by Crocodile in the night, guides the two to the Poneglyph under the tombs. Crocodile puts Cobra out of his misery because he's not needed anymore. And he asks Robin to read the Poneglyph for him.

Robin, who has spent the last little while, be it weeks or months with Crocodile, him having become her "guardian", the thing keeping her safe. Crocodile, who has now shown how cold blooded and cruel he can be. Robin, who might be scared out of her mind. Of him.

And the Poneglyph says Pluton, the thing Crocodile wants, isn't there. It's in Wano.

What's she going to do?

EDIT: I wrote a sequel post, enjoy

#Moon posting #OP Meta #Sir Crocodile #Crocodad #Nico Robin #THIS POST WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. WHY DID I WRITE THIS. WHAT DEMON POSSESSED ME #I'm sure someone's written this already right #Right #Surely this fanfic already exists #Please tell me it exists #I dunno what to tell you I am not immune to a Juicy AU #Anyway on a more wholesome side of things: Robin accidentally calling Crocodile ''dad'' and he just inhales and swallows his whole cigar #Nearly chockes to death. Gets burns on his throat.#Robin feeling less alienated because of her DF ability because Croc has seen weirder AND is made of sand himself #If anything if they're literally by themselves then Robin being able to literally lend a hand to Croc at any time could be extremely useful #Like. In regular life situations. 'Cause Croc only has one hand. And Robin as many as she wants. Perfect duo.#(Also if they were travelling on like a small ship then it'd probably be built for a Tall Motherfucker like Croc right)#(Robin's ability would just make the ship more accessible to her and Croc would find that independence good)#Robin still gets a codename because Croc can't have anyone realize who she is. Maybe she even wears like a mask or summin' in public #If Crocodile's openly trans and the news of him transitioning recently broke out. Like. No avoiding that convo eh #Baby Robin's like ''...I read in a book once that some reptiles can change sex but I didn't know crocodiles could do it too''#''💦.../Humans/ can't do that normally either''#''Hmmmm. Weird. I don't think being a girl would suit you though'' // ''...I'll take that as a compliment''#I just. I think they could have really cute interactions if they warmed up to each other after a little while #And I'm Extremely Normal about that

2K notes · View notes

sceletaflores · 6 months ago

Text

"Dependence Is Weakness, Darling."

pairing: older!patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: it wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. it was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. and as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

—or: it's been a little over twelve years since you've seen patrick zweig.

word count: 7.8k (hopefully this is long enough lol)

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v, rough sex but in a loving way, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), semi-public sex (fucking in a car, you know i had to...), angst, swearing, cigarette smoking as a love language, slight mommy issues lmao, hints of mean!reader cause i still live for that shit, love confessions, rain scene cause i'm corny as hell, porn with SOOOO much plot, no use of y/n.

author's note: this might me the filthiest thing i've ever written lols. i actually DID get a couple asks for some more angsty patrick fics and ofc i love writing angst i'm just a girl i live for that shit. look at me doing what was asked of me and not just whatever i wanted! i'm a giver, what can i say. this fic was revived because of a few anon's who demanded it and i'm so glad they did. you guys got me to give this a second chance and i'm so proud of how it turned out. extra special shout out to @bii-aan-ckaa who fiercely advocated and waited very patiently for this! i'm so obsessed with you and your beautiful kind words. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s how long you can stomach sitting in the sticky booth of the bar watching Patrick Zweig flirt with a woman you don't recognize across the dimly lit room. Fifteen measly minutes until you were giving your friends some lame excuse of needing fresh air and leaving the table to escape out into the alley.

It’s been a little over twelve years since you’ve seen Patrick. A little over twelve years since you turned your back on him with tears spilling down your cheeks and your favorite racket a mangled, smashed mess gripped tightly in your shaking hand as you walked out of his life forever.

Or at least what you thought was forever, you guess you were wrong.

To put it lightly, your relationship with Patrick was…complicated. You met him the summer before you started at Stanford. He was tall with green eyes and curly hair and he was kind of an asshole but he made you laugh, so you let him fuck you anyway. At the time, you thought that was it. One really good fuck with a really hot guy you’d never see again.

You thought you were hallucinating when you saw him on the campus courts two months later, when he sauntered up to you with an unmistakable “I know what you look like naked” smirk on his face. He was just as tall and had the same green eyes and the same curly hair and was an even bigger asshole than he was before. You still let him fuck you anyway.

You never thought you’d get sucked into the storm that was whatever the fuck was going on between Art, Patrick and Tashi. Never thought that it would completely ruin your self esteem, your tennis, your everything.

You weren’t particularly close to Art or Tashi in college. Sure, you were all in the same circle. That didn’t make you best friends. Art was nice enough, but he never went out of his way to talk to you. You and Tashi were on the same team but that didn’t mean anything. You respected the hell out of her and her game, and you could tell she felt the same. Even with that respect, there was still a tiny part of you that resented her.

She was number one, the pride and joy of Stanford, had a constant slew of brands and scouts up to her ears. It seemed like no matter how hard you worked that she would always be number one. It felt like you were always just inches behind her.

Clawing and scratching your way through the ranks since you were twelve to be second best was never the plan. Your mother made sure to remind you of that every chance she got.

Then slowly, she started beating you at more than just tennis. Patrick wanted her, it was more than obvious. At first you didn’t care, he wasn't your boyfriend. He was just a guy you fucked, he could do whatever he wanted. You were friends. There wasn’t a problem.

When you realized you knew more about Patrick than just how he worked dick, then there was a problem.

At first, all the things you knew about him were boiled down to the vulgar little tidbits you’d notice when he fucked you. You know that he has a birthmark on his lower back. You know when he’d be close because he’d always bite your shoulder before he came. You know his favorite position was really missionary even though he told everyone it was doggy.

Knowing all that was fine.

You also know that he’s allergic to kiwi. You know that he only holds his cigarettes with his thumb and his pointer finger. You’d always know when he was nervous because he’d start tapping his fingers on his thigh. You know that when he’d listen to music he loved, that his right hand would drum along to the beat just a little bit faster than his left would.

You knew all those things because you were falling in love with him, and Patrick Zweig is not someone you fall in love with. Especially not with Tashi Duncan in the picture.

You tried your best to push it down, to pretend you weren’t hurt every time Patrick chose Tashi over you. When he’d miss your games because he was with Tashi, when he’d blow you off to go meet Tashi, when he started to stop returning your calls or replying to your texts. All things you never cared about before started slowly eating at you. You felt awful most days, holed up in your room wallowing in self-pity. Your GPA was steadily dropping as the semester went on. Even your tennis started slipping, and you lost your winning streak to a fucking scrub. When you finally cracked and broke down to your mother over the phone one night she just scoffed.

“Well what did you think would happen when you started to depend on that boy? Dependence is weakness, darling.”

Dependence is weakness. You blocked Patrick’s number that same night.

It all came to a head when he blew up at you after Tashi’s injury. Everyone was pretty shaken up about it. You’d never forget the way it buckled, the way the sharp snap rang through the court, the way she fell to the ground screaming. You’d never seen her cry before.

Patrick found you later that night, all alone on the practice courts trying to burn the day out of your mind by serving balls till you collapsed. It was the first time he talked to you in weeks. He was pissed. Screaming at you, calling you every nasty thing he could think of, getting up in your face. It was a fucking mess. You both said some things that should have never been said, but it ended when Patrick accused you of somehow being the cause of all of it.

“You hate Tashi, fucking hate her. You wanted something like this to happen. I bet you’re just over the fucking moon that she’s finally out and you can take her place. You can finally be number one seed and you're fucking ecstatic, aren't you? You’re so fucking pathetic, so desperate for validation. Maybe if mommy paid attention to you for once, you wouldn’t be so fucking needy. You're just a sad, delusional fucking runner-up, grasping at whatever shreds of importance you think you still have.”

You stood there, stunned by his outburst, each word hitting you like a physical blow. It was insane, nothing but Patrick blowing things way out of proportion in the midst of his anger.

You wanted to scream, to deny it vehemently, but the hurt and frustration choked off your words. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in you. Vision blurring out everything but Patrick's face twisted up with rage as he glared at you, his words lingering in the air like poison.

You told him about your mother because you thought you could trust him. You thought he was the only person that really understood you, his dad was a piece of shit too. Him using something so delicate as material to hit you where it hurts was the last straw.

You blew up, all the things you’d been keeping bottled up for months finally boiled over in you swinging your racket down on the green concrete over and over until there was nothing left of it to break. You didn’t even look at Patrick as you walked away. You never saw him again.

You’d love to say it was also the last time you thought about him, but that would be a lie. As much as he hurt you, and as much as you hated him for it, your mind refused to let you forget him.

You still smoke Camel Blues because that was your guys’ brand, even when you should have quit years ago anyway. You still buy the same color lighter, pink. You tell yourself it’s nothing more than an easy choice, that it’s a good color. It’s not at all because you can still hear Patrick’s teasing voice in the back of your head bitching, “I can’t believe you make me use a pink lighter.” when he always forgot his and had to borrow yours.

It’s not based on a compulsive need to be reminded of him every single time you use it. It’s just convenient, okay.

You know deep down that they were the only remnants of a past that you still couldn’t fully let go of. As much as you tried to bury those memories, they lingered, melded into the corners of your mind like stubborn stains.

It wasn’t just the cigarettes or the lighters. It was the way you still find yourself thinking about him. Patrick, with his tangled emotions and overwhelming presence, had left an inescapable mark on your life. And as much as you wished it, he wasn’t someone you could easily erase from yourself.

Even twelve years later you’re still trying to convince yourself that dependence is weakness, that you were better off without him. But sometimes, in the quiet moments like this when the smoke curls from your cigarette and the pink lighter flickers in your hand, you wonder if he ever thinks of you, if he regrets how things ended between the two of you.

Maybe it's not that you can't escape Patrick's grip on you after all these years, it's that you just won't.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear the heavy door to the bar swinging open, or the sound of gravel crunching underneath approaching footsteps.

“Holy shit,” a deep voice rings out from your right, “someone pinch me.”

Your whole body tenses, your cigarette freezing a few inches away from your lips. Something like fight or flight starts to quietly buzz beneath your skin. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, even despite the gruffer, more grown up tone that wasn’t there the last time you heard it.

Your heart’s already kicking into overdrive when you finally start to hesitantly turn your head, time almost slowing down as your eyes sweep over the alley. You kind of don’t want to believe that your luck is this shitty. That maybe it was all in your imagination, that you were thinking about him so much you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there, that he was still back in the bar feeling up that blonde girl. But it can never be that easy, and sure enough, there he is.

Patrick Zweig is standing a few feet away from you with both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and a wide, achingly familiar grin lighting up his face.

You’re quiet for a few long moments, completely shocked into silence. Your mind races with a million different things you want to say but can’t find the voice to. You should be causing a scene. You should be losing it, screaming, crying, throwing things, slapping him hard across his unfairly handsome face. But you don’t, too surprised to even move.

Patrick speaks again, taking several steps towards you. “It is really you, right?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth pulling into an easy, lopsided grin. To anyone else, the laid back, carefree tone he was going for would sound genuine. You can barely pick up on the stunned, almost breathless edge lacing his words, like he also can’t believe you’re standing right in front of him.

He steps into the light shining from a dingy lamp above the door, it basks around him in a yellow orange glow.

Same eyes, same ears, same Patrick.

For years you’ve thought about this exact moment, what you’d say if you ever saw him. You lose all of that practice the closer he gets. He’s less than a foot away from you now, an expectant look on his face. He’s waiting for you to say something.

You feel like running, like stubbing your cigarette on the pavement and making a break for the door. You already ran from him once, but old habits die hard.

You don’t run, you refuse to take the easy way out. You’re a grown woman, you’re stronger than you were in college, you’re going to the goddamn Olympics. It’s only Patrick for Christ’s sake.

“What are you doing here?” It sounds harsher than you meant, but that’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve kindness from you.

“Tennis.” Is all he says, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Camel blues. “What are you doing here?” He parrots back, smacking the bottom of the carton, plucking the one that shakes out between his long fingers. “I’d think that Miss. Team USA would be too busy for bar crawls.”

You bristle, eyes narrowing skeptically. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or not. “It’s not a bar crawl,” you shoot back childishly, feeling defensive under his heavy gaze. “We’re celebrating.”

Patrick just nods, letting out a small hum in lieu of replying. He's close enough now that you can see gray strands streaked through his hair. He looks older, a few barely there wrinkles creasing his skin as he pops his cigarette between his lips. “Got a light?” he asks around the filter, holding his hand out expectantly before you even answer.

It’s still just as annoying. You roll your eyes, sighing dramatically as you fish your lighter out of your skirts pocket. You place it in the open palm of his hand, ignoring the fireworks that go off at the base of your spine when his fingers catch on your wrist as you pull away.

He mumbles out a half-assed thanks, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind. If he notices the color, he doesn’t say anything. It feels wrong that he doesn’t tease you about it, staying silent as he tosses it back to you when his cigarette finally lights. You ignore the hurt blooming in your chest as you pocket it.

Patrick takes a deep inhale, the tip of his cigarette burns bright red. The way his lips wrap around the filter has heat spreading through you. “Shocked you’re still smoking,” he waves his free hand at you vaguely, smoke flowing from his lips as he speaks. “It’s not super admirable.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s really how you want to start this?

“Start what?” he asks coyly, leaning his shoulder too close to you against the brick. He’s playing dumb, the smirk on his face gives him away.

You say nothing, not trusting yourself to speak. He has a beard now, sort of patchy and fairly new looking. You wrinkle your nose up at it.

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s acting like this. All calm and collected like he’s catching up with an old friend, like he didn’t say all those horrible things to you. As if every single word he said that night isn’t still engraved in your mind and carried with you through your whole career.

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, taking another slow drag. “Have you seen either of them?” His voice is hesitant, like he’s treading the water of your boundaries by bringing this up. “Or am I your first?” He lets the innuendo hang in the air, trying to joke his way through something neither of you really want to talk about.

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the part of the street you can see through the alleys opening.

You don’t need to ask who “them” is.

You just shake your head no, not wanting to have to say anything out loud and make this into a whole thing. The smoke from your cigarette swirls through your lungs, warm and familiar.

You’ve seen them both at multiple tennis events. Things like matches, and galas, and charity auctions. Hell, they watched from the stands when you won Wimbledon for the first time. You just make sure and avoid them like the plague, always running the other direction the second you see a short bob and cropped blonde hair.

You’ve been in the same room with them countless times over the years but you might as well have been in separate worlds. The only “contact” you’ve had with them since you all graduated was weirdly ominous.

Art followed you on Instagram after you got your third career slam, but he doesn’t like any of your posts. You’re one of the mere twenty accounts in his following. You never followed him back.

Then, when your career first started taking off, the press somehow learned about your past with Tashi. They started using it to their advantage when picking headlines for any pieces written about you. “The only woman in the world to beat Tashi Duncan!” It pissed you off to no end. It was stupid, a way to get clicks on their sad little gossip sites. And it wasn’t even fucking true.

They finally stopped when you threatened to sue their asses. Apparently, Tashi noticed.

She sent you flowers. You threw them out.

Patrick nods back, taking his own slow drag. The sound of traffic hums in the background, the music from the bar bleeding through the wall mutely.

“Congrats on that,” he says casually, looking you up and down slowly. You fight not to squirm under his gaze. “On making the team. That’s some serious shit. I always knew it’d be you, out of all of us.”

It’s a blatant lie. You were always four out of four in college, the one person in the group with the least potential for stardom. If it wasn’t for Tashi’s injury, she’d definitely be in your place — on top of the world.

He’s trying to pacify you, to butter you up. All it does is grate on your nerves and leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

“Did you just come out here to interrogate me? To mess with me?” you ask sharply, frustration starting to get the better of you. “Do you want a fucking autograph or something?”

Patrick laughs, throwing his head back. “Nope, I wanted to catch up. It's been a while.” he shrugs, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “I just know how much you like talking about yourself, that’s all.”

You pause, picking up on the clear implication of his words. “Excuse me?” you question, turning towards him.

“Just saying,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “When we were younger everyone always thought I was this arrogant, cocky, self obsessed prick…” he trails off, an infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. It does nothing to soothe you, only adding fuel to the fire of your anger. “And they were all right, I was. But, that’s also exactly what you are right now.” he finishes, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

You feel it, all the emotions swirling inside you of at seeing Patrick again threatening to burst. Anger and misery waging a war in your stomach. The wind is starting to pick up around you, making goosebumps break out over your skin. The fabric of your skirt swishes around your thighs. You feel clammy, but it has nothing to do with the temperature drop.

“Was?” you ask, condescending and mean, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “You really don’t think you’re still all of those things?”

Patrick chuckles, shoulders shaking with amusement. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it. “I’ve changed, Patrick.” you say sternly, brows furrowing in displeasure. Your tone is hard, frustration seeping into your words. Considering the last time the two of you spoke, this was almost going well. It’s just like Patrick to ruin something before he needs to.

You know distantly that you could deescalate the situation, but maybe you’re more alike than you thought. Maybe you’re just too greedy to keep the peace. “So fucking sorry that I’m not the same person I was in college, but I actually chose to grow up.”

Patrick snorts, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nose. “Yeah, clearly.” he mutters under his breath, it’s condescending and sarcastic. It pisses you off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask sharply, cigarette now forgotten and steadily burning away at your side.

Patrick shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still so lost. I sure as shit don’t have a red, white, and blue track suit hanging in my closet, but at least I know who I am.” He doesn't sound angry, only sure of himself, like he may have been thinking about this for a while. His face is passive, body relaxed as he leans against the hard brick.

Your jaw clenches, anger running hot through your veins. He doesn’t know anything about you, hasn’t for over ten years. He doesn’t have the right to try and talk down to you, not after all the hard work you put in to get to where you are.

“My wrist alone is worth ten million. What are you worth now, Patrick?” You’ll be embarrassed about bringing up status later, you always try to stay as humble as possible, but you’re too mad to care. You just need to hurt him, to hurt him like he hurt you. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that Patrick’s parents cut him off a while ago, that he’s been slumming it ever since. “I know exactly who I am, I’m a fucking Olympian.”

The venom in your tone is sharp, each word from your lips like a knife stabbing through the tense air trying to draw blood. “You’re a fucking nobody, Patrick. You’re irrelevant. Washed up. Buried. Forgotten.” You pause when your voice starts to shake, taking a deep inhale of smoke to try and calm yourself. Your hand is shaking too, ash falls from the burnt out tip down to the gravel. Patrick just watches you, his expression doesn’t change. Smoke billows from between your lips, blowing away with the wind. “We’re not on the same level, not anymore.”

Patrick’s unfazed, staring back at you with his cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes it between his fingers, letting his arm drop to hang at his side. “I’ve been thinking about you.” he says casually, head lolling to the side lazily. He looks at you through his lashes, eyes sweeping over your face slowly. “I was just thinking about you, and now you’re here. Right fucking in front of me.” he shakes his head with a dry laugh. “You look…” he trails off, green eyes taking in every inch of you. “You look amazing.”

Your pulse flutters wildly, you feel so light headed, like you could pass out any second. “I’ve missed you, missed you everyday since that night.” His expression is that same half cocked grin from before, all smooth bravado and easy smiles as if he’s not staring at you like you’re the very blood coursing through his veins. All the air drains from your lungs, mind racing what feels like a thousand miles per second.

He sounds like he means it. He looks like he means it. He can’t possibly mean it.

A loud chant ringing through your skull is the only coherent thing screaming through all the mess. Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fucking fall for it–

“Well I don’t miss you.” A lie. “You were nothing to me, Patrick.” Another lie. “You were just easy dick.” Your stomach twists painfully, like your body is physically trying to stop you from lying to yourself any further.

His face stays neutral, it frustrates you to no end that you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Patrick had a terrible poker face in college, you could read him like a book with a single glance. It was one of your favorite things about him, how expressive his face always was.

Now he’s just staring down the bridge of his nose at you passively, the picture of indifference. It’s another reminder of how long it’s been, that he’s lived a whole life without you in all that time. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you as he does.

His lips are slick and pink, just how you remember them. The beard isn’t so bad, it makes him look more rugged, more like a man. It’s the most drastic change in his appearance, far different from the smooth skinned pretty boy he was before.

He exhales, a long stream of smoke blowing past your ear. “What are you still doing here then?” he muses with a small shrug. He leans in even closer, slowly, like you were a cornered animal he didn’t want to spook. You can smell him, something woodsy with a hint of musk. You can see the clusters of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, almost completely faded. “If I’m nothing,” he clarifies, simple, easy. “Why are you here?”

It’s a loaded question, one he obviously knows the answer to. It’s a dick move, forcing you to confront what you’re really feeling. Your eyes start to sting, complicated emotions welling up in your throat. “Fuck you Patrick.” you whisper weakly, all the bite in your tone getting lost in your dejection. Your lip wobbles warningly, you try your best to stifle it. You refuse to cry in front of him.

Patrick’s face does something funny, turning his eyes to the sidewalk. “I need someone like that again. Someone that isn’t afraid to fucking check me, that wants me to do better and not because they just see a check or a legacy or whatever the fuck else my parents expected from me. Someone that wants me to do better because they actually believe in me.”

The honesty in his voice takes you by surprise. He gets more worked up the longer he talks, chest rising and falling a lot faster than before. Rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his hardened exterior. “I fucked up that night, I know. Now my life’s a fucking mess, and I need someone to help make it make sense again.“

You scoff thickly, shaking your head in disbelief as you fight back tears. “And I’m that person?” you ask skeptically, brow raised in question.

“You always were,” he replies easily, his face forming into a sad smile. He almost sounds like his old self. Your brain flashes the image of Patrick leaning outside the door of your science lecture, waiting to walk you back to your dorm. He’s smiling wide enough to show teeth, looking down at you with brilliant green eyes, just like he is right now.

Suddenly, he wasn’t the boy that broke your heart on a tennis court twelve years ago.

He was the boy that held your hair back when you threw up after drinking too much at a frat party and still stayed the night even though you didn’t hook up, his chest pressed against your back like a security blanket the whole night. He was the boy that let you make friendship bracelets on the handle of his favorite racket, and secretly kept the one you made for him braided around the neck for weeks until you finally noticed the fraying blue strings still in place when he forgot his tennis bag at your dorm room one night.

Suddenly he wasn’t anything but the boy you fell in love with when you were eighteen years old.

You swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribcage. Your cigarette falls from the slack grip of your fingers, plummeting to your feet where it burns out on the pavement.

It’s like you lose control of yourself, like all your morals get shot out of a cannon into the sun. You’re lunging forward before you know what you’re doing, fisting the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him down to meet you halfway. Your first kiss with Patrick in twelve years.

It’s a mess of teeth clashing together roughly, with way too much tongue and spit to be classified as romantic. It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s fucking filthy and it’s exactly what you need.

Your tongue forces its way between Patrick’s lips when he gasps in shock, mapping out the familiar territory of his mouth like muscle memory. His big hands fly up to hold onto your hips as he eagerly returns your kiss, pressing you up against the brick and sucking your tongue lewdly. He tastes like smoke and bottom shelf whiskey. You moan into his mouth, wetness starting to seep through the thin material of your panties.

You stay like that for a while, just kissing until Patrick slides the hard line of his cock against your hip strategically. You moan at the size of it pressing onto you through his jeans, breaking the kiss to inhale a couple lungfuls of air. “You’re not fucking me in an alley.” You say bluntly as he trails wet kisses down the side of your throat.

He laughs, nipping at your collarbone teasingly. “My car’s a block away,” he offers between kisses.

You think about it for a second. Deciding on whether or not you’re going to let Patrick fuck you in the backseat of his car like you’re two horny teenagers and not full grown adults.

“Lead the way.” Is all you say, finally letting yourself smile when Patrick starts to drag you away from the bar.

You shoot your friends a quick text letting them know you decided to head home early, already in the uber you ordered when you’re actually letting Patrick drag you across a blessedly empty parking lot to an old SUV parked in the middle. A completely one-eighty from the Porsche he used to drive.

He takes a second to press you against the door, capturing your lips with his again. It’s a slower kiss, sweeter than the one you shared outside the bar. You feel butterflies erupt in your stomach when he cups your face, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. He fumbles blindly for the car door with his other hand, pulling it open and pushing you into the back. He follows closely, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

Patrick’s back on you in less than a second, yanking at the buttons of your shirt impatiently, fingers too big to work them through the holes as fast as he wants to. He lets out a frustrated growl, grabbing both sides and pulling hard. The buttons all go flying in different directions, landing in different spots around you.

“That was three hundred dollars,” you mumble against his lips, not wanting to stop kissing him for even a second. He looms over you, broad and all encompassing. He sits up to yank his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside and popping open the button of his jeans.

“You can buy another one,” he says simply, shucking his jeans and boxers off all in one go. His dick is long and lovely, tip red and drooling pre-cum that drips all the way down to his balls. Your mouth waters, desperate to taste it, to feel the weight of it on your tongue and down your throat. You push it to the back of your mind. There’s no time for that, both of you too keyed up to do anything other than fuck.

Patrick leans down, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. He turns his attention to your pulling skirt down, panties going with it and getting tossed onto the floorboard carelessly. His eyes zero in on your bare pussy, wet and on display. The cool air shocks your system, making you want to press your thighs together but Patrick’s hands keep you spread open.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, moving to roll the knuckle of his right index finger over your slick entrance, just barely rocking it into you. You gasp, your whole body trembling with need. “Just like I remember.” He mutters to himself, pushing in the smallest bit deeper.

Your leg kicks out, patience starting to wear thin. “C’mon, Pat.” you mewl sweetly, bucking your hips up in a clear invitation. “Fuck me.”

Patrick shifts up onto his knees, silently shuffling closer to your spread thighs. His cock juts out from his body, so thick and heavy that it doesn’t point straight up, instead hangs angry and red between his legs. His big hands slide halfway up your thighs, you shiver at the way they skirt across your skin lightly. He presses you backwards by them, leaning over you with your legs slung across his shoulders.

His cock drags across your inner thigh, trailing a sloppy line of pre-come as it does. You nearly wail, wrapping your arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders as you beg for him to give you what you want.

“God Patrick! Put it in. Please, put it in. Let me have it, please, fuck–,” you beg frantically, arms tightening around his shoulders like you’re trying to drag him impossibly closer to you. He goes willingly, burying his nose in the soft skin of your neck. He presses a small kiss directly over your pulse.

“I’m gonna give you this cock, baby.” he whispers lowly, hot lips brushing against your skin with every word. He slides the head of his cock through your wet folds, stopping to rub it over your swollen clit a few times. “Gonna get all up inside you and fuck you exactly how you like.” He slides the length down, letting his tip catch on your empty, clenching hole.

You’re so damn worked up, writhing and pushing back and begging Patrick to just fuck you already, that you can’t take anymore teasing. Your hole contracts around the tip of his dick like it’s trying to suck him in. He sinks in deeper, slowly feeding every thick inch into your aching cunt.

“God,” Your name falls from his lips in a shuddery breath that fans over your fluttering pulse. “You still smell the same.” It’s the same stunned, breathless tone from when he first saw you. He presses his face cheek to cheek with yours, the rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin.

Patrick moves his hips against you slowly, deep strokes that drag every thick inch of him against the walls of your cunt. The tip of his cock stabbing that sweet spot inside you that makes stars glow bright on the ceiling of his car each time you blink. The angle has his balls pressing against your cunt as he fucks into you, the excessive pre-come leaking from his tip mixing with the sticky wetness of your juices leaves an obscene ring of creamy white around the spread hole of your cunt. It sticks wetly to the base of Patrick’s cock with each thrust, shining back at you on his skin when he pulls out.

The slow thrusts feel amazing, but you know it’s not enough. You need him to pound into you, to bully his big cock into your cunt like he’s getting back at you for shutting him out. You need him to fuck you.

“Harder, Pat…” you whine breathlessly, clawing desperately at the polyester seats.

He groans loudly, hips immediately speeding up, getting rougher, meaner. He leans up to get more power behind his thrusts, breaking your tight hold on his shoulders. “This is where you belong,” he grits out, sweat dripping from his forehead to fall onto your heaving chest. The sharp smack smack smack of his hips bruising your ass gets louder, the lewd noise filling the car. “Where you should have been this whole fucking time, spread open on my cock.”

The only thing you can even get out anymore are pleading whines and loud moans of Patrick’s name as he pounds into you like he’s trying to kill you. The harsh snap of his hips inching you further up the backseat until your head’s knocking against the doors handle on each mean thrust. Your feet bounce by his ears, body almost completely folded in half so all you can do is lie there and take it.

The car rocks steadily, anyone who spares a glance at the SUV will know what’s going on inside.

Patrick sneaks a hand between your legs, fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You scream, throwing your head back in pleasure as the calloused tips over his fingers work you over. “Fuck yeah,” Patrick mutters, turning his head to lick and bite at your ankle. “You’re so fucking sexy, so fucking beautiful. I missed you so much, missed this pussy.” His voice is pinched, hips fucking into you impossible faster.

The wet squelching noise of your cunt is filthy, splattering against Patrick’s heavy balls with each thrust. “I know she missed me too, didn’t she baby?” he taunts, eyes wild and blown out. “Taking my cock so well, squeezing me so fucking good.”

“Close,” you gasp out. Patrick pitches forward, licking into your parted lips as he rubs tight circles over your clit faster. He kisses you sloppily, smearing spit all over your lips and chin. His sweat drips onto your face and mixes with your own, it should be gross, but it makes you even wetter. The primal part of your brain overjoyed to be claimed by him. He lifts his fingers up the tiniest bit, smacking them over your clit with the smallest amount of force.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, back arching off the seat wildly as you gush around his cock. You claw at his back desperately, nails raking down his skin hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake.

“Shit– that’s good, milk it out of me baby, work for this fucking load.” he groans, hips not slowing down as he chases his own release. His breath puffs over your skin, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter the closer he gets. You whine, trying your best focus on clenching your cunt over his cock in your fucked out state. “That’s it, baby– God – you’re gonna make me come, squeezing me so tight I can barely fucking move…” he growls, teeth sinking into your neck hard.

You hiss sharply, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure starts to become too much. He licks over the bite mark, like he’s apologizing. “Gonna fucking come inside you, fill you up so good, fuck–”

His rambling dissolves into a loud groan, hips giving one last thrust as he buries himself as deep in your cunt as he can. You feel rope after rope of warm come flood your insides, painting your walls with it. It feels like hours, him unloading into you with cut off moans and grunts.

You're still desperately trying to catch your breath when he finally starts to pull out of you as gently as he can. The red tip of his cock popping free lets the river of his come leak out from your abused hole, spilling out of you to drip onto the car’s seat.

Patrick curses at the sight, scooping the white, creamy mess onto his fingers so he can fuck it back into you. You hiss at the over stimulation, thighs squeezing together around his hand. Your chest is still heaving, breathing erratic as you slowly come down from your orgasm. Patrick tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, smiling warmly as he takes you into his arms and shifts around until he’s sitting up against the door with you curled into his chest.

The windows are steamy, melting all the streetlights outside into a swamp of warm colors on the glass. They shine through the car like sunlight piercing through a stained glass window. You feel light and hazy, like you’re in a dream. Patrick’s body grounds you, firm and familiar against your back. It’s quiet for a long time, only the sound of soft breathing fills the car. You're scratching your nails through the hair on Patrick’s chest when he finally breaks the silence.

“There’s…” he says into your hair, trailing off near the end. He’s idly tracing shapes on your lower back. A circle, a square, a circle, a diamond, a square, a heart. “There’s this challenger in New Rochelle in a couple weeks, I’m entering it. You should come.”

Your heart drops, the delicate cloud encompassing you and Patrick forcefully ripped away in less than a second. You’ve already heard of this challenger, seen all the publicity it’s been getting since Art’s name came up in the conversation surrounding it. The ‘Phil’s Tire Town Challenger’ is all anyone can talk about.

If Art’s there, she will be too. Sitting in the stands in a classy Ralph Lauren two piece, watching her husband and Patrick on the court, looming over the two of them for the first time in years. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing her. You can’t stomach the thought of Patrick seeing her, terrified that the second she spares him a glance you’ll be right back where you were in college, an afterthought left in the dust for something better.

Your stomach lurches violently, you feel nauseous. The heat of Patrick’s backseat becomes almost unbearable, making it harder to breathe. You rip yourself away from him, tearing through the backseat to find your clothes.

Patrick startles, sitting up with a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what's wrong?” You can feel the warmth of his hands hovering over your back, not sure if he should touch. “What did I do?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Your throat feels tight, chest constricted and heavy as you try to take in lungfuls of air. You tug on your skirt and panties haphazardly, grabbing the first shirt you find strewn across the car's floor and yanking it on. You know it’s not yours but you don’t care, too busy trying to shove your shoes back onto your feet and push open the door all at once.

Patrick questions you the entire time, voice confused and insistent as you tumble out into the parking lot. The cool air feels like a life jacket, the smell of rain fills your nose as you try to steady your erratic breathing. You’re still trying to tug your right shoe on as you start to speed walk away from his car.

You can hear the sound of feet slapping behind you on the pavement as you walk. A strong hand wraps around your bicep, whipping you around. Patrick only has his pants on, shirtless and barefoot in his haste to catch up with you.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes searching your face closely. It makes tears burn hot at your waterline, blurring your vision and falling to trickle down your cheeks when you try to blink them away.

“This was a mistake, Patrick.” your voice is thick with emotion, you try to wrench your arm out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, not squeezing tight enough to hurt but to try and keep you in place. You need to leave, to get as far away from Patrick as you can before you’re in too deep. “Please, let go.” Your voice is small, shaky and weak and so unlike you. The panic from the car is still wrapped around you, growing tighter every second you spend with him.

Patrick shakes his head wildly, raindrops slowly start to fall onto his bare shoulders. “No, fuck no! We can talk about this. We just need to talk–”

“Patrick stop!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, loud and desperate as you double your efforts to free your arm. “Please just let me go!”

You don’t know if it’s the way you said it or the look on your face, maybe it’s a bit of both, but something makes Patrick let you go. Dropping your arm from his grip and letting his own hang limply at his side.

Rain starts to come down all around you, large drops hitting your skin and soaking the cotton of your shirt. You let yourself meet his eyes, they're sad in a way you’ve never seen before. The green turned dull and lifeless. It looks wrong on him.

When you can’t stand the hurt look on his face any longer, you leave. Walking away deeper into the rain, small puddles splashing up around your shoes with every step. You hope Patrick doesn’t follow you, that he lets you go. You’re doing him a favor by making the choice for him, it’s easier this way.

“You know, I think I really loved you.” He calls from behind you as the rain really starts to pick up. His voice almost gets swallowed by the thunder, you wish it would have.

Against your better judgment, you look back. Patrick hasn't moved, still standing in the middle of the parking lot. The rain is making his hair stick to his forehead, starting to seep into the denim of his jeans to darken the gray.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, voice tiny and pathetic. Patrick probably couldn’t even hear you over the wind whipping through the air. He stares back at you, there's too much distance for you to see the look on his face. You turn on your heels and keep walking.

It’s nostalgia in its sickest form, the dark familiarity of the situation washing over you with the rain as you walk away from Patrick again. Ignoring every call of your name and desperate pleas for you to come back is new, you can’t tell if it hurts more or less than the silence of last time.

You wrap your arms around yourself, tears mixing with the trails of rain running down your cheeks. It’ll make it easier to convince yourself later on that you weren’t really crying, that it was just the rain. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will all be behind you. Patrick will be fine, he doesn’t really love you. In a few weeks he’ll go to the challenger and forget all about you.

You hear your mothers voice ring out in the back of your head as you walk.

"It's for the best, my love. Dependence is weakness."

You hope to God that she's right.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

532 notes · View notes

science-lings · 9 months ago

Text

God, I love it when people who clearly have personal experience or expert knowledge on certain things write obscure AUs that incorporate those things so hyperspecifically that I feel like I'm learning something.

I love nurses who write hospital AUs that have accurate medical knowledge just thrown in there because they went to medical school and when people who clearly had a phase where they obsessed over a certain time period write an AU set in that time period or location it's just so fun.

Tell me about the 1950s Chicago culture and history and how the characters are interracial and how that affects their life, I love when the money is accurately converted and the personal histories of the characters are thoughtfully woven to incorporate the new setting they're put in, I love it when people care so much about making something and use their own expertise to aide them.

#i love it when the authors notes are just a history lesson #or like an index/glossary about the vocab used by the characters #if you think no one would care about your mechanic au where you throw a fictional guy under a car bc that's what you know I care #its so nice when people so clearly care about the world that they're writing in #can you tell i found a new fic today and I'm excited about it #ao3 #fanfic

582 notes · View notes

eowynstwin · 3 months ago

Text

Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. - ao3

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

299 notes · View notes

madaqueue · 10 months ago

Text

What the Books Don't Teach You

pairing: ryomen sukuna x f!reader

themes/content: dark content. dubcon. language, smut. name calling (slut, whore), hair pulling, choking, orgasm denial, fingering, sex. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.5k

a/n: i'm so sorry if this is the first thing of mine you're reading or if you followed me for cute content AH it's dark and intense but i am such a sukuna apologist :'/ forgive me (also i know this isn't perfectly canon with the name stuff but shh)

The library is dim, illuminated only by the flickering candles that surround your workspace. Books upon books, pages of notebooks sprawled around you, trying to uncover anything you can about the curse that has plagued your best friend Yuji.

It’s been months since Sukuna first appeared. At first he was easy to contain, surely owed to Yuji’s strong willpower, his need for nonmaleficence. But as he consumed more he grew increasingly powerful, a dark presence that constantly hid around the corners of his mind. Yuji could sense it, too - there would be moments, barely just flashes at first, where it’s like he wasn’t there. You’d be talking to him and his eyes would glaze over, the ever-present grin on his face dropping slightly. “Sorry,” he’d mutter sheepishly as returned to himself, “what were you saying?”

Inside his mind, you knew what was happening: Yuji was talking to him. The “King of Curses,” a title he demanded to be called, one that you refused to use whenever you were forced to acknowledge his presence. You’ve seen him kill over the name when it was not honored, yet you would rather die at his hand than utter an ounce of respect to him.

As time went on, Sukuna appeared more and more often, a fact that every Jujutsu sorcerer desperately tried to ignore. When he did appear, the man was cruel, selfish, and sadistic. He taunted those he knew to be weaker than himself and purposely placed himself in harm’s way to prove his own strength. He left a path of destruction and desecration in his wake, forcing Yuji to clean up the pieces.

Sukuna had ruined Yuji’s life, and you couldn’t stand by and let your friend suffer under the weight of the curse for any longer. You began sneaking out of your room every night to the library, trying to collect any information on how to rid him from existence. It didn’t matter if he had to be exorcised or killed, so long as he relinquished control of Yuji.

Unfortunately, information was sparse. In the weeks you’ve been searching you haven't even been able to find the source of Sukuna’s cursed energy, let alone how to eliminate it. As your eyes skim the pages of text in front of you, something catches your eye:

‘Ryomen Sukuna holds a true form unlike any other. He is a demon, with four arms, two faces, and an additional mouth on his torso. This grants him inhuman strength and senses.’

Okay, you think, now we’re getting somewhere. Learning his appearance can give you insight into his strengths and, hopefully, his weaknesses.

As you begin copying the notes onto the paper next to you, the candlelight flickers.

A low laugh echoes through the room. “What are you doing in here all by yourself, little sorcerer?” The deep voice makes your blood run cold. As you start to turn towards the source of the sound in the doorway, a tattooed hand grabs your cheeks and holds your head in place. Another hand appears on your waist, digging into your skin with sharp black nails.

Shit.

Sukuna’s presence suddenly becomes overwhelming, his body pressing against your back, heat radiating off of his bare chest. You still can’t see him, but his cursed energy is unmistakable.

Your mind races as you feel panic setting in. How did he find you in here? How did you miss him entering the room? How did he take over Yuji’s body this time?

Another laugh erupts from his lips. “Aw, are you reading about me, little one? How adorable,” his voice dripping with fake sweetness.

“Su-” you start before he tightens his grip on your face.

“I didn’t say you could speak, now did I?” he rumbles. “You really should learn some manners. Besides, I know you’re aware that I don’t much care for that name.” A chill shoots up your body as you try to steady your breathing. His hold on you never wavers as he shifts so his mouth is next to your ear. “But lucky for you, I’m feeling quite forgiving tonight,” he whispers, breath hot on your skin.

Your face flushes at his words as your heart races in your chest. At first you think it’s just fear coursing through your body, until you notice a dull ache between your legs.

No. No. No. This is not happening.

His deep voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts as he places his head on your shoulder, looking down at the open books in front of you. “Ah, I see you were just starting to learn about my true form. I was glorious, you know. This fucking brat is nothing compared to what I once was,” he spits, mentally gesturing at Yuji’s body. “Fortunately, I was able to take one piece of my old body with me.” Before you can ask, you feel a tongue suddenly slide against your lips.

The feeling makes you jump in your seat, Sukuna’s hold tightening on you. Another laugh booms through the room as your eyes glance down to see a mouth formed on the palm that grips your face. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, woman. I’ve seen the way you stare at the brat, just think of me like him, but better,” he smirks.

He was right - you had caught Sukuna’s eyes staring at you whenever you stole glances at Yuji out of the corner of your eye, but it was nothing serious. The poor boy already had enough going on with this curse, you couldn’t bring yourself to add to his stress by confessing how you feel.

This fucking curse.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I have taken quite an interest in you myself. Don’t think I don’t notice when you purposely drop something just to bend over, or when you wear those tight shreds of cloth you could barely call a uniform. You fucking tease,” he growls.

The space between your legs throbs at the low vibration of his voice against you. What is happening? Is he doing this to you?

As if he hears your thoughts, he speaks again. “I know you’ve thought about it too, there’s no need to be so proud. Before I was stuck in this brat’s body I had whores like you lining up for me every day, not because I made them, but because they wanted me.” He pauses, using the silence to lick up your neck and bite at your ear. “And I have a feeling you want me, too.”

Fuck. His words have your knees weak and pussy throbbing. You’re grateful to be sitting down, otherwise you know you’d be visibly shaking, no longer from fear.

Suddenly the hand on your waist loosens, but instead of releasing you, he drags it down between your legs. His nails scratch softly against the skin of your thigh, bare beneath your skirt. His fingers reach your clothed cunt, and from his soft chuckle you can tell you have soaked through your panties.

“I knew it,” he mutters, tracing up your covered folds. The feeling forces a soft moan out of your mouth and you feel Sukuna’s lips curl into a grin against your neck. “Say it, little sorcerer. Say you want me.”

You gather every ounce of restraint left in your body to answer. “N-no,” your voice waivers.

Your response seems to amuse him as he practically giggles into your ear. The hand that previously held your face drops down to your neck as he squeezes your airway closed. “And here I thought Jujutsu sorcerers were supposed to be some noble, honest breed. But I guess some of them can be lying whores, huh?”

With that, he grabs you and throws you against the desk, your chest hitting the dark wood with a hollow thud. Your hands land under you as you try to brace yourself against the sudden impact and Sukuna takes the opportunity to yank your skirt down your legs, throwing it across the room. You yelp as a hand crashes against your thigh, pulling you back towards him. He presses his hips against you, feeling the bulge growing through the black sweatpants Yuji must have been wearing to bed. “See, my cock knows it wants you. Even I can be honest, so what’s stopping you?” he growls. He grinds himself slowly against you, the pressure against your needy cunt driving you insane. “I know this pussy wants me, just admit it,” he sneers.

“I-” you try to start again before Sukuna shoves the side of your head down against the desk, your cheek hot against the cold wood.

“The next words out of your mouth better be the truth, or I won’t hesitate to kill you,” he rasps into your ear.

Think, think, think. How can you get out of this? What can you say to appease the man - no, the curse - that’s currently pinning you down?

As you’re trying to think of a way out of your current situation, he thrusts his hips up against you. The action, still done through two layers of cloth, forces another moan out of you.

Fuck, that feels good.

“I…I want you,” you whisper, the words leaving your lips before you can realize what you’ve said.

“Louder,” he commands.

“I want you,” you whine. “Please, Sukuna, please.”

Boisterous laughter fills the empty room again. Leaning back over you, he whispers into your ear. “Was that so hard?”

He steps back behind you, suddenly ripping your now-drenched panties into shreds, making you gasp as the cold air hits your heat. Finally free from the hold he had on your head, you turn your body slightly to look at him for the first time. In the candlelight, he looks haunting - tattoos outline the contours of his body, covering his face, arms, and chest, the flickering light casting shadows across the hollows of his scarlet eyes that are currently focused between your legs.

Sensing your gaze on him, he smirks. “Admire it while you can,” he says while lowering the waistband of his sweatpants to release his fully erect cock, a drip of precum leaking from the tip reflecting in the dim light. “Liars don’t get to watch while I fuck you.”

His arm shoots up to the back of your neck, pushing your face back down against the desk. The other goes to your pussy as he shoves two fingers roughly inside of you. Before you can even process the new sensation, you feel a tongue form on his hand and begin lapping up your folds. “F-fuck!” you scream, pressure suddenly forming in your stomach.

“So close already?” Sukuna chuckles from behind you. “I’ve barely even touched you, you needy little thing. Must’ve been waiting for this for a while, hmm?” he purrs. Your back involuntarily arches as your legs begin to shake. Right as you feel yourself approaching the edge of an orgasm, his hand pulls away from you. “Not so fast. You still have to learn some manners, remember?”

The hand that was previously on your neck moves to grab a fistful of your hair as the other grabs your waist, pulling your ass up into the air. You hear him adjusting himself behind you and your eyes widen as you feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance.

“Now, say my name, whore,” he barks at you.

“Sukuna-” you whimper.

“No.” He yanks your hair, pulling your head off the table.

You hesitate. You know what he’s asking for, but you also know you vowed to never, ever call him that.

“Say it,” he commands, voice stern.

As you contemplate your next words, Sukuna slowly starts sliding his cock inside of you. The sensation of your walls stretching around him, a mix of pain and pleasure, makes you whimper.

Something in you needed more, and you only knew one way to get it. Fuck.

You take in a shaky breath, knowing what your brain has to do to get your body what it wants. “K-king…King of Curses.” Your voice waivers as the title leaves your mouth.

He smiles. “Good little sorcerer,” he hums. Suddenly, the hand on your hip grips you hard enough you can almost feel his nails breaking skin. He thrusts his hips forward, forcing the rest of his length inside you. Sukuna grunts as he enters you, relishing in the tight, warm grip you have around him. He pulls out of you before roughly shoving back in, tears welling in your eyes from sheer pleasure.

Pulling your hair further, he brings your body flush with his. “Now,” he growls into your ear, “let’s see if you can behave well enough to cum on my cock.”

The words alone have you dizzy, pussy clenching around him. You want to open your mouth, you want to scream, beg, do anything for him to let you finish, but something tells you to wait. He continues to pull out and thrust back in, his hips circling in rough, imprecise motions. The wet sounds of him pumping in and out of you fill the air, the noise so lewd you pray no one else happens to be walking past the library. You feel so full, his cock splitting you in half, and you still want more.

“Well?” he questions, breaking your silence. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“You…you didn’t say I could speak,” you respond meekly, trying to hold yourself together as he continues to thrust into you. Skin on skin, the sounds of his balls slapping against you, pelvis ramming against your ass, echoes through the room.

Once again, he laughs. “What a surprise, you really did learn your manners. What a well-trained slut you are,” he hums. You feel your core tighten again at his words. “For behaving so well, I’ll let you cum.”

Upon hearing his permission, something inside of you snaps. You throw your head back, moaning, as you tilt your hips to take him even farther inside of you. His tip pushes into that sweet spot, bringing you closer and closer to your release.

Finally, it hits. Your eyes roll back into your head, your mouth opens as a sound, somewhere between a scream and a groan, escapes your lips. The pain, the pleasure, the everything of Sukuna’s cock surges inside of you. He never relents, never slows, as your pussy twitches around him. Your legs give out and he releases your hair, letting your body drop to the desk beneath you.

Your head spins, vision clouded as you lay on the table. The first thing you feel is Sukuna pulling out of you and you whine at the empty feeling you’re left with. He walks toward you and leans over, face to face with him for the first time, his red eyes burning into yours.

“And that, little sorcerer, is why you can’t learn everything about me from a book,” his voice low. All you can do is stare at him, eyes glazed over. “Maybe next time you’ll earn my cum, if you can remember how to behave,” he smirks.

Without another word, he tucks his still hard cock under the waistband of his sweatpants and turns to walk away, presumably back to Yuji’s room. You’re left in the dimly lit library, panting, aching.

You may not know much about Sukuna, certainly not from your reading, but you do know one thing: you need more of him.

310 notes · View notes

i-like-red-star-burst-b3 · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter one

So, I was able to finish by tonight :)))) there will probably be misspelled words and bad grammar

word count:546

5 months. Wade and Logan had been together for 5 whole months. Those 5 months were honestly great. There were only a few small arguments which they both gotten over quicky. They hadn't done much though, date wise. They done a couple things like cook together and take a couple late night trips to go get ice cream. Now Logan was fine with not going out on many dates, he was a home body after all and didn't feel like they really needed to go out, but Wade was the opposite. He loved going out and showing off whoever his lover is at the. But he knew himself and knew damn well if he tried taking Logan out to somewhere fancy, he wouldn't be able to hold back his constant need to be an asshole. So, he found an in between. A nice sexy night in where he cooks up a nice, tasty meal for Logan and him then letting the night lead into a nice steamy yet domestic night of sex. This was the best idea (At least at the time). As Wade walked in, all bloody from the days jobs he smiled and tossed his mask to the side.

"Oh, honey bunny buns! I'm home!" Wade called out. Logan heard and got up. He walked over and placed a kiss on his cheek.

"Hey dumbass, how was your day?". Logan asked.

"It was good, but I can tell you know yours is about to get better!" Wade exclaimed as he picked up Logan by the hips and begam to walk over to the couch, not realizing the blood from his suit. Logan gasped a bit when Wade picked him, not used to the princess treatment Wade constantly showered him with (and the fact that Wade was able to pick up 350 pounds effortlessly).

"Jessus Wade, I'm old. You can't be doing this shit to me at my age," Logan grumbled as Wade set him down on the couch and sat next to him.

"Sorry peanut, just got a little excited," Wade responded as he sat down next to him and snuggled into him.

"So, tell me when the last time we had a date?"

"Um... I don't fucking know, a month or two?"

"Exactly! We haven't been on a date in God knows how long! So, I have something planned for us!" Wade announced with happily.

"Really? And what do exactly have planned?". Logan asked, his voice laced with concern. Wade didn't blame him, again he knew himself and the shit he does.

"Listen Logie, it's gonna be a Suprise, ok? But please trust me when I say this, your gonna love it! And it's nothing super over the top, ok?" Wade asked, grabbing both of Logans hands, intertwining their fingers together. Logan looked at him for a moment, obviously still hesitant to but sighed and spoke.

"Alright, I trust what you're saying is true.". Logan said. Wade smiled.

"Thanks, Logie bear! Now go put something cute on, were not leaving the apartment but just wanna set the vibe." Wade said while letting go of his hands. Logan chuckled and got up, doing what Wade requested of him. Wade smiled and smacked his butt as he got up.

"Good boy~" he said cheekily.

14 notes · View notes

cracklinhaze · 3 days ago

Text

"Until you twins showed up, I didn't know if my stupid life was worth living."

Wrote a pretty fucked up look at Stanley Pines before the twins arrived and gave him a reason to live again. I'm sorry?

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #stanley pines #stan pines #not what he seems #gravity falls art #ao3 link #ao3 fanfic #new fic #my art #my writing #this one is pretty fucked up i'm sorry #cw suicide

122 notes · View notes

wiltenjoyer · 1 month ago

Text

🎈 New Year's Eve at Foster's 🎉

(full comic under the cut)

#fhfif #foster's home for imaginary friends #cartoon network #2000s nostalgia #new year #new years eve #my art #I DECIDED I'M IMPATIENT AND I'M POSTING IT TODAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS #I simply can not wait an entire week #but yeah this is MY FIRST EVER COMIC EVER and my first fan thing with dialogue ever #I'm usually just a 'draw your faves in a cute outfit in a nice scene' kind of fan content maker #1 bc I don't usually have ideas for stories and 2 bc I'm EXTREMELY self conscious about my ability to write dialogue #and even more self conscious about my writing in general which is why you'll never catch me writing fanfics #comics only. why should I describe something if I can just show it to you

101 notes · View notes

youchangedmedestiel · 5 months ago

Text

Friend: What are you doing right now?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?

Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.

#when I tell my friends that I have a lot of things to do #and not enough time to progress as I'd wish #I'm talking about time to do all the spn or destiel projects I want to do #like finishing to publish my first destiel au fic #work on my two other long wip #write the other hundreds of destiel fic ideas I have #draw more #I'd love to draw art that goes with the fics I already posted on AO3 just to set the mood #rewatch the whole show and write meta #read hundreds of fics #watch the cockles panels I'm late for #maybe I forgot some #too many things to do and so little time #I also have to find a new home so yeah here you go #I also have projects that don't involve spn or destiel #but it's a pain in the ass #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #my destiel fanfic #destiel fanart #spn rewatch #cockles #jenmish #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanfic #destiel fic

143 notes · View notes

demaparbat-hp · 8 months ago

Text

Zuko was a child when he met Agni. Then, the spirits started coming to him. Eyes hidden in the hallways, voices pleading for help, for recognition, for remembrance.

Zuko could see Agni. He could see the broken remains of a Great Spirit and the empty smiles of amnesiac ghosts.

And they could see him in return.

#atla #zuko #avatar the last airbender #atla fanart #atla art #atla fanfic #prince zuko #New Gods AU #zuko fanart #zuko art #lu ten #uncle iroh #Eventual ZK #zutara #zutara au #zutara fanfiction #zuko fanfic #agni #Spirit Touched! Zuko #Agni is a character in this don't yell at me #This was such a blast to write. I honestly love this AU so much and can't wait to see what you guys think of it #Bit of a warning tho #It's pretty heavy #Deals with depression and mental health issues and...stuff #Word of advice! The first chapter truly comes to life after a second read.#The cover is a panel from a comic I'm working on~#Which is the reason it took me so long to post this tbh. Wasn't sure if I wanted to tease The Perfect Prince or leave it as a surprise.#But here we are and there it is. So.#The Perfect Prince #Listen. Lu Ten is the most wholesome turtleduck ever and if anything happens to him I'll murder everyone in this fansite and then myself.

314 notes · View notes

seventh-district · 1 year ago

Text

Midnight Hour

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

You awake in the middle of the night to find your lover in tears.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,139

Content Warnings: [crying (obviously)] [non-specific mentions of Astarion's past trauma] [this fic was written by someone who hasn't actually played the game and that might show in the details/the lack thereof]

Blinking your tired eyes open, you squint at the light of the crackling fire in front of you. Closing them again, you let out a soft sigh as you try to guess at the current time. Given that you woke on your own, you’re assuming it’s likely close to, but not quite, time for you to take over tonight’s watch shift.

Your group has fallen into a routine where you pair off into teams of two, and a different team keeps watch each night. Tonight’s turn belongs to you and Astarion, and he’s taken the first half of the shift as usual. You usually, ironically, sleep your best on the nights that he keeps watch, in spite of only getting half the amount of sleep as you do on the nights another team has the job.

You suppose you can credit the fact that, at the end of the day, Astarion is a creature of the night. Something about knowing he has the upper hand when it comes to any unwanted nighttime visitors your group may encounter is… reassuring. To you, as well as to the others in the group, loathe as some of them may be to admit it. That is, once they all felt confident in his promises to not make a surprise midnight snack of them, at least.

Tonight is a bit of an exception, though, and you’re not quite sure what woke you early this time. You typically sleep soundly until he gently coaxes you awake, nails combing through your hair, voice soft and apologetic in your ear. He’s always somewhat reluctant to wake you, but he does so nonetheless, having learned his lesson after the first time he made the executive decision to let you sleep the whole night through. His arguments of “You really looked like you could use the rest.” and “What’s one sleepless night? I can sleep when I’m dead.” didn’t hold much water in the face of the way he dragged ass through the entire next day.

In “the spirit of fairness” and “proving that he can stick to an agreement,” he never tried to take the whole shift by himself again. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how guilty he felt when he heard the disappointment in your tone when you awoke that first morning and discovered he hadn’t stuck to the plan. Definitely.

Laying there in the quiet, you try and fail to pinpoint what feels different about tonight. You don’t hear any strange noises, nothing feels unusual, and blinking your eyes open again you raise your head a bit to look around the fire. The rest of the group are circled around the other sides of the heat source, sleeping soundly. You figure that you’re probably just getting used to this routine by now, and your body simply woke up around your usual shift change time on its own.

Still, that doesn’t explain the vague, unplaceable feeling that something is just… off.

You let out a sigh that turns into a yawn as you stretch and roll away from the fire onto your back. Letting your head roll further to the left, your eyes land on the familiar sight of your lover’s back as he sits in his usual position beside you, diligently watching your six.

He’s taken to placing his bedroll right next to yours, insisting that you lie between the fire and himself. You couldn’t really argue with his point that he can’t feel the cold anyways, so there’s no need for him to be the one next to the fire. Nor could you argue with the benefits of having him as a line of defense between you and whatever lurks beyond the reach of the firelight.

The feeling of security and protection that he provides you with is still relatively foreign to you, and a soft smile blooms on your face at the warm feeling it brings. Your smile then falls a bit as you remember the silent question you ask yourself on the regular, of whether or not you provide him with the same.

You roll the rest of the way to your left, and shuffle further toward him, closing what remains of the small gap he’d placed between the two of you. Lying halfway on your bedroll and halfway on his, you curl your body around his seated form, bringing your right arm up and gently placing a hand on the right side of his waist. He flinches slightly, and if this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d retract your hand. He’s long since informed you though that his reaction to unexpected touch is simply involuntary, and as long as it’s you, you’ve no need to pull away.

You recall the quiet, restrained desperation in his voice when he first explained it to you, all but begging you not to pull away. He can’t control the way his body reacts to touch, given that before you, he couldn’t recall the last time being touched meant anything other than pain. In spite of that though, he wants it. He wants you. That’s obvious in the way that he, without fail, immediately relaxes under your gentle touch once his mind and body process that it’s coming from you. The way he’s come to not only relax, but to lean into it. Lean into you.

You’d never push past his boundaries, never in a million years, but he’s made it quite clear after about a thousand of your quiet requests for consent at every minor touch, that he’s entirely welcoming of your non-sexual physical affections. Getting the man to verbally admit that he actually enjoys cuddling with you, without the truth being concealed beneath a heavy layer of playful banter and practiced, honeyed words didn’t come easy, but he came around to it in his own time.

So, you don’t pull back, instead following through with the motion and slowly snaking your arm around his waist. You press your front against his lower back and curl around to rest your left cheek atop his left thigh. You can’t help but notice that he doesn’t relax into you in the way he usually does, and your head turns to the right a bit, struggling to get a half-decent look at his face as you’re both turned away from the fire light.

He remains tense, still, and unresponsive to your movements, gaze seemingly locked dead ahead of him, staring out into the dark forest.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks. He’s actively crying, tears dripping from his chin, and now with his head tilted down at you they take a different path, running down to converge and fall from the tip of his nose.

You nearly bolt upright in your shock, quickly unwrapping yourself from him and clambering around on all fours until you’re sat down in front of him, your hands gripping tightly to your upper thighs in worry. His wide-eyed gaze followed your every movement, and even now that you’re sat still in front of him, his eyes still dart around, frantically scanning you, for what, you don’t know.

“What- what’s going on?”

You keep your voice as quiet as you reasonably can in spite of your shock and concern, not eager to wake your companions and have everyone witness… whatever this is.

He doesn’t respond, looking just about as lost as you feel, shaking his head in silence as more tears fall. It’s one hell of a sight, and it suddenly hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

Unsure of what to do and what even caused this, you resist the urge to wrap him in a hug, not wanting to overstep in this unfamiliar territory. Instead, you glance back over your shoulder and once again see and hear nothing of note before trying another question.

“Is there a threat? Did you see something that scared you, honey?”

He takes a long moment to answer, seeming unsure, before eventually settling on another shake of his head. His lack of confidence in his answer isn’t the most reassuring thing at the moment, but given that you aren’t detecting any danger either, you decide to believe that he really didn’t see any threat. At least, not here. Not right now, in the present moment, in front of him. He seems about halfway here and halfway gone, and if your growing suspicions are correct, he’s probably been sat here lost in the dark corners of his mind for a while now, given the state he’s in.

You catch movement to Astarion’s right side and watch as Karlach raises up from her prior position sprawled out face-down on her bedroll, propping herself up with her forearms beneath her. Her expression of concern is too aware and her eyes are too awake for her to have just now woken up, and you quickly gather that she’s probably been awake and laying there long enough to have heard your questions and Astarion’s lack of any verbal response. She doesn’t say anything though, and doesn’t move, just letting the situation unfold and keeping a watchful eye on the darkness behind you.

Relaxing slightly at the knowledge that someone else is awake and helping to keep watch now, your focus shifts back to Astarion, who’s gaze has moved to his lap, tears still falling fast. It’s almost unsettling, the way he cries. There’s no sound, no movement, his breathing is hardly even affected, nothing more than the occasional shaky breath to give away any sign of struggle at all. You don’t have to guess why it’s like this, given what he’s told you about his past. You’re sadly certain that he learned to cry like this ages ago. Silent and still, sat alone in the dark so no one would notice.

You don’t want to think about the sorts of punishments he’s endured as a result of showing such pain and emotion, but your mind pulls from what experiences he’s shared and offers up a few anyways, making you begin to feel sick.

Leaning down and trying to catch his gaze, you ask another question.

“Astarion, are you with me right now?”

He blinks, more tears spill, and his lips finally part as he responds to you with a strained whisper.

“I’m trying to be…”

You smile in spite of your current emotions and the general mood of the situation, doing your best to be something positive, something gentle, something safe for him to focus on.

“There you are…”

You say it to yourself as much as to him, relieved to finally hear his voice, as laced with pain as it sounds. You hold out your hand near where his lie balled into fists in his lap, offering him contact without forcing it on him.

“I want you to keep trying, okay? Do your best to come back into the present with me. You can take my hand, if you’d like?”

He stares down at your offered hand for a long moment before shakily unballing one of his fists. He hesitates, fingers trembling, before reaching out and placing his hand in yours. His skin is even colder than usual and slightly damp to the touch, and you couldn’t be less put off, or give less of a fuck about the messy state of him right now, or ever, if you’re being honest. You just want to help him, however you can.

You curl your warm fingers around his palm, wanting to pull him into a hug so badly but restraining yourself, letting him call the shots.

“You’re okay now, Star. You’re safe right now, here with me. We’re safe.”

He’s quiet for another long moment as he shuts his eyes tight, taking in your words. His other fist unfurls, and his body trembles almost imperceptibly.

“I… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Your heart breaks.

“Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all, I promise you.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, his voice an insistent whisper.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your shoulders drop from where they’d been tensely held up, body slumping with a silent sigh as you watch him still try to hold this wall up between the two of you. You’d made it past a number of his walls already, but this one… this one you’ve yet to be granted access behind.

“It’s okay to cry, you know?”

Another shake of his head, this time with far more force behind it, almost vehement.

“No.”

You soften your voice, insisting.

“Yes. It is. You can cry now, Astarion. No one’s gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna judge you. I swear on my life, that’s the truth.”

His breaths become more labored, uneven and shaking.

“You aren’t his anymore. The old rules don’t apply. You can let it out, now. No one, and I mean no one, is going to punish you for it.”

His eyes pinch closed and his head shakes hard side to side, like he’s fighting his own mind, and his hand opens and closes like it wants to grab onto something. He then moves, wrapping his free hand around your arm and suddenly you’re being pulled toward him, desperately, insistently.

You follow the motion as he continues to tug at you, first leaning forward and propping yourself up with your other hand on the ground as he continues to pull you closer. You quickly gather what he wants as he lets go of your hand in favor of latching onto your other arm, pulling you upward, choking back tears all the while.

You raise up on your knees and his hands move once again to hook beneath your arms as you allow yourself to be pulled up onto his lap with physical strength you keep forgetting he possesses. Hooking your legs around his waist, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into you. His arms wrap tightly around your waist and he buries his face into the fabric of your shirt at the collar, muffling the soft sound of his crying which has now turned to full-blown sobs.

He’s still shockingly quiet in spite of it all, and you imagine it’s a mixture of being unable to let go of what’s ingrained into him, and not wanting to alert the entire camp to his current breakdown.

Your thumbs stroke up and down in place on his back, not wanting to let go of your hold on him but still wanting to give him some sort of comforting motion to focus on. Besides, you figure petting across the entire expanse of his scarred back might do the opposite of calming him down, so you refrain and keep your arms wrapped firmly around him. Turning your head down toward his, you whisper to him in between soft kisses to his temple.

“That’s it, love. Let it out.”

“You’re safe now, Astarion, I swear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You have every right to cry. No one ever should’ve taken that away from you.”

He grips you even tighter as you shower him with painfully unfamiliar affection and acceptance, comfort unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his horribly long life. His forehead presses against your right shoulder as his crying slows, trying to ground himself and catch his breath. You make a point of holding him securely against you, breathing slow and deep to give him an example to follow.

You catch movement in your periphery and glance over at Karlach as she quietly sits up and makes a series of silent lip movements and hand gestures that you don’t entirely grasp. You work them out to mean that she’s gonna take over watch for the rest of the night, and you can rest with Astarion. You send her a grateful look and mouth a “thank you,” to which she waves you off with what you think you read as a silent “don’t mention it” on her lips.

After a short while spent focused on slowing down his breath and bringing him fully out of his memories and back here with you, you whisper quiet words in his ear.

“Your work is done, Astarion. You can rest now.”

You mean it in both possible interpretations of the words, and he seems to understand that, his body finally relaxing against yours for the first time tonight.

“You wanna lie down with me, love?”

He seems like he almost nods, but stops himself, whispering back in an exhausted voice, scratchy and thick from crying.

“Someone has to keep watch.”

You hesitate to inform him that Karlach has already taken over that role for tonight, sure that he’d get no sleep at all if he knew she’d witnessed this. You know you’re gonna be awake watching over him for the rest of the night anyways, so instead, you offer a compromise.

“I can hold you and keep watch at the same time, love. Just… let me sit and you can lay against me.”

He gives the suggestion a moment of thought before nodding his head, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. You maneuver the both of you carefully so as to avoid allowing his tired eyes to catch sight of your obviously awake companion sitting behind him.

It isn’t much of a task considering his eyes are halfway closed already, his only remaining focus locked on you. You settle down at the head of his bedroll, guiding him to lie down and bringing his head to rest in the center of your lap.

Your hands take turns gently combing fingers through his white curls, and you feel his tense shoulders begin to relax at the feeling. You bring a thumb down and gently stroke over the lines creasing his brow, quietly encouraging him to release the tension he likely doesn’t realize he’s holding. You watch him pull in a deep, albeit still slightly unsteady breath, and you can practically feel the relief that washes over him when he exhales.

Words aren’t necessary between the two of you at this point, not in this moment, but you offer him a few anyways, hoping they’ll resonate in his tired mind as he slips into sleep.

“You’re safe here, Star. Rest easy.”

A/N: Like I said in the CWs, I haven't played the game for myself (yet!) so I only know what I've seen in the hours of (mostly Astarion-focused) scenes I've watched on YT. As a result, this might have read a bit funny if I've gotten certain details wrong. For instance- I have no idea how resting at the camp actually goes, whether or not someone keeps watch all night, etc. Also I'm not sure if Astarion even needs to actually sleep or if he meditates/falls into a trance and just calls it sleep, but for the sake of simplicity, (and me being clueless,) when I say he falls into sleep just assume he's doing whatever he'd normally do to rest. On a different note- this little fic was inspired by a combination of two things. The lovely art and additional commentary on this post, by @velnna , and also by me listening to Midnight Hour by Sierra Eagleson on loop for like, an hour, and daydreaming up this specific scene before proceeding to write it out. It is a beautiful song that is now the title and theme-song for this fic, and I encourage you to go give it a listen if you haven't heard it already. Header Image Source: x

#astarion x reader #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #my writing #man. this may be the quickest turnover/turnaround whateverthewordis on a fic that i've ever made happen #i usually sit on an idea and then a draft for ages before posting smthn. so given that it's only been a couple days #between the initial idea and the finished posted fic. wow. groundbreaking speeds for me #the power of hyperfixation (and love)#y'know. i've noticed a trend #why is it that nearly every time i write for a new character the first scenario i place them in involves crying #and having Reader hold/comfort them #i did it with Eddie i did it with Venti i'm doing it with Astarion. who's next. who's next in the Reverse Comfort lineup huh #idk why that's my go-to scenario it just is. maybe i do have a type. (characters that need to have a good cry in their beloved's arms)#or maybe perhaps it is i that needs the good cry and i am projecting. who knows. 'tis a mystery (it's both)#anyways i know this fic is a bit short but i just. had one little specific scene i wanted to write and that's it!#i do plan on making more for him though. i've already got another idea brewing in my brain #also sorry if 'honey' and 'love' aren't your go-to pet names. or if you wouldn't call him Star #my own style of speech heavily influences what i have Reader say in my fics and i can't help itttttt. everything i write is self-insert lma #*lmao (i’m on mobile rn i’m not retyping all of that just to add the last letter)#(yes i’m posting this from mobile cause i took a nap and overslept and missed the time i wanted to post this at. so now i am In A Rush #smthn smthn self imposed deadlines smthn smthn ‘i know the guy that made the rules and he’s a total pushover’ anyways it’s fine. post draft

824 notes · View notes