#if I ever come back and edit/polish this it will be a long way off | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year ago

Text

VIII ║ Silver Pony

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 7: Fleabitten | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 9: Warmblood }

Rating: E

Summary: And just like that, your week at the Statesman Ranch comes to an end, leaving you grappling with the prospect of saying goodbye to Jack.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, grief, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7.5k

Notes: Here we are, the penultimate chapter of Palomino. I had the last scene in mind since the very beginning of the series, actually putting it into words has been so emotional. Thank you as always for your patience and your love for this series, I'm eternally grateful that you're still with me as we wrap up this beautiful journey cowboy Jack and his Darlin' started almost a year ago ❤️

P.S. Please excuse typos and any mistakes as I had very little time to edit with the husband ill this weekend.

Coaxing Scotch to a halt at the end of the track - the last lookout point before the trail slopes downhill and homeward - you let the leather reins slip long and loose as he stretches his neck and shakes out his mane with a low nicker.

A hundred feet drop below, between the palomino’s ears turned forward in anticipation, is the Statesman Ranch in all its glory, nestled in the fertile valley of green pasture, with its winding creek and red roofs. You can see tiny people milling about, the stables busy in the middle of the afternoon, and horses grazing in the fields bracketed by white picket fences.

Out of the corner of your eye, Whiskey comes to a stop next to you, close enough that your knee bumps into Jack’s.

You keep your gaze on the ranch below as you ask half-jokingly, ‘Is it too late to turn back now?’

He chuckles, and you twist towards him, your own lips curling. ‘I believe we had this exact same conversation the first day, darlin’.’

It’s not too late to back out, you know.

Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me now, cowboy.

You don’t even realise you’ve fallen quiet until his calloused hand slides over yours, fingers tangling together. Jack brushes a sweet kiss to the heart of your palm that goes right to the one in your ribcage.

He cocks his head to one side in a gentle question. ‘Shall we rip off the bandaid, darlin’?’

Knowing there’s no other way around it, you squeeze his hand. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’

Jameson is the first to spot the five of you passing through the backgates. The sight of him zooming up the slope with his ears pinned back in excitement has you laughing, the horses nickering hello as his barks echo in the valley.

It makes no sense really - you barely know this place after all - but something inexplicably comforting and familiar tugs at your insides as you ride through the ranch. Stable hands call out to Jack in friendly greeting and to you with polite ma’ams, between bales of hay being loaded, saddles and tack polished, and the clang of steel on iron from the farrier’s workstation out back. All the while, Jameson trots faithfully by your side, as if he’s known you all his life.

‘You sure know how to make a girl feel special,’ you coo at him and he barks back, tail wagging.

Jack winks at you and says cryptically, ‘Well, you’re about to feel a lot more special, darlin’.’

Sure enough, when the horses clop into the main stable yard, your jaw drops.

‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ bellows Champ with a huge grin on his face, standing in front of the stable doors with hands on his hips, larger than life than ever.

You chortle at the huge Welcome Back! banner stretched over the barn door, complete with over-the-top cowboy themed helium balloons, bumping into each other in the afternoon breeze. You catch Jack rolling his eyes fondly at the scene.

Champ gives Scotch an affectionate ruffle on the mane as he comes to a halt by the wooden post. ‘So - how was it, m’dear? Was it everythin’ I promised it would be?’

‘Everything and more,’ you answer in the affirmative as you dismount, letting him pull you in for an enthusiastic hug.

‘That’s what I like to hear!’ he beams and pats the palomino soundly on the rump. ‘And Scotch? Was he a good boy?’

‘The bestest boy,’ you gush, throwing your hands around the horse’s neck in a hug. ‘He deserves all the carrots and apples in the world.’

Swinging his leg over the back of Whiskey’s saddle and landing gracefully on booted feet on the opposite side of the post, Jack quips, ‘But you’ve already fed him all the carrots and apples in the world.’

Champ chortles. ‘And what about our cowboy? Was he on his best behaviour?’

Jack points a self-righteous finger at his boss. ‘I’ll have you know our guest rated the pack trip a perfect ten out of ten, so I’ll be expectin’ an immediate raise. Ain’t that right, darlin’?’

A loud scoff coming from the stables turns your head, and you smile when Tequila emerges, wasting no time taking his aim at Jack. ‘Hold your horses, Daniels. Pretty sure the food poisonin’ knocks a few points off!’

Crossing the yard with his usual swagger, he sidles up to the other side of Scotch and tips his hat at you, leaning his elbows on the saddle. ‘Welcome back, sweetheart. Good to see you up and runnin’.’

You bite your lip at the mischievous wink he tosses your way.

Champs harrumps indignantly. ‘You have some nerve askin’ for a raise, son! Poppy was madder than a wet hen she heard about that. As you well know, she expects a full report at dinner tonight.’

Jack huffs in jest. ‘I’m puttin’ in a call to my attorney as we speak.’

The banter is spirited and relentless as the cowboys make quick work of untacking and unloading the horses, Champ insisting you shouldn’t lift a finger and talking for more than the three of you.

When the stable hands take away the last of the bags with your dirty laundry to be laundered, Jack takes a hold of both Whiskey and Bourbon. Clearing his throat, he seems to hesitate for a second, a tick in his jaw, but he eventually nods at you and says, ‘Well. I best be bringin’ the boys in now. Catch you later, darlin’.’

The bottom of your stomach gives out at the catch you later, darlin’, knocking the breath clean out of you, unprepared for the dread that courses through your veins like lead at the sudden prospect of being apart. Your fingers twitch with urgency, wanting to reach out, grab him by the front of his shirt, and cling to him -

Get a grip, woman.

You physically shake yourself out of it, and instead, try to bide your time. ‘Or, you know, if can I help with anything at all -’

Jack clearly catches on to your reluctance, but Champ is insistent. ‘Absolutely not! Now, it’s just gettin’ to four o’clock, so there’s plenty of time to go back to your room, clean up and join us for sunset drinks in a couple of hours. How does that sound, ma’am?’

Jack’s mouth stretches into a reassuring smile that you wish were imprinted into the skin of your forehead instead. With a promise in his eyes that it’ll only be a couple of hours, he leads the chestnut and pinto into the stables.

You don’t even try to hide the slump in your shoulders and your wistful, lingering gaze on the cowboy’s retreating back, nearly jumping out of your skin when Tequila gives you an almost brotherly pat on the shoulder over Scotch’s back. ‘I gotcha, girl.’

Speaking up, he calls out, ‘Hey Champ, Ginger was just tellin’ me that you got an urgent message from Harry, so you better give him a call back - you know how he gets when you don’t.’

The older man flinches dramatically at the mention of his accountant, flinging his hands up in frustration. ‘Damn distillery is more trouble than it’s worth! I better go - you remember your way back to your cabin, young lady?’

Before you can get a word out, Tequila cuts in, ‘Jack can show her the way if she doesn’t, I’m sure.’

The sly reference goes straight over Champ’s head as he bustles off, but not without a polite tip of his hat. Once he’s out of sight, you smile at the cowboy. ‘I appreciate that, Teak.’

He winks at you and spins on his heels to take Scotch to the washing bay. ‘Consider it part of our excellent service at the Statesman Ranch, sweetheart!’

You find Jack hatless in Bourbon’s box, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline, slick with sweat, when you slip in and shut the door quietly behind you.

‘Whatcha doin’, darlin’?’ he asks with a lopsided smile.

Even though you didn’t run into anyone on your way in, you glance around to make sure you’re alone before grabbing him by the open neck of his shirt and tugging him into you. One palm on his cheek, rough with the stubble starting to peek through since his last shave at the Halfway House, you press your lips to his, blood thrumming with the thrill of sneaking around.

You catch the hitch of his breath with a wet suck on his bottom lip and he groans - too loudly in the mid-afternoon quiet. Cheeky hands wander south and grab you shamelessly by the ass, his tongue questing deep into your mouth, and you can feel him hardening against your stomach, drawing a whimper from you.

Pulling back reluctantly, his nose still on yours, he growls. ‘Such brazen behaviour.’

Your tongue darts out and swipes the underside of your upper lip, drunk on the taste of him, and his dark gaze follows. ‘I think you like it, cowboy.’

‘Too fuckin’ much,’ he admits with a pained moan and a chaste kiss to your temple, nose in your hair, as if to calm himself down. ‘You should go clean up, I need to finish up here and you’re distractin’ me.’

You pout, laying your cards on the table. ‘But I miss you.’

His gaze warms at your admission, and he stoops to kiss you again. ‘I know, but it’s only for a little while, okay? I’ll come ‘round your room to pick you up at six.’

‘Fine,’ you reply begrudgingly. ‘Be quick, ok?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he teases and swats you on the bottom playfully as he herds you towards the door. ‘I won’t be long, promise.’

Taking two steps down the corridor, you look back one last time at Jack, who’s still watching you from the stall, leaning on the top of the door. When he blows you a lingering kiss, the thought strikes you unbidden -

If it’s this hard leaving him for a couple of hours.

Feeling the tell-tale sting in your nose and the prickle of tears at your eyes, you push the thought out of your mind -

You put one foot in front of the other, and walk away.

You didn’t realise how much you missed civilisation until you surprise yourself with the longest sigh under the rain shower. Head bowed under the steady stream, you take your time, lathering yourself until you’re cocooned in olive scented bubbles before rinsing, relishing the firm water pressure soothing the knots and soreness lurking under your skin.

But there’s a deeper ache, one that can’t be reached from the surface.

You have literally not been apart from Jack for the last four days. You’ve been showering together since the Halfway House, for crying out loud. It hasn’t taken you more than the stretch of an arm to catch his hand, or the turn of your cheek to find his lips.

A laugh bubbles in your throat as you wrap yourself in a fluffy towel. The word codependent springs to mind.

Standing in the middle of the room in just your underwear, you sort through the clean clothes that are folded neatly on the bed. Pulling on the prettiest top you brought and the same pair of jeans you wore on your birthday, you dig out your makeup bag and settle in front of the vanity, putting on a Spotify playlist and humming along as you get ready for dinner.

One second you��re blending in your foundation, then the next - liner in your grasp and poised over the corner of your eye - panic rudely sets in.

What if -

What if the chemistry between the two of you was conditional on forced proximity?

What if Jack was only attracted to you because there was literally no other woman for miles and miles?

What if -

You startle at the knock on the door.

It’s deja vu when you pad across the oakwood floors on bare feet, your heart threatening to thunder out of your chest when you twist the knob clockwise.

Jack is leaning on the doorframe, freshly showered himself, damp locks curling into his forehead. The yellow flannel he’s wearing is new to you, but not the way the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, over his sunkissed forearms.

For one moment of madness, you want to sink your teeth into the thick, sinewy -

‘What is it, darlin’?’ he asks, amused by your scrutiny.

You shrug, fingers fidgeting with a touch of shyness. ‘Just thinking about the last time you were on this doorstep.’

‘When you were swept away by my good looks and charm?’ he quips, arching an eyebrow.

You let him have this one, teasing, ‘Something like that, cowboy.’

Straightening up to his full height, he pulls you in by the waist so that you’re almost standing on the worn leather tips of his boots, the span of his palms warm on the small of your back. He doesn’t even bother checking over his shoulder before brushing a tender kiss on your lips, and it takes you right back to that first time in the field of wildflowers at dawn.

And you just know, in your heart of hearts - there is no what if.

In the middle of nowhere, up in the mountains, the sunset hour demands nothing short of worship. Miles and miles of grassland, trees and summer blooms become altars dipped in bronze at which to prostrate oneself as the sun sinks, rejoicing at the rapture of the end of day.

Whilst not as transcendent as what you experienced on the trail, the last sunset over the ranch is giving as good as it gets. The sun gilds the fields in gold on its descent as the stable hands bring in the last of the horses for the night while the swallows fly home above. The river that winds through the ranch is ablaze with the refracting light, and across the yard, you can hear the impatient whinnying of those waiting for their supper.

Jack and Tequila are setting up the barbeque and firepit, the orange glow of the twin flames taking the place of the fading daylight. The familiar scent of burning wood grounds you - you’re feeling a bit out of practice being the centre of attention after being alone with Jack for the past week.

Ice cold lemonade in one hand and buffalo jerky in the other, you smile when Ginger approaches with a hug. ‘I’m sure you’ve had to answer this question about fifty times today, but how was it?’

‘You want the short answer or long answer?’

‘I want a dissertation if you have it in you!’

You sneak glances at Jack over Ginger’s shoulder while you chat, and he watches you back from afar as he bustles in and out of the kitchen, always trailing two steps behind Poppy. You catch snippets of their conversation as they go back and forth, and you pick up enough to know that she is grilling him on the ‘food poisoning’ incident. He shoots you puppy eyes every time he passes by, which makes you grin.

You may or may not have been a bit distracted by the cowboy when Ginger asks, ‘So, did you catch Jack washing in the river in the end?’

A violent cough racks your entire body as you choke mid-swallow, and she chuckles, giving you a comforting pat on the back. ‘It’s ok, girlfriend - I don’t have to know!’

You knock back more lemonade and choose to play coy. If only she knew.

Champ is in his element, swapping out your drink for a whiskey soda as the dusk deepens and making sure the snacks platter is topped up with locally made boar and elk salami. Despite only having half an ear in the conversation while he keeps an eye on the dinner prep, he’s somehow still fully invested, and is particularly interested in the photos and videos you’ve been taking on Jack’s DSLR.

‘And that’s what you do for a livin’, young lady?’ he asks, putting on his reading glasses so he can study the photos downloaded onto your phone.

‘Adjacent. I’m in marketing, I do quite a lot of business-to-consumer social media campaigns,’ you explain, switching to Instagram to show him your employer’s profile.

Champ turns to Ginger. ‘Do we have the social media?’

She exchanges a fond smile with you. ‘No we don’t, boss, but we do have a website. I think it was last updated in 2012.’

Champ holds his chin between his thumb and index finger thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, m’dear? Should we get the social media?’

‘It depends,’ you answer truthfully. ‘If you want to boost occupancy, social media will definitely help connect new guests, and also encourage repeat visits. But if you asked me, I think the real potential is on the distillery side of the business.’

Champ perks up under his cowboy hat. ‘I’m listenin’.’

You tap the bottle of Statesman whiskey that’s sitting on the barrel table. ‘Jack told me that you only handle wholesale orders right now, which is perfectly fine. But if you want to go direct to consumers one day, social media is the way to go. I’ve worked with vineyards and gin distilleries, so I’ve seen how effective these campaigns can be.’

Humming pensively, Champ sips at his whiskey, neat, a faraway look in his eyes as he mulls over your words. ‘Well, that’s somethin’ to think about, I’d say.’

There’s no other way to end the trip than with a western cookout. The barbeque station is packed with trays of beautifully cut and aged meat from neighbouring ranches, sausages and brats, while the smoked brisket and ribs that have been cooking all day are brought out from the smoker in the kitchen.

On the side, a picnic table draped with a chequered table cloth is crammed with baked beans (smoked in-house), corn on the cob, pasta salad and soda bread; and on the greens front, there’s homemade coleslaw, potato salad and greens freshly picked from the vegetable patch.

It’s a feast of epic proportions, and it doesn’t surprise you at all that Poppy is pulling out all the stops.

Jack mans the barbeque under her supervision, wielding the tongs with showmanship, and your heart purrs at the familiar sight of him cooking by firelight as darkness well and truly sets in. You feel slightly adrift not being by his side, but Champ is keeping you entertained and well fed, piling seconds upon thirds on your loaded plate despite your protests.

By the time Teak takes over at the barbeque and Jack makes his way towards the communal table where you’re all standing, you’re sipping slowly on your third whiskey and soda. You smile at him over the brim of your tumbler which he returns, and your body leans unconsciously towards him, before remembering where you are. He tucks his right hand into his back pocket, and you want to think that it’s because if he doesn’t, he would reach out for you.

Being denied his touch when he’s right there has you shifting your feet restlessly. Your fingers itch for him, there’s an insistent prickle under your skin that you know he alone can placate.

You venture a peek at Jack, wondering if he’s faring any better than you are. Feeling your eyes on him, he turns to you, his gaze dropping to your mouth none too subtly, the muscle in his neck tensing. Caught in the moment, all you want to do is to run your tongue down the hollow of his throat and taste the smoke on his skin -

You look away in case you do anything rash.

You’re barely holding it together when the conversation moves on to your birthday at the Halfway House.

‘And how was the dinner?’ asks Poppy animatedly. ‘Did you like the cake?’

Despite yourself, you beam, ‘Like it? I loved it, thank you so much! I was so spoiled.’

‘Did Jack show you a good time?’

‘Oh I should say so,’ cuts in Tequila despite being six feet away at the barbeque. At Jack’s glare, he quickly adds, ‘He decked out the place real nice, y’know, with balloons and shit.’

With a shake of your head, you chuckle, ‘And he dressed the horses up in birthday hats and tinsel!’

With the barbeque dying down to a low, simmering flame, Poppy slides in a couple of peach cobblers in pie dishes directly onto the embers to warm up. Leaving behind gravy-stained plates stacked up high on the barrel table, the group drifts over to the low-set deck chairs sitting in a tidy circle around the firepit.

Emptying the last of the whiskey into his glass, Champ calls out, ‘Jack, m’boy, how ‘bout you run to the cellar and grab us another bottle of the fifteen years?’

‘Sure, boss,’ he replies, hanging back and catching your attention. ‘You wanna come look at the cellar, darlin’? It’s quite a sight.’

Champ is delighted. ‘What an inspired idea! Take your time, young lady, it’s not quite the distillery cellar, but we’ll save that for next time.’

Teak gives you a two-fingered salute and a knowing wink as Jack leads the way. ‘Enjoy the tour, sweetheart!’

Jack barely waits until you’ve turned the corner behind one of the barns before backing you up against the wall. You taste whiskey and woodsmoke on his tongue as he pins you in place with his broad frame, and you haul him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.

‘I missed you, darlin’,’ he whispers against your lips.

‘I was standing right next to you, cowboy.’

‘I know,’ he whines. ‘Took everythin’ to keep my hands to myself.’

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you reach up to brush an errant curl back from his eyes. ‘Me too.’

Jack grabs your hand and takes you on what must be a shortcut to the kitchen, since you don’t recognise the route. Practically dragging you down a flight of steps at the back, he lets go of you only to pull open a heavy oak door. Your eyes widen when the orange lights flicker on, stepping into the cellar lined with hundreds, if not thousands of bottles, floor-to-ceiling shelves nestled into stone arches carved into the walls.

You wander the perimeter of the room, carefully pulling out dusty bottles high and low to inspect the years printed on the labels, but Jack is having none of it. Face nuzzled into the nook of your shoulder, he grinds his half-hard cock into you impatiently, calloused palms sliding under your shirt and squeezing your tits through your bra.

You moan, the sound echoing under the low vaulted ceilings. ‘What are you doing, cowboy?’

‘Want you now,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, teeth catching the sensitive skin.

‘What’s gotten into you?’ you ask, a laugh caught in your throat as he ruts against the cleft of your ass needily, a shudder rippling through you when you feel just how much he wants you through the denim.

‘It’s the change in altitude,’ he rasps, dry humping you in earnest now, his fingers fumbling with the front of the zipper. ‘And you’re really fuckin’ sexy in these jeans.’

‘Such a sweet talker,’ you tease, reaching behind you to undo his pants. ‘We got to be quick.’

He yanks the front of your jeans down so hard the movement jolts you forwards, flipping the denim inside out and dragging it down to the middle of your thighs, your panties going with them. His question is hot in your ear. ‘Want me to use protection, darlin’?’

You don’t skip a beat with an emphatic, ‘No.’

‘Fuck,’ he growls at your one-worded answer. ‘Lettin’ me fuck you bare? I’m one lucky cowboy.’

Your pussy throbs at his words alone, and you gasp in surprise when Jack manhandles you to the middle of the room, where a row of aged barrels rest on their sides, elevated on a sturdy shelf to keep them off the floor. He bends you unceremoniously over one cask so that your front is pressed up against the curved wooden surface, then, kicking your legs apart and notching the head of his cock at the mouth of your cunt, he sinks into you in one determined thrust.

‘Jack!’ you cry out, voice hoarse, filled almost painfully full, suspended on the tips of your toes as he plants his feet and drives into you, pulling out to the tip before plunging all the way back in, so deep you feel him in your throat. His breath is harsh and hot on the shell of your ear, but you can’t hear him over your own cries.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he croons throatily, his jeans rubbing the back of your thighs raw as his grip on you bites into your sides, holding you in place as you writhe. ‘Such a good girl, lettin’ me bend you over like this, takin’ me so well.’

Nails skidding over the wooden grain of the barrel as you scrabble for something to hold onto, you mewl, ‘Yes, yes, yes, feels so fucking good, cowboy!’

The slap of skin on skin bounces obscenely off the walls, and between the buck of his hips and his groans, you hear the slick squelch of your pussy stretching for him.

It seems to spur him on, and he snaps harder into you, rasping, ‘Look at you naughty thin’, lettin’ me fuck you in the middle of the cellar when anyone can walk in.’

Only then does it hit you - the absurdity of having fucked your way across the open country on this packtrip, taking for granted the liberty of literally screaming to the high heavens, free from prying eyes and ears. Juxtaposed against the sudden and very real prospect of getting caught, your body instinctively reacts.

Jack feels you clench wetly around his cock, a choked chuckle halfway in his throat. ‘Fuck, you filthy girl, you like that, don’t you? Want someone to walk in on us when I’m balls deep inside this pretty pussy?’

Your back arches, and he slides in so deep you’re sure you’ll be feeling him for days after, even when you’re a thousand miles from here. ‘Yes, yes, yes sir -’

The next thing you know, he’s gripping your hair and pulling, making you watch him over your shoulder. His eyes are black, jaw hanging open and teeth bared, and he’s gone - he’s thrusting recklessly into you, and you have no idea how your spine hasn’t snapped from being bent so far backwards. Then one rope-worn palm comes down on your right ass cheek in a cracking slap, making you gag on a half-groan, slick trickling down your thighs at the sting.

Jack leans over you now, caging you between his arms, his soft kisses on your neck an antithesis to the uncompromising rhythm at which he’s pounding into you. He coaxes, ‘Gonna cum for me, darlin’?’

Two of his fingers nudge between your legs and you whine when they make landing on your swollen clit. You nod desperately, clawing at the smooth wooden barrel under you. ‘Yes Jack, please make me cum. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, you will,’ he says matter-of-factly, smearing mouth and tongue down the side of your neck. ‘You can do it. Make a mess on my cock, c’mon, darlin’ -’

When you clamp down around him, it takes Jack everything - everyfuckin’thin’ - not to let go and pump into you, fill that tight little cunt as you wail his name, quaking and squirming in his grasp. Air doesn’t quite reach his lungs, and he’s biting so hard on the insides of his mouth that it swells instantly, wanting so badly to mark you, to possess you in the most primal way a man can -

With a strangled groan, he pulls out, but only just - he’s already cumming before he can even wrap a fist around his cock, spurting crudely all over the swollen lips of your pussy and the curve of your ass as he milks himself dry, shudder after shudder. His spend drips so prettily down the back of your thighs, stopping just short of staining your jeans, that he goes light-headed for a moment. He sways, and if not for you grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him down for a lazy kiss, he probably would’ve keeled over.

He looks down at the mess he made, crooning into your ear, ‘You’re so beautiful covered in my cum, darlin’.’

You squeak, startled, when he runs this thumb down your slit, still so slick and wet for him, and he has to fight the urge to fucking scoop up his cum shove it into you, filling you only to have it drool out of you when he holds the pretty lips open -

He feels your eyes on him, like you can tell what he’s thinking. He winces, shame rearing its head as he apologises, ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away. Was it - too much?’

Cupping his cheek in your palm, you pull him down for another kiss. ‘Never. I’ll take everything you’ve got, cowboy.’

Jack somehow has a handkerchief in his shirt pocket, which he brandishes with a flourish, prompting a giggle from you. ‘A gentleman if I’ve ever seen one.’

With a playful smirk, he declares, ‘Damn straight - my mama raised me right.’

Gently, Jack cleans you up, and you’re happy to let him do all the work, your body heavy and sated. When he’s done, he swivels you around and presses his lips to your temple. ‘Come back to my house tonight, darlin’?’

You tuck your nose into the crook of his neck and breathe in deeply. ‘I’d love to, cowboy.’

He’s carefully folding up the soiled handkerchief and tucking it into his back pocket when you hear footsteps on the stairs, and the two of you have barely pulled up your jeans when the door swings open.

There’s a dramatic pause as Teak takes in your dishevelled state and none too guilty faces. Looking distinctly unsurprised, he bursts into laughter nonetheless. ‘The cellar? Is nothin’ sacred to you heathens?’

The cookout winds down over bubbling hot peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream that Teak collected from the freezer in the kitchen on the way back. It’s pushing ten o’clock when Champ calls it a night, and you all help with bringing the dirty dishes and leftovers inside.

Poppy and Ginger make quick work of putting all the food in tupperware and into the fridge. Jack and Teak load up the dishwasher as you finish off the last of your drink.

Champ dusts his hands, as if he’s the one who’s done all the tidying up, and asks, ‘Your flight tomorrow isn’t until afternoon is it?’

You nod, passing Jack your empty glass. ‘Yeah, I need to drop off my rental truck as well, so I think I’ll have to leave around eleven.’

He pats you on the back. ‘Alright then, we’ll see you tomorrow mornin’. Have a good night’s sleep, young lady.’

‘Say goodbye before you go,’ adds Ginger, giving you a peck on the cheek.

‘Dinner was incredible, Poppy, thank you,’ you smile as she pulls you into a warm hug.

The redhead winks at you. ‘My absolute pleasure. I’ll fix you a little takeaway lunch to go tomorrow for the journey home. No plane food allowed for our guests!’

The kitchen empties until it’s just you, Jack and Teak, with the latter grinning at you two like a lunatic. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. ‘So you guys wanna hang, or -’

‘Get the fuck outta here, Teak!’ Jack growls.

The taller cowboy ambles over to you, joints loose with alcohol, and gives you what can only be described as a bear hug.

‘Just try keep it down, will ya? It’s real quiet in the valley at night and some of us have to work early tomorrow,’ he ribs with an insolent wink. ‘Guess we won’t see you lovebirds at breakfast?’

‘Not if you’re there,’ Jack retorts, to which Teak flashes a good-natured middle finger and saunters off into the night.

Jack draws you into his arms and you slump against him, relieved that you’re finally alone. ‘Shall we, darlin’?’

His fingers curl securely around the back of your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles at the base of yours as he closes the kitchen door behind you. It strikes you this is actually the first time you’re holding hands - there was no need for that when you were in the saddle, or camped in close proximity.

Your cheeks stretch with a smile so wide that the muscles ache. The mundanity of walking side by side, hand in hand, shouldn’t be this thrilling.

It’s quiet other than the grind of gravel under your boots and Jack’s heavier ones. The night air is sweet, the blanket of stars above you just as magical, but it’s not quite the same kind of stillness at the lower altitude. Perhaps it’s the way the sound travels with buildings and other people around, maybe the very physics of it is fundamentally different.

Turning into the parking lot, your attention is piqued by a handsome motorcycle parked all on its lonesome next to the main lodge.

Pride in his voice, Jack says, ‘Darlin’, meet the Silver Pony.’

You know nothing about motorcycles, but you can appreciate the sleek lines, the classy tan leather seat and the retro elegance about her as you circle it. Her silver paint job gleams in the lonely porch light. ‘She’s beautiful, cowboy.’

‘She’s an old girl but she got good bones. I restored her myself,’ he proclaims proudly, before admitting, ‘And well, Teak helped too.’

Opening a little cabinet attached to the side of the main lodge, Jack pulls out a helmet that has you laughing. It’s painted red white and blue, stars, stripes and the full monty, with the word WHISKEY painted across the front in bold formation.

He grins at you. ‘Found it in a yard sale. Too good to pass up.’

Lowering it over your head, he tightens the strap carefully under your chin. It’s a bit big, but it’ll do for a short ride. Blinking up at him, it brings you back to that first day in the stables, and you feel the same pull that you did when he fitted you with your hat.

Except this time, you can do something about it. Standing on your tiptoes to kiss him, you giggle when your helmet slips and knocks into his forehead with a clunk.

Putting on his own sensible black helmet, he plants his left foot by the side of the bike and swings his right leg over the leather seat.

You’re taken aback by the spike in your pulse at the sight - you’d think that having seen him on horseback all week would have prepared you for it. But there’s something about the way he leans over the top of the motorcycle, thighs wrapped around the metal body, forearms flexing as he grasps the handlebar.

Starting the ignition and knocking back the kickstand with the heel of his cowboy boot, Jack nods at you. ‘Hop on, darlin’.’

You do, and you don’t need to be told to hold on tight.

The Silver Pony purrs to a stop outside a modest cottage, about a ten-minute cruise from the ranch, down a short dirt track from the main road. It’s pitch black except for the headlights that illuminate an unexpectedly floral front garden. You hop off and take off your helmet before Jack kills the engine, plunging you into a very familiar darkness.

Switching on the light on his phone, he reaches for your hand and pulls you gently to his side, his solid warmth welcome even though it’s nowhere as chilly as it was up on the mountains. Flashing the light towards the front yard, he tells you, ‘Ginger has quite the green finger, this is all her work. It took some time, but the vegetable patch is just startin’ to come through this season.’

Keys jangling, Jack unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, flipping on the lights.

It’s a cosy space, not big by country standards, but more than spacious enough for one cowboy. It’s clearly a man’s house, with a distinct lack of decorative touches other than a vintage map of Wyoming hanging over a dining table and a crowded bookshelf by the door. Dark wood with orange knots line the floors and ceilings, the warm tones reminding you of nights around the campfire.

Walking through the tidy but lived-in space, you pass an open kitchen with a breakfast bar that backs into the living room. A rustic stone fireplace stands in the corner, bracketed by a cosy sectional with deep seats.

Jack watches you mill about, taking everything in. When you stop by the fireplace, he asks jokingly from across the room, ‘So, what’s the verdict?’

You tease, ‘Not gonna lie - I’m disappointed there aren’t more spurs and lassos on the walls.’

He chuckles and steps into the kitchen. ‘You want a nightcap?’

‘Just water thank you, I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

Filling up two glasses at the sink, he crosses the room to join you at the mantelpiece.

‘How long have you been living here?’ you ask, setting your glass on the shelf after taking a sip.

He takes a moment to reply. ‘I took a long break off work after my wife died, then moved in here straight after. Couldn’t stand bein’ in our house alone - couldn’t bear bein’ there at all.’ He pauses, and his lips quirk with a wry smile. ‘Champ and Teak packed everythin’ up for me and drove it all here.’

His honesty hits you squarely in the chest, the weight of the grief behind his words nearly knocking you back a step. You reach for him, closing the two-step distance and wrapping your arms tight around his waist.

Eyes closed, he lets you anchor him to the moment. Maybe he shouldn’t, but the confession slips right through his teeth. ‘I haven’t brought any women here. Ever.’

He holds his breath as he feels you hold yours.

You mumble into his chest, ‘You have to stop making it harder for me to leave, cowboy.’

Then don’t.

The two words are on the tip of his tongue, and for a second, he worries that he actually said them out loud. But he knows he can’t. It’s mad. It’s been a week. It’s not fair on you, not when you have a whole life back in the city, thousands of miles away, and his is right here in the shadow of the Bighorn Mountains.

So he says nothing.

Eventually, you pull back and tip your face up towards him. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the wetness lining the seams of your eyes.

‘Let’s go to bed, cowboy.’

He watches you from the doorway, where he leans idly against the frame, body relaxed from the whiskey sodas at dinner. The curtains are drawn and the light from the bedside lamp soft, casting orange shades on the walls and your skin as you shrug on the shirt he leaves out for you. The last button done, you snuggle comfortably under his sheets, and his heart lurches.

Not for the first time, the thought crosses his mind -

You look like you belong here.

‘Are you gonna stare all night, cowboy?’ you tease, sinking into the pillows.

He shrugs and closes the door behind him, shedding his clothes as he goes. ‘Can’t help it, darlin,’. You look good in my bed.’

‘It’s so comfy,’ you sigh happily, watching him strip down to his boxers.

‘It’s just the hard ground talkin’,’ he says, climbing in next to you. Bundling you into his arms and sliding one leg between yours, he kisses you, a deep exhale leaving him as he does. You smile so wide the corners of your eyes crease, and he watches as they land somewhere behind him.

His stomach drops when it dawns on him what catches your attention.

But it’s too late. You sit up, leaning over him and grabbing a hold of it with gentle hands.

You stare up at him. ‘Jack.’

He doesn’t even remember the last time he really looked at the photo. It’s there when he wakes up, when he goes to bed. It sits on the bedside table by the lamp, probably covered in dust.

Untouched.

His silence doesn’t deter you, but your tone is soft, and he understands that you’re giving him an out if he wants it. ‘What’s her name?’

His throat goes drier than sandpaper, and he’s suddenly speaking through a mouthful of cotton. It takes him two tries before he manages to enunciate. ‘Addison. Everyone called her Addie.’

‘Was this taken at your wedding?’

He nods, picking at a loose thread on the comforter.

‘Look at you all dashing in a suit, cowboy,’ you hum appreciatively, tracing a fingertip over the smart dark grey tweed jacket with navy accents. ‘Where did you get married?’

‘At her parents’ ranch.’

‘Under this magnolia tree?’

He nods again. ‘It was her favourite spot.’

‘She’s so beautiful,’ you say quietly.

His eyes dart to the photo in your grasp despite himself. Swallowing thickly, he says, ‘She’s buried there now, where she was always happiest.’

At that, you return the photo to its place on the bedside table, almost solemnly. This is usually the point when people stop asking questions, so when you snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, gazing at him expectantly, he frowns in confusion.

‘What is it, darlin’?’

‘Tell me about her.’

Jack is stumped, flustered at your request. He shifts, sitting up stiffly against the headboard. ‘Like what?’

You shrug. ‘I don’t know. Like - how did you meet?’

His answer is short, factual. ‘On the rodeo circuit. We both worked on the tour.’

You give him an encouraging nudge. ‘And? What was she like?’

‘She -’ he pauses and holds his breath, weighing his words. In the end, it’s the truth that he tells you. ‘She was the best person.’

He stutters to a stop again, but you’re still peering at him, your expression curious and open. He knows you won’t push him, he trusts that you wouldn’t. He could reach out and switch off the light right now, and he knows you’d leave it at that.

But a small part of him demurs. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, but something unsettling and hopeful at once stirs in his stomach, one that is stopping him from cutting short this somewhat unconventional pillow talk.

So he tests the words on his tongue, starting with something small. ‘She was a cat person. All the barn cats loved her, no matter where we went on the circuit.’

Watching the way your eyes smile at the detail, he feels a little lighter. He adds, ‘We literally had cats camping out in our truck, and I’m allergic, so I’d be sneezing and covered in hives on the long-distance drives between rodeos.’

You laugh, and his chest swells with the realisation that he doesn’t remember the last time any mention of his wife sparked anything but sad side glances and commiserating pats on the back - let alone joy.

Over the years, he had let go of her joy. Because it doesn’t hurt as much to mourn her this way.

And the guilt that he did this, took the easy way out, is almost too much for one soul-crushing moment - until you lay your head on his chest, unfurling one hand and pressing it into his side, literally holding him together, rib by rib.

He tells you about Addie. Things he’s been afraid to remember, but even more afraid that he had forgotten. Her likes, pet peeves, where she went to college, her favourite show, her irrational fear of butterflies, her favourite dress, the song that always got her up on her feet dancing wherever she was, whatever she was doing, when it came on the radio.

You listen, picking up on the way his voice falls back into that beautiful Southern cadence that you have come to know as he remembers his wife, nothing but love in his eyes as the guardedness fades with each memory he confides in you. You pepper the pauses with follow-up questions and playful quips where you’re draped across him, one arm folded underneath you and the other over his waist, but you feel yourself nodding off as the hour grows late.

He holds you to him, his palm spanning your lower back, until you go quiet.

Jack is tired, his own lids drooping with impending slumber, the sprint down memory lane taking more out of him than he expected. Brushing a kiss to the crown of your head, he rolls you off his front and onto your side, tucking you into the rumpled sheets. Spooning you from behind, he murmurs one last thing on the shell of your ear.

‘She would’ve loved you, darlin’.’

Notes: When I first started this series, I didn't have a backstory developed for Jack other than that his wife died eight and a half years before Darlin' comes on the scene. It's been such an organic and fulfilling journey developing his character and his history over the series, filling in the blanks as we and Darlin' got to know him better.

It's so important to me that his wife and his grief isn't pushed to one side for the sake of easy story telling. I've dropped little hints of his bereavement throughout the series, nothing too loud, but it's there in the background, my way of paying respect to one aspect of canon Jack that touches me very deeply despite the mess the movie makes of his story.

Out of all my Reader! characters, I would say that Darlin' is my most unassuming one. Not in a bad way at all, it's just that she doesn't have as loud a personality as Shiv or Pin, or as dramatic a storyline as Sweetheart. But this chapter, she just really came into her own. That last scene will stay with me forever ❤️

Edited to add a reminder that we still have one more chapter to go before we say goodbye to these two. I’m not ready 😭

#palomino series #jack daniels fanfiction #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey fanfiction #agent whiskey smut #agent whiskey fic #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #jack daniels au #agent whiskey au #pedro pascal character fic

572 notes · View notes

angelanderson · 1 year ago

Text

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱──────────

TRINKETS- ELLIE WILLIAMS (fluff/100% sfw)

⚠️: men and minors dni. here’s the ellie williams fluff we’ve all wanted! short & sweet & not sad ♡ enjoy! xoxo (kinda edited)

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱──────────

it almost could be considered a shrine of sorts at this point. your girlfriend frequently brought you back things from patrol— she either thought you’d like it or if it reminded her of you. ellie lived for the way your eyes would light up when she showed you something she brought back just for you.

the first item ellie ever brought you back was a simple golden locket. heart-shaped and engraved with flowers around the edges. you made ellie pose for a polaroid picture, which you ended up gluing into the locket. you always wear the necklace, telling ellie it means she’s always close to your heart, no matter how far apart you may be that day. it’s simply your most prized possession.

the second gift is one that lives on your bed. ellie had brought you back a pink stuffed rabbit about a month into your relationship. she heard how worried you’d be while she was gone, so she got you a buddy to help with the anxiety. she even lets you spray it with her cologne when you get too upset about her leaving. while you still worry, you now feel calmer on your nights alone with a piece her to cuddle with. ellie definitely doesn’t keep a polaroid picture of you sleeping with it in her pocket to look at on patrols. definitely not.

another gift came soon after a drunken confession. it was spilled that you wish you could paint your nails like in the old magazines passed around jackson. dina had agreed with you, “yeah, i think i could definitely pull off a deep red color. it’d be cool to do.” unbeknownst to you, ellie had spent three months worth of patrols trying to find you some nail polish. forest fairy green, golden goose, sparkly pony pink, pink panthers, wine o’clock red, in bloom blue, and black 01 were given to you one wednesday after her patrol. you started crying after giggling about the silly names. “why are you crying? do you feel okay?” ellie frantically searched your face. you smiled through your tears, “i love you so much. i just can’t believe you remembered.” she kissed your forehead, “anything for my best girl. love you always.” safe to say you shared your red with dina so you could have matching nails with your friend.

the most recent post-patrol gift given to you was a cookbook. ellie had explained her and jesse explored an old bookstore, leading to some fun discoveries. after coming to jackson, it was soon discovered by everyone that you were massively talent when it came to cooking. plus, you’ve always taken pride in cooking dinner for both you and ellie. cooking together was also a favorite of both of yours. you’ve shared many wine and cooking date nights together.

committed to going on patrol one day to return the favor, you had finally convinced ellie to let you go on a safe supply run with jesse. it only took you five months of begging. ellie almost cried tears of happiness when you brought her back a leather bound journal. she had immediately noticed the three page long love letter, lipstick kiss, and polaroid picture of you two you’d put in the first few pages. to say it quickly became her most prized possession would be an under statement. she took it around with her frequently. it was her second little reminder of you when you two were apart. a lot of pages held little physical moments of your love together. she couldn’t have ever asked for a better gift or girlfriend.

#ellie williams fic #ellie tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams blurb #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams x you #lesbian #the last of us #tlou

529 notes · View notes

dilftaroooo · 2 years ago

Text

a lil something for my black gorls bc apparently every reader in this fandom is fair skinned </3

oh lord ghost turns into holy spirit bc of how much he worships u and yo body goodness gracious (i am so sorry father god 💀🧎🏽‍♀️). got carried away. p.s. yall i haven’t written anything in a hot minute so this small thirst might be raggedy as hell (my coochie was doin the thinking)

tags: smut + afab reader + ghost loves you sm + just as much as u love him + finger lickin good pussy eatin + body worship + slight dumbification + i was planning on making him rough with u but then i went soft :) + p power + piv sex + barely proofread + im so sleepy i’ll probably edit the format later + forgot how much i fucking hate tumblr’s editing antics.

You had lost count already. How many times you came to be exact. Has it gone up to Two? Three? Yeah—three. At least that’s what you think. Well—you suppose thinking is starting to become more and more of a rare luxury considering the state you were in—dazed and stupid. Eyes decorated with a red glow from the tears that spilled from them along with a glossy sheen that finished the look.

Subtle hints of wet mascara slid down the apples of your cheeks as Ghost’s fingers delve deep within your wet entrance. His digits were more than acquainted to the slimy ridges that lived inside of you. He graciously pets your most sensitive spots with the utmost care, making your pussy scream as his moist lips kisses your bothered clit as though he’s cooing it to sleep. His tender nature juxtaposes the foreboding gleam of his skull mask and dark eyes drowning in war paint.

It’s those eyes. The ones that made you shiver and whine whenever they catch sight of you. The ones that glare under dim, yellow lights when you inevitably made him jealous. Enough to make them turn green. The ones that form crescent moons whenever he reminds you how much he loves you (the mild appearance of crow’s feet adorning the outer corners). Those eyes—

God, those big fucking eyes.

Sweat makes your melanin coated skin glisten, emitting a warm glow that send tingles up Ghost’s spine. He can feel the goosebumps covering his body as you inadvertently arch your back, pushing your warm sex up against his upper lip, making him groan into your sensitive nub. Your core tighten once more, your pedicured toes stretched across the apex of his back, polish chipped and damaged from irritation, the power of your orgasm jolting you with a hot flash.

Now it's your fourth time.

Brown areolas raise up and down from your big breaths, in the process of coming down from that high you’ve encountered just a second ago. But Ghost doesn’t know rest as he gorges your nipple in his mouth, adoring the quick yelp escaping your lips.

“Ah, Ghost…” You say with kind fragility. Your palms lightly tap his shoulder. Not telling him to stop but telling him to slow down. It was too much. His hands caressed your naked curves. He loved admiring your body. Taking the time to relish just how gorgeous you really are—from head to toe:

Your cornrows styled in intricate parts, freshly layered with the tropical smell of coconuts. Skin gleaming with the overly used shea butter that rarely missed a day off your body. Lips full and plump and coated with that cherry chapstick he loves to taste. Your breast were round and soft to the touch. And your pussy—Fuck, that pussy shined with your juices. Juices he created from fucking you silly with his fingers.

Ghost wasn’t a religious man. He never was. But of all the possible religions out there, your pussy was the one he worshiped the most.

He loved this pussy. Kneeled for this pussy. Prayed for this pussy.

Your being was his shrine and your name was his mantra. He couldn’t get enough of you and your light touches and gentle praises. Ghost couldn’t find more ways to thank you for your existence.

He releases your nipple with a soft pop and utters a voice lower than you’ve ever heard him use, “I need you, love.” You don’t take long to nod with evident fervor. Languidly aiding him in unbuckling his pants and releasing him from those tight restraints.

“I need you,” He repeats. “need that soaking wet cunt.” His Mancunian accent is thick and laced with desire when his mouth spewed that last word. You let go of a wanting mewl before spreading the dark, puffy lips that lead to your sopping wet hole. Just what he wanted.

You both moan in unison as you both get what you want. His hand engulfed yours and you’re quickly reminded of how big he is. His fingers are long and thick. Your legs twitch as you remember how they feel rubbing inside you. He leisurely finds his way deep in your sex. Your tightness pains him in the way that he likes. Leaning down to grunt into your ear, nose filled with that familiar coconut scent, you clench around him when his teeth bites down at the shell of your ear.

He loves you. He loves you so much—your hair, your eyes, your lips, your smile, your voice, your taste, your scent. You’re wonderful. Breathtaking. Beautiful. So so beautiful. He’s so glad he has you. That you’re in his arm moaning so prettily for him. And its almost unbelievable to him that you think of him the same way he thinks of you.

Once your breathing gets heavier and his thrusts gets sloppier and your eye starts twitching, you both finally succumb to the hot rush of pleasure. You don’t object to his heavy weight toppling over you after he fills you up (you encourage it with a hug despite how heavy he is). It feels good—laying like this. So intimate. You pet the back of his head taking in his warmth. Time passes before he slowly looks up at you, his eyes the same temperature as both of your bodies meshed together, and he suddenly states,

“That’s your fifth one, doll.” And you can’t help the quiet snicker that leaves you before giving him a playful slap to his arm, telling him to shut up. You somehow manage to catch a small glimpse of him rolling his eyes beneath that inky mask of his. This was intimate indeed. You finish off the night with a kiss to his forehead and you felt your heart flutter when he answered with a subdued hum.

#ghost x reader #ghost simon riley #mw2 smut #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 smut #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost mw2 #black reader

661 notes · View notes

ivoryghostyy · 7 months ago

Text

— meet Cirius

「 image is not mine. it's sourced from pinterest. 」

「 note: look who's back after not posting for idfk how long. but hey, here's a fic, plus a new layout! haha... i have so much to edit, but anyways, i hope y'all enjoy this little idea i've pulled straight out of my ass. man, i could not get it out of my head. so, uh, have fun ig. 'til next time. buh-bye! 」

「 tw: swearing, mentions/implications of violence, threatening, obsession, manipulation, etc. 」

—————————————————————————————————

human emotions are fickle, but for Cirius, they're practically a foreign concept. dull faces accompanied him wherever he went. they would bother him, talk to him, and feign interest. no mask, however, could completely cover the rotting desires humans hide.

it confuses him, really, but what can he do? if they entertain him, then playing along wouldn't hurt anyone. otherwise, he'd probably die of boredom. besides, he has a reputation to keep. lashing out would only destroy his own facade.

university wasn't doing him any good either, despite his well-maintained rank. he's perfect, and every single one of them could see that. they praise him, and they raise him onto a pedestal. it's nothing new, not interesting at all. his eyes don't spare any of them a glance.

so imagine his surprise when he comes across you. it was onky a brief moment—barely even a second—but he saw it. you weren't hidden in a shroud of grey clouds, you were the embodiment of the sun. your eyes sparkled brighter than any gem he had ever seen. and he's seen a lot of gems, so that says a lot.

you're.. different. and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued. how did he miss someone like you? he hummed, a finger tapping the fabric of his sleeve. a new student, perhaps? but why would anyone transfer so late into the year?

you scurried away before he could say anything. ah, he should have atleast gotten your name... but it's alright. his fingers weave through the soft knots of his light pink hair, a cold smile creeping onto his plush lips.

it doesn't take much to find you and your entire history. goodness, he should've found you sooner. you've been living like this for your entire life? you're barely able to keep yourselves afloat. he's exaggerating. the more he learns about you, and the more he watches you, the deeper he falls into the dark pit of obsession.

don't worry, he'll take care of everything. his darling wife deserves the best and only the best, after all. he'll talk to his parents and arrange a dinner with his future family-in-law your parents, throw in a few lies here, a few threats there, and it's smooth sailing towards your engagement.

surely, you'll agree, right? even if you don't, do you really have a choice? anything he wants, he will have. and you? you're no exception.

you pace through the bustling halls, weaving through the chattering human barricades as they march into another boring lecture. contrary to the relaxed pace of these students, however, you're scrambling to reach your own destination: the library.

since you're free for this period, you thought you'd take the time to look around the grand library. really, this is the only reason you tried so hard to get into such a prestigious school. your family wasn't well-off, but earn enough to keep a delicious meal on your plate and a sturdy roof above your head.

the polished doubledoors creak open, and without wasting another second, you're already scanning book-lined shelves. the forgotten book of herbal remedies, the book of lies, 101 ways to hide a body... wait, what?

deciding not to question it, you finally find a good novel to read. to nobody's surprise, it's dark romance because of course it is. happily, you sink into a comfy bean bag this makes me kinda jealous and lose yourself within the pages, ignorant to brown eyes watching your every move.

a shadow looms over you, and you barely have any time to react before you're pulled into a lean chest, arms wrapped securely around your waist.

"wh-"

"there you are, my precious wife!"

your brain is barely processing the situation. what is he talking about? who is he talking about? it takes a around a minute before you've pulled yourself back, landing not-so gracefully onto the bean bag that you were just sitting on a moment before.

"sorry, i think you may have the wrong person," you say, firmly.

you've never seen this man in your life, who the hell does he think he is? what did he call you? his wife? he better be joking. he's either mistaken or insane. probably the latter, hun. he's insanely in love with you.

"how could i mistake you for anyone else?"

and now he's pulling you along to his fancy car, talking about how he'll introduce you to his parents because apparantly, he's already talked to them about the wedding and-

what do you mean he's talked to your parents!? and they didn't tell you anything!? that's because he threatened them with your safety, but you don't have to know that.

the worst part? you left your book at the library!

could it be any worse? yes, it could. after dinner with your supposed parents-in-law, you pull him aside. he's happy to follow you, anticipating anything you have to say. are you excited too? he's already imagining all the fun you'll have together. cuddling with you, holding your hand, going on dates, spending the rest of his life with you-

"i'm sorry, but i'm not marrying you."

"..good joke, honey."

you're not joking? he falls silent. you've already left by the time he came back to his senses, and he's never felt emptier in his life. how do you think this man—someone who had been given everything he could ever need; who could have the whole world served on a silver platter if he asked—will face the rejection of the single person he's genuinely fallen head over heels for?

it's safe to say that his ego is absolutely bruised. don't even get me started on his heart. words cannot describe the world-shattering devestation he felt. no, he wouldn't stand for this. he's never taken no for an answer, and he certainly isn't starting now.

you will be with him, and he doesn't care if he has to shatter your legs just to make sure you never leave. let's hope it never comes to that, though. he quite likes it when you smile, but he supposedly wouldn't mind seeing you cry, either.

within the next few months, it's like the world is crumbling. your parents lose their jobs, your grades are suddenly dropping, you can barely earn enough from your part-time job to keep food on your plates—it's a mess.

you're struggling, and he knows it.

when you're at your lowest point, he'll pay you a visit. pitiful darling, you know he can make it all go away, right? he'll help you. like a demon tempting to grant your deepest, darkest desire.

"shh, don't cry, sweetheart," he'll take care of you.

don't worry, honey, he can make it all go away. it's not difficult to give you back all that he took away. everything you've lost can be placed right back onto your gorgeous little palm.

but at what cost?

your body.

your soul.

your mind.

your everything.

don't you see, honey? he would do anything for you. new clothes? he'll buy the entire mall. need a better house? how about a mansion? want the moon? he'll do his best to get it for you, no questions asked. you could have everything you could ever want and more.

it's a generous offer, lovely. all he asks for, in return, is that you give up. you were his the moment he saw you, and that might have been the biggest mistake of your life.

say yes, honey. it's the only option you have.

54 notes · View notes

voxofthevoid · 5 months ago

Text

Mundane Unclekuna Wednesday #2 ✨

I'm 25k and 4+ chapters into the fic, and it's been...a fun adventure. The PoV structure is Yuuji - Gojou - Sukuna - Sukuna - Gojou - Yuuji for the main six chapters, with a Megumi PoV chapter to conclude the story.

And Chapters 3 and 4, the Sukuna PoV chapters, come to a total of 12.4k. This is the first time I'm tackling his PoV. I thought writing Grimmjow PoV (which is one of the most fun character voices I've ever written) for Bleach would give me some guidance; it did and it didn't. There are similarities, but Sukuna is a very different flavor overall.

Something I realized a few passages in is that I just...could not write Yuuji's name in Sukuna's interior monologue. It wasn't happening. Despite the modern context, the fucker just would not acknowledge Yuuji by name. So we have over 12k of "brat" and "boy" and assorted insults. Won't lie, I enjoyed it, though I'll have a time polishing the phrasing during edits. Contextually apt, relevant epithet usage is always a fun challenge.

Click through for some uncle-nephew incest: Sukuna is his own warning, but Yuuji matches him well enough.

“Strip.”

The brat freezes. “What?”

“I said,” Sukuna enunciates slowly, “strip.”

“But—why?”

“I want to see your damage. If some two-bit sons of a whore fucked you up any, there will be hell to pay, brat.”

“They didn’t,” the kid snaps, eyes all fire. “I told you, they only got Fushiguro, and even that was—”

“I do not care,” Sukuna cuts in, “about Fushiguro Megumi.”

“I do.” It’s a snarl, the mouth matching the eyes. “He’s my friend, and he got caught up in that shit because of me.”

“Did I ask?” Sukuna’s on the kid before he can speak again, grabbing his collar and throwing him to the center of the room. He doesn’t stumble, turning around midway and controlling his momentum so he doesn’t so sprawling on the mat. “Now take off your fucking clothes before I rip them off you. And don’t let your twisted little head fool you, brat—you won’t enjoy it.”

Furious red streaks the brat’s cheek—anger or arousal, even Sukuna can’t tell.

Both, knowing this freak.

“How much?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow.

The brat raises bold hands to his collar, undoing the top two buttons of his jacket with quick, flicking motions. “How much do you want to see? The top? All of it?”

Despite everything, including all the nights this same boy lied his way into Sukuna’s bed just to molest him in his pretend-sleep, Sukuna finds himself surprised.

“I’ve found dirt-cheap whores with more shame than you,” he says, marveling.

The brat just holds his head higher. “Says more about you than them.”

“You little—”

The rest of the jacket is unbuttoned with startling speed. The brat shrugs it off unceremoniously. By the time it hits the floor, he’s already halfway done with the thin white shirt underneath.

It’s almost like he’s eager to get naked.

The shirt joins the jacket on the floor.

Topless, the brat raises his head, meeting Sukuna’s eyes with a challenge splattered all over his face.

Never had the sense god gave a worm, this one.

Sukuna steps closer—and closer and closer.

The brat doesn’t waver, eyes to toes.

Sukuna drops his gaze to the sweat-slick column of a neck and further down, sneering at the hard curves of muscle. The brat had thinned out a little after that growth spurt last year, like fat and muscle just couldn’t keep up with changing body they clung to, but that didn’t last long. The brat filled right back out, bulging out from biceps to thighs. The uniform shows it better than his casual clothes, straining against shoulders and arms and legs like seams will rip and buttons will pop any moment.

It’s a powerful body—Sukuna’s body, in every way that counts. This boy would never have become what he is today if not for Sukuna.

The brat wasn’t lying, at least. There’s not a mark on him, not even a bruise.

Sukuna’s thorough with the check, circling around the brat once, twice, then again and again, and the little shit relaxes into parade rest, playing at nonchalance, as if Sukuna can’t see his breath quickening and skin dewing.

He comes to a stop directly behind the brat, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his body—a half-phantom haze in the air.

“I should make you take off the rest too,” Sukuna murmurs, watching those shoulders tense up in response. “But you’d enjoy it too much, wouldn’t you?”

The brat’s clasped hands grow tight around each other, those bruised knuckles spotting blood.

But his voice is steady when he says, “Don’t pin this on me. You’re the pervert here.”

Oh, the fucking audacity.

“I’ll tell you a secret, brat,” Sukuna tells him, grinning till his lips sting at how every inch of the brat grows stiff. “You truly are your mother’s child.”

The deflation is almost as amusing as that taut-wire tension.

“That’s not the insult you think it is. I like Mum fine.”

“I wonder about that.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Turn around.”

The brat practically whips around, taking a step closer till he’s glaring up at Sukuna from less than a foot away.

Sukuna meets his eyes, and the brat doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.

Some fools never learn.

“Are you going to ask?”

Sukuna blinks, trying and failing to make sense of the question. “Ask what? Whether you were dropped on your head as a kid? I already know.”

“Funny,” comes the flat response. “The fight—why I did it, why they started it.”

“Am I supposed to care?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna snorts in spite of himself. “Alright, let’s hear it. Might as well know what I’m wasting my time for.”

“I was talking to Fushiguro.”

“That all it takes to stir up you kids these days? Things must be goddamn boring there.”

The brat growls. “Just listen.”

“Get to the point then.”

“I was talking to Fushiguro,” the brat repeats pointedly, the sheer intensity of it all not matching his words—not yet. “I was telling him something. Something I realized recently. Those guys overheard—and didn’t like what they heard. I wasn’t planning on a fight, but the shit they said…” The kid shrugs, not breaking eye contact. “I don’t regret it.”

“Good for you,” Sukuna drawls. “This is still the most boring fucking—”

“I like men,” the brat cuts in. “I was telling Fushiguro about my type of guy. That’s what pissed off those assholes.”

Sukuna’s mind blanks for a moment, before whirling to life with a vengeance.

Something I realized recently, the brat said. But there’s no way in hell even this idiot would’ve been so oblivious. Yeah, he fucking likes men. He’s been eye-fucking Sukuna since puberty, and the last year or so, he’s also been trying his perverted best to turn that into reality.

“I must’ve kicked you in the head one too many times,” he says, clicking his tongue and grinning when the brat’s expression twists up. ��Congratulations, you fucking idiot. You finally figured out what everyone and their mother—yours included—knew since before you knew what to do with your dick.”

“Oh, shut up—”

“So, what, were you talking about opening up one of those kids? Singing loving odes to his shit-crusted backside? Word of advice, brat, if you’re perving on people where they can hear, be ready to commit, one way or the other.” Sukuna glances down at one of the brat’s bloodied knuckles. “And this way tends to get you arrested.”

The brat’s gaping at him.

“What kind of a creep do you think I am?” he asks with all the self-awareness of a piece of rock. “Of course I wasn’t doing that! I didn’t even know them. And you know damn well why they picked a fight.”

He does. Sukuna’s broken his fair share of bastards who couldn’t keep their mouths shut about who and how he fucked. And the world’s changed but not that much.

He’s not worried for the kid. He never will be. Either he’ll survive or he won’t, and if he gives the world more reasons to hate him, he better be ready to chew up every resulting misery till it shows its belly.

“Enlighten me then,” Sukuna says despite his better judgement, “on your type.”

The brat freezes—only for a moment, but it’s telling enough. The air between them thickens.

Blood in the water.

“You shy now?” Sukuna asks softly. “Come on, brat, spill. It better have been something else to get those shitstains so worked up.”

The brat’s jaw sets. “Big, tall men with a good ass.”

Sukuna blinks, somehow caught off guard by the sheer, shameless bluntness.

“Helps if they’re older,” the brat continues, a corner of his mouth curling meanly—an expression Sukuna recognizes from the goddamn mirror. “But I’m not sure about that yet. Girls are easier. I like how they’re soft and warm everywhere. Guys… I guess they can be soft and cute too. Like Fushiguro. He’s pretty. And I guess it’d be easier if he’s the sort I wanted. And I wouldn’t mind, I think, but he doesn’t make my brain light up like that. Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t tell him this part. He’s my friend.”

Whatever the expression on Sukuna’s face, it’s not judging what the brat thinks he’s judging.

“Your friend,” Sukuna echoes, hearing his voice with a hollow, ringing echo that trembles down every one of his veins, “but not your type—unlike that teacher of yours, the Gojou brat.”

There’s a minute flinch, mostly there in the mouth. “Gojou-sensei is way too old for you to call him a brat.”

“And that’s just how you like ‘em, isn’t it?” Sukuna watches his hand move, curling around a throat that moves under it with a harsh swallow. The brat’s eyes are wider, wilder. “That man will eat you alive, you stupid fucking child.”

The brat curls his hand around Sukuna’s wrist, the pressure of it blisteringly familiar.

“As if you won’t,” he says quietly.

Sukuna tightens his grip. “Speak up, brat. Show some balls for once in your pathetic life.”

The boy snarls, surging like a storm.

Sukuna thinks it’s a punch at first, the force and fury of it like nothing else, and then teeth cut into his lip, drawing blood, and he realizes it’s meant to be a kiss. The brat’s throat is pulled taut, the bulge there digging into Sukuna’s palm as it works around air and spit and swallowed sense. The mouth is a mess, more teeth than lips. He’s kissing Sukuna like he wants to bite off his jaw, the heat of it like nothing else.

Sukuna hasn’t frozen for anything in well over a decade, but now, he does, if only for a moment.

He makes the brat pay for it.

#sukuita #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #wip wednesday #jjk snippets #my fic #fic: bloodstains on the collar #divider credit: saradika-graphics

38 notes · View notes

major-toast · 12 days ago

Text

Wolfstar Microfic - Hellbent

@wolfstarkinktober2024 // day 31: hate sex // 2121 words // mdni

Yes, I know. This one ended up a tad too long. But I don't want to upload anything that is under 4k words to ao3. My weird mind simply works that way. Nonetheless, I'm sure as hell not missing out on a opportunity to post some casual hate sex microfic. Also, don't mind me reuploading this. There was an editing error. My apologies xx

SHORT DISCLAIMER (before anyone comes for my ass): This is part of toxic wolfstar™. The entire purpose of these characters is to be the worst possible versions of themselves. I'd never write either of them the way they are presented here unless it is explicitly in the context of toxic wolfstar™. Furthermore, I do not condone any of these actions. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Remus is on a rampage. Boiling, seething, and ready to tear everything to shreds. All it needs to do is stand in his way. With the paper a pathetic crumple inside his clenched fist, he is working his jaw, burning holes into everyone crossing his path. It’s enough to scare the desk lady into letting him pass with a simple raise of his ID. The elevator ride feels like torture with every passing second.

Two fast strides – more it doesn’t take for him to reach the door with the shining letters ‘659’. Not even hesitating, he starts banging against the polished wood; demanding, hungry.

Remus Lupin is on a mission and he is not ready to back down.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I already told you-“

The words get stuck inside Sirius’ throat as he realises who is standing before him. Remus almost breaks out in triumphant laughter as he sees the unfiltered shock and confusion flashing in those sparkling silver diamonds. But, as of now, he is not in the mood for laughter. No, Sirius made sure of that. He and his gorgeous hair, devilish smile and soft, smooth skin that Remus wants to sink his fucking teeth in.

“Did not expect me, did you?” he growls, only gripping the paper tighter until his veins start to budge. With great satisfaction, he witnesses Sirius grow a little paler. His eyes wander down to Remus’ hands and up again. He swallows.

“How did you get in here? What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing? Get out before I start calling security.”

Surprisingly, there is still the ever-present defiance inside Sirius’ tone, calm and stubborn. It only riles Remus up more.

“Oh, you’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” Remus taunts, lodging his foot between the door and frame as Sirius tries to slam it shut in front of his face. Using bare strength alone, he wrenches the entrance open wide enough to slip in. Immediately, Sirius takes a couple of steps back, only growing paler with fear.

How beautiful he is. Messy black hair is falling down his back and into his eyes, which are a beacon of silver adorning this oh-so-delicate face. Rosy, parted lips are scrambling for words and Remus would have loved to watch them move for all eternity, making all those angelic noises, if he hadn’t been so caught up on the robe draped over Sirius’ exquisite frame, tied sacrilegiously at the waist, and highlighting his sharp hip bones.

It’s a lovely shade of red, deep and velvet, like pomegranates in the Middle Eastern sun. The thin fabric reveals enough to spark even the wildest imaginations, yet not enough to keep one satisfied.

Soon enough, Remus will rip that fabric off with his teeth. Oh, he is sure. But not now. Now, he is still too angry.

“What do you think you’re playing at, huh?” he snarls, the door falling shut behind him with a loud thud as he waves the paper in front of Sirius’ face.

‘Supernova Sirius Black Spotted with New Lover’ the headline reads. ‘Who Is the Mysterious Man Behind the Dazzling Smile?’

Remus hadn’t been able to think straight ever since Peter flopped the paper down in front of him at the breakfast table, grinning that Peter grin that only ever means trouble.

“Is this why you’re all so dressed up, Black? For him? I bet you’re not even wearing anything underneath these expensive robes, little slut that you are. It’s really fucking pathetic.”

For the first time since Remus’ sudden appearance, Sirius looks him in the eye. A mocking smile curls his pretty lips.

“Or”, he says with a haughty raise of his chin, “you’re just pissed you never got the sight that he is getting. What? Never heard of actions having consequences, Lupin?”

“Damn right, I have.”

And with that, Remus starts moving forward, determined once more. Sirius is left with nothing aside from taking more steps back. His back hits the wall once they reach the other side of the room. Remus is on him in an instant, crowding him in.

“Don’t you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Taunting me? Riling me all up?”, he murmurs lowly, reaching out to gently caress Sirius’ cheek. Having run out of smart words, Sirius can only stare up at him. Smiling, Remus trails his thumb over the other man’s lips, wondering what they taste like. Cigarettes maybe. Or wine.

“But you don’t have to, sweetheart. You know I am all yours. Always. And I know that you’re always mine. No matter what the press says.”

“You’re delusional”, Sirius scoffs, finally bringing up the courage to push back against him. It doesn’t do much as Remus remains unmovable, simply grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. The time for games is over.

“I know you want me”, Remus continues, lodging his knee between Sirius’ legs, gently pressing against his crotch. A low hiss escapes Sirius. It awakens something inside of Remus. Something desperate for more. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. How you’re making sure I follow your every move whenever you perform. I know the magazine cover was just another of your honey-sweet taunts. So was the trick with the perfume. But what for? If you wanted my attention so badly, all you needed to do was ask. You know you’ve never been out of my mind. Not once.”

“Remus, I-“

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay. I want you too. God, I want you so much.”

Leaning down until his lips find the sensitive juncture of Sirius’ neck and shoulder, he uses all his weight to keep Sirius in place. Hungrily, he starts nipping at his warm skin, not stopping until the first bruise starts forming underneath his lips. Unable to move, laboured breaths turn into bitten-back moans, and Remus revels in the way how needy it makes Sirius sound.

“Look at you”, Remus sighs into the crook of his neck, pressing adoring kisses up to the shell of his ear. “So lovely, so beautiful. Every man who wouldn’t fall for you is a fool. But you won’t belong to any of them. No. You’ll always be mine.”

Turning his head, he captures Sirus’ lips with his own before the other man can answer anything he has said. And Remus doesn’t need him to. The way his body responds, with his hips grinding ever so slightly against Remus’ knee, the choked-up moans, and tongue sliding past teeth, Remus has the answer, that he was looking for. It delights him.

Carefully, he releases one hand, curiously wandering down the warm flesh pressed against him. Loosening the tie on the robe, he slips it past the fabric, pushing it aside. A small whimper can be heard from Sirius, and Remus cannot help but take it as an invitation. Tracing taunting circles across the inner side of his thigh and panting into Sirius’ opened, desperate mouth, he lifts his lover’s leg and hooks it across his waist. He wants to feel him better, see him better.

And what a sight Sirius truly is.

His face is flushed and his hair is dishevelled. Ivory skin glints with pearls of sweat, accentuated by the shimmering red of the silk robe. Dreamy, half-lidded eyes watch Remus move about while his chest heaves breathlessly. Gripping Sirius’ upper thigh firmly to keep him where he wants him, Remus lets go of his hands, surging forward for another hungry kiss.

Sirius’ fingers immediately wind into his hair, clawing at the curls, pulling him in. Enamoured, Remus lifts him up until both his legs are wrapped securely around his waist. Then, he carries him off, tumbling towards the couch in the middle of the living room.

Flopping Sirius down, Remus is quick to climb on top of him, drinking in the sight of the robe slowly falling off his shoulders, offering his body up to him, while he takes off his shirt. Kissing him some more, he circles one arm around Sirius’ waist, pressing their bodies closer together, and moves his hips against Sirius’ in feverish motions. Moaning and whimpering, their dance soon turns into a waltz of clawing nails, angry snarls and biting teeth. Yet, Remus doesn’t let him go. He wants all of this. He wanted it for far too long.

Hot and breathless, he reaches down once more, gripping Sirius’ cock and slowly starting to stroke it just the way he knows he likes it; moving up to the tip only to stop right before he reaches it and back again, teasing. Growing pliant underneath him with his back arching, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back only a bit, Sirius lets him have his way. Remus cannot stop himself from grinning.

“You like that, huh? I knew it.”

“Fuck… you.”

“Oh, baby. You are reading my mind.”

Pulling down both his trousers and underwear to the back of his knees, Remus starts wanking off to the show Sirius is now performing for him. And, unlike all these where times where he kept taunting him on stage – dressed in the tightest of fits, moving his body across the floor like a desperate whore, hitting those delicious high notes still burnt into the most hidden parts of Remus’ brain -, this time it’s solely for him.

Bringing himself almost to a clean finish with a needy groan wrenching its way out of his lungs, he reaches for the bowl of condoms conveniently placed on the table atop the couch, rolling one over himself without much hesitation. Once he looks back, he can find Sirius watching him with the deadly and hungry precision of a starved dog. Remus’ chest swells with pride and burns with desire just the same.

“You know”, he tells Sirius, lifting him by his waist and pulling him closer to his hips, “I have dreamt about this moment ever since you first came back on stage, wearing this black garment. Multiple times, I have seen you in my sleep, just like you are now. And you know what, Sirius?”

“What?” Sirius breathes back, voice shaky with anticipation.

“Even if you tell me to fuck off once we’re done, you’ll not be rid of me yet. I will only have tasted blood. I’ll want more. And I will not stop until I have you back at my side.”

Laughing, Sirius shakes his head. “That’s not going to-“

Remus never gets to hear Sirius’ words as he’s pushing inside of him right this moment, successfully cutting him off. And to say that it feels good is a fucking understatement. Even a missile launcher wouldn’t have been able to shoot Remus off this cloud that he ultimately finds himself on. Curses roll off his lips as his hips start to move, fucking Sirius with every bit of burning passion and hateful desire pent up over all this teasing and taunting. Even as Sirius, moaning and squirming, lets his hands claw into Remus’ back, scratching it angry and raw, he doesn’t stop. Even as the orgasm ripples through Sirius, forcing him to let his head fall in a pathetic groan, Remus does not let go. He fucks him until the moaning and whimpering turns into blabbered nonsense and tear-stained cheeks. He fucks him until Remus himself is exhausted and spent, falling on top of Sirius’ paralysed and bruised body with a shaky sigh.

For a minute, maybe ten, they lie next to each other, struggling for breath. However, stubborn as he is, Sirius is the first to bear his wits. Slipping out of Remus’ arms, he pulls out the robe from underneath him and dresses himself back on.

“Are you happy now?” he asks through gritted teeth, not looking at Remus as he has his back turned towards him. Remus can only smile up at him adoringly.

“I could have not asked for more.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

The smile turning smug, Remus does as he’s asked, putting his clothes back on. However, Sirius remains stoic, not giving him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. Not once, and not even as Remus is heading for the door. Satisfied, he throws his shirt casually over his shoulder, showing off the bleeding scratch marks like a badge of honour. The whole world shall see what Sirius Black can do when edged on long enough.

“I know you’ll call me anyway”, he admits into the silence of the room, the triumphant feeling not leaving his body. “No matter how good your mystery lover is, he’ll never be able to make you moan like I can. Of that, I am certain.”

Sirius doesn’t answer, doesn’t have to.

This time, Remus knows he has won.

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #toxic wolfstar #wolfstarkinktober2024 #wolfstar microfic #mens rea #multa paucis

14 notes · View notes

wakebymoonsleepbysun · 1 year ago

Text

Untitled Roxy x Reader fic (hurt/comfort)

EDIT: A more polished version is now up on ao3. If you're re-reading it or sending it to someone, then the ao3 version is preferred, but it's not changed enough that I would necessarily suggest re-reading it again if you weren't already going to. <3

For some reason, last night, I decided that it was imperative I write and release a Roxy x Reader oneshot before Ruin. (ETA: To be clear I mean I wrote this before Ruin released, therefore it contains NO SPOILERS. <3) It's an idea I've had for awhile and was going to do as a comic but decided to expand it and write it out instead. I may post a more polished version to ao3 at a later date.

Fun fact: Roxy was my first FNAF crush, before SB even came out. So Ruin will have many chances to break my heart.

Word count: ~3200

----

When the Pizzaplex burned down, none of your colleagues had seemed particularly interested in returning to the ruins. You could understand…some of the techs arriving for the morning shift had been caught in the blaze, and while there were no casualties, there had been some injuries. Yourself included.

After a few weeks in the hospital, the burn mark across your face was just an angry red scar, and the singed hair you’d had to cut off had regrown enough for you to wear a slightly uneven pixie cut.

The other techs said you were crazy to want to go back. The future of Fazbear Inc was uncertain, and the animatronics themselves were just that. Animatronics. Machines. Not worth putting yourself in danger for.

But you’d come to consider Roxy a friend. Sometimes you thought she considered you one, too. She didn’t seem like she would readily admit such a thing even if it were true.

She had at least liked you as a tech, if not as a person. You were the only one who could do her pre-show checks and weekly maintenance without ruining her hair, at least according to her. According to the other techs, Roxanne’s hair was always fine.

You quickly learned that to Roxy, “fine” was equivalent to a reprehensible failure. A disaster. A complete horrific mess.

You didn’t think your experience with costuming (specifically wigs) in your college’s theater club would ever be something you used after you graduated, but life is full of surprises.

You wander through the corridors of your ruined, burned out workplace, flashlight in hand. You have a few guesses as to where Roxy might be. You desperately hope she’s okay. The structure is mostly intact, but there are a few collapsed portions and fallen bits of decor. You think as long as Roxy had been able to avoid the worst of the heat, she’d be mostly alright.

You make your way to Rockstar Row, your workboots crunching on the debris as you walk.

As you approach Roxy’s room, you hear something that makes you freeze.

Crying.

For a moment you wonder if another tech, or perhaps some urban explorer or rubbernecker is in here with you. Then you recognize the voice behind the sobs.

Roxanne is crying? You’re more surprised than you probably should be. But you’d seen behind her mask a couple times. Behind the vanity, haughtiness, and borderline entitlement, you had occasionally glimpsed a profound insecurity. Beneath it all, you don’t think Roxy actually likes herself very much.

You swipe your badge on the door, and it actually dings and slides open. Or tries to. Something jams it halfway and you have to wedge yourself into the doorframe and push the door open the rest of the way.

Roxy, who had been sitting at her vanity, head in her hands, perks up. Her ears twitch as she glances around. “Who’s there?” she calls out.

You open your mouth to speak, only to leave it hanging open in surprise as you see how badly she’s damaged. So much of her exoskeleton is missing, exposing the endoskeleton underneath. Her hair is a tangled, singed mess and her tail isn’t much better. But most horrifying, her eyes are completely gone.

“Who’s there?!” Roxy repeats, a growl in her voice as she stands up and starts stalking towards you. You can hear the servos and joints in her body creak in protest as she moves.

“R-Roxy, it’s me!” you say before hastily blurting out your name.

She stops, her ears twitching and her claws grasping at the air. At first you think she’s baring her teeth at you, but you quickly realize her broken faceplate has put one side of her mouth in a permanent snarl.

She huffs, turning away. She skulks back to her vanity, plopping down in her chair and burning her broken face in her shattered hands. “What do you want?” she mutters.

You tense, taken aback. “Wh-What do you think I want, Roxy?” you ask incredulously, slowly moving towards her. “I-I wanted to know you were okay. I wanted to help you. I was…terrified you’d…been destroyed,” you say quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She pulls away with a growl. “I have been destroyed! Just--Just look at me!” The rage in her voice doesn’t fully mask her despair, nor does it completely hide her fear. Fear of what? Of what could have happened? Of how close she came to being permanently deactivated?

Her command was clearly rhetorical, for she lowers her head further, digging her claws into what remains of her scalp.

“Roxy…all this can be fixed…” you say gently.

“No it can’t!” she snaps. “I already checked. Parts and Services is a pile of rubble now.”

“Well…what about the loading docks? Maybe we can at least find some new eyes for you…”

She scoffs. “Oh good. Then I can see myself. Because feeling all this isn’t bad enough,” she sneers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Roxy--”

“FINE!” she growls, pushing back from her vanity abruptly. If the chair weren’t screwed into the floor she surely would have toppled it over. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

You flinch nervously, nodding. Remembering her blindness, you quickly say, “Okay. Here,” you say gently putting a hand on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she snaps, though she sounds somewhat less defensive and a bit…nervous? Embarrassed? With a huff, she adds, “I’ll just follow your footsteps.”

You bite back a sigh. “Alright,” you say patiently.

You lead the way out of her green room towards the long stairway down to the loading docks. You’re not about to risk trying to take the elevator.

“Here, careful on the stairs,” you say, gently taking her arm again. This time she allows it, albeit with some reluctance as she gives you what probably would have been a withering look if her faceplate had been intact.

It’s a long way down and neither of you want to rush. The sound of your softer footfalls and her heavier ones as you both pick your way down the stairs echoes through the stairwell.

Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk.

You watch her carefully. She seems too focused on making it down the stairs to be too sulky for the moment. Small blessings, you suppose. Still, the silence is only stretching out your descent.

“It sounds like one of your knees is out of alignment,” you say eventually.

“The left one,” she confirms a bit gruffly. “I can manage.”

“I can see that,” you say gently. “It took me awhile to notice something was even wrong. You carry yourself well,” you say, smiling a bit.

Roxy grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t preen even a little at the praise. That’s unusual for her…compliments usually cheer her up.

“Maybe I can find a new hinge while we’re--”

“Why are you doing this?” she cuts you off.

“W-What do you mean?” you ask, stopping in the middle of the flight of stairs.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean,” she says. Before you can speak, she continues, “This whole place is finished. Nobody’s coming back to rebuild. What’s the point of you patching me up?”

“I told you, Roxy…I was worried…” you start as you resume your climb down the stairs.

“Why?”

“Because I care about you!” you say, exasperated as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You keep your hand on her arm as you make your way down the corridor, and she doesn’t protest.

She snorts. “You care about a pile of scrap?”

You wish she could see the glare you give her at that. “You are NOT a pile of scrap! You’re just a little scuffed.”

“More than a little,” she huffs.

You sigh. “Okay, maybe a little more than a little,” you admit. You force a smile. “But hey…I’m the perfect tech, remember? If anyone can get you fixed up, it’s me, isn’t it?”

You weren’t normally any kind of braggart. Roxy had been the only one to ever call you the perfect tech, though you feel like that was almost more a point of pride for herself rather than for you. As if she were praising herself for being deserving of the best tech more than she’s praising you for being the best tech. But you still liked hearing it…and sometimes it really did seem like she was directing the praise at you.

Roxy turns her head towards you, her ears swiveling forward. It’s hard to read her expression with her broken faceplate, but eventually one side of her mouth ticks up into a small smile. “...Yeah…” she admits softly.

You squeeze her arm gently, careful to not touch any of the sharper broken off bits.

Once you get to the loading dock, you guide her to sit down on a crate while you look through some of the recent part shipments.

The fire had somehow spared much of this place, but the collapse of P & S had rippled partially through the area and several patches of ceiling had fallen, knocking over piles of crates and leaving the whole place in disarray.

Eventually you find a crate that has the P & S stamp on the wooden slats, and figure that’s a promising place to start. You grab a crowbar and begin trying to pry it open in any way you can.

Roxy’s ears perk and she turns towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Trying--urg--to get this crate open,” you grunt.

She stands and walks towards you. “Let me,” she says. She reaches towards you, trying to determine your position.

You take her hand, your fingers weaving in hers for a moment before you guide her hand to the crate.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping aside.

“Well…pretty silly to make a human do all the heavy lifting,” she says, digging her claws into one of the planks. The wood splinters and creaks and is readily ripped free.

You smile weakly. “You’re right…these arms would never have a fraction of your strength,” you say. Jokingly, you lift your arm and flex…only to realize Roxy won’t be able to see it.

Probably for the best. It was a dumb joke anyway.

She snorts, actually preening a bit as she pulls another board free. “Even busted…” she agrees softly. Her tone is slightly melancholy…as if she doesn’t fully believe it.

She pulls another board free, and you put a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough for now,” you say, guiding her back to the crate she had been sitting on before.

You begin pulling the smaller boxes from the shipping crate, cutting them open and rummaging through them, looking for anything usable.

Once again, the silence stretches on.

After finding nothing useful in the first two boxes, you glance back at Roxanne. Her hand is over her face, her middle finger slowly tracing the cracks near where her eyes had been. The quiet isn’t doing her any favors.

You shove the box you were looking through aside and pull out another, cutting it open. “Roxy?” you break the silence.

“Mm?” she grunts, still more focused on her faceplate than you.

“You…d’you um…remember that time we ran out of driver bots and that angry dad yelled at me?”

She pauses briefly, turning her head towards you. “What about it?” she asks before going back to feeling her faceplate.

“You remember what you said to me?”

“I called you an idiot.” Was that a touch of guilt you detect in her tone?

You laugh weakly, nodding. “Yes. But you remember why?”

“For letting a loser like that get under your skin,” she says plainly.

“Right,” you say, smiling. “I think about that a lot, you know.”

Roxy scoffs. “Really? Freddy said I was too rude,” she says. If she had eyes she would have rolled them.

You let out a gentle chuckle. “Well…maybe a bit,” you admit, earning a slightly sulky huff from her. “But there was truth to it, y’know? And I think about it a lot. It uh…it’s…helped me. Deal with people like him.”

She cants her head, one ear flicking curiously. It’s a cute expression even with her broken faceplate. “It…did?”

“Yeah,” you say, pulling out another box and opening it. “I-I mean…you were right. I knew he was a loser but I still told myself his opinion meant something. But it doesn’t, y’know?”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly.

The conversation lapses again, and you try to resist the urge to slow your search in order to come up with a new topic. Luckily, it is Roxy who picks the next topic.

“You remember that time a birthday party ran long, and I was late getting back to the recharge station?”

You freeze. Oh you do remember. You remember that evening well. The animatronics tend to get a little quirky when their battery dips below five percent. Something about a power save mode cutting power to random systems. Usually mobility, but somehow, their…inhibitions, for lack of a better term, also seemed to go by the wayside. As far as you know nobody ever quite understood why, but it was a little like getting loopy from lack of sleep, or even a bit tipsy.

Roxy smirks, hearing your stunned silence. “You do.”

“Y-Yeah…I…I wasn’t sure if you did, though.”

“I remember the important parts.” Before you can start to wonder what the “important parts” are in her mind, she continues, “You’d finally used that salon voucher I gave you for your birthday. Gotten your hair done. Actually wore it down. I never understand why you hide such long pretty hair up that bun.”

You fluster a bit. “Th-The dress code--”

“Oh, you do it without the dress code,” she scoffs, flicking a hand dismissively.

You clear your throat awkwardly, pausing to rub at your cheeks as if you can wipe the blush away. “W-What’s your battery at, by the way?”

She snorts. “Just an idle wondering?” she smirks. “It’s twenty-two percent.”

So it’s not her low battery talking…

Roxy continues, “You know…if you can find a set of replacement eyes…I wouldn’t mind seeing your hair down again,” she says, actually sounding wistful, of all things. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard her sound wistful.

You sigh softly, running a hand over your chopped off hair. “Y-Yeah…” you say, noncommittally.

She glances at you questioningly, sensing something in your tone. But before she can comment, you cut open another box, and find it has the spare eyes you’ve been looking for.

“Found the eyes!” you say. Some of the happiness in your tone is genuine. You grab two amber ones, going over to her. “They’re just standard optics, so you won’t see as well as you’re used to, but…it’ll do for now,” you say, guiding her to lay on the floor.

Her smile fades slightly and she nods, reality setting back in. Despite your claims that you could repair her, she wasn’t convinced she’d ever be as good as she was before. “Guess it’ll have to,” she mumbles.

You put a flashlight in her hand and position her arm to shine it down on her faceplate, giving you light to work with. Your toolkit is beside you, with some extra lengths of wire and soldering iron to work with. As you cut away the burned wires, murmuring apologies whenever Roxy flinches, your mind drifts back to that evening.

Her power had been at one percent when you finally coaxed her into her recharge station. Before you did, though, she had leaned down and pressed her lips to yours. You think she had been trying to nuzzle your cheek. Even “drunk” you don’t think she wanted to kiss you like that.

Neither of you had ever spoken of that night again, until today. She must not remember the kiss, you decide. She wouldn’t bring up that night at all if she did.

The truth is you’ve carried a small flame for her ever since then. Or perhaps a little longer, if you were more honest with yourself. Nothing you couldn’t ignore most of the time, of course…but something that had occasionally managed to put a bit of warmth in your heart when you allowed it to.

But none of those silly little what-ifs you’d allowed yourself to daydream of would ever come to pass now.

You wire in the eyes, then carefully fit them into their sockets. As they come online, the attached eyelids blink shut against the light.

You quickly turn away, keeping your back to her as you pack up your toolkit. “Th-They working okay?” you ask. It’s silly to turn away like this. You can’t possibly delay her seeing your scar for more than a couple minutes. Why even bother trying?

She moves the flashlight out of her eyes and sits up, looking around. “Yes,” she says. She pauses. “...Better than I thought. I forgot the standard optics still have night vision.”

You laugh weakly. “Another thing you have over me, then,” you say in what you had meant to be a good natured tone, but you couldn’t quite keep the melancholy from your voice.

Roxy catches it and glances at you curiously. She stands up, then reaches down a hand to help you up.

Well. No more putting it off.

You bow your head slightly as you turn to take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. When you stand before her, you finally lift your head to look into her eyes, giving a small, tentative smile that borders on apologetic.

Roxy stares down at you, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. “Wh-What…happened…?”

You sigh, glancing away slightly. “I-I…got to work early, and…I was upstairs when the fire started. It…spread so fast I…had to cut through some pretty bad areas. I-I mean. I guess, something like that…I-I don’t really remember…” you say, your voice starting to shake.

Roxy’s hand is on your cheek, turning your face back towards her as she examines your scar.

You feel your face growing warm. “I-I don’t know how I got the scar, really…The EMTs found me passed out in the employee parking lot.”

Roxy smiles sadly. “You were strong enough to save yourself.”

You blush deeply at the compliment, lowering your gaze. “I-I guess so…”

She runs her thumb over the scar, tracing the ridges of the shiny, discolored skin. “Can it be repaired?” she asks, her tone more gentle than you’ve ever heard from her.

You shake your head, resisting the urge to nuzzle into her palm as you do. “Not…really. My hair will grow back and the scar will probably fade a bit, eventually, but…it’ll…probably be pretty noticeable for the rest of my life…” You feel tears brimming at your eyes and force out a weak laugh. “C-Can’t really…uh…s-switch faceplates on a human…y-y’know?” you say in a wavering tone.

Roxy hums quietly, bringing her other hand up to cup your other cheek. “No need,” she says, lowering her head and gently nosing at your scar.

Your breath stills at her words, your eyes widening in surprise. You’re almost not sure you heard right.

She pulls back, smiling down at you tenderly. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs, leaning down and pressing her lips to yours.

#fnaf #fnaf roxy #fnaf roxanne #roxanne wolf #roxy x reader #roxy x y/n #fnaf security breach #my writing #apologies to everyone waiting on the next chapter of stereo souls #my brain just does this sometimes #i can only focus on the third item in my todo list #sometimes i can glitch tasks into third place to work on them but other times i just start a random new project

137 notes · View notes

erenspussy420 · 1 year ago

Text

TWST Android Ch 5

Title: Mr Crowley come take us away....

Fem reader

Warning: I am a blog that has Nsfw stuff so please tread with caution in my blog.

Charaters: Reader, Crowley

Chapter 5:

“--As you know here in Raven works there is no one other than us that can compete with our androids!” Crowley boasted twirling his cane as he struts—with his long legs you struggled a bit to chase after the flamboyant owner. He led you out of the bright halls of Scarabia, leaving behind the poor Manager unit behind. While you were blindsided from the reveal, you wished he would at least turn her back on. She was so life-like, it was rather saddening to leave her turned off.

True to his bird-like nature, Crowley caws," Not even Royal Sword Automation can hold a candle to our best androids! Why of course you must have heard of our Vil unit!"

And as always Neige Units name follows not too far off.

“Yeah, a real…real heart stopper,” you say, face feeling hot remembering how you almost made out with the glass case. Thank Merlin, Manager Unit stopped you, remarking this happens in the most depressing way ever. Inwardly you panic wondering as you realize there would be cameras here! What if he saw? Sweating bullets, you clear your throat,” So like, what other units do you guys have? Is it just humans and merfolk or-?”

“Oh dear customer! You’ll be in for a treat!” He turns his head in your direction but not really looking at you, the swagger in his steps as the heels of his shoes click on the floor. You follow him back to the middle of the intersection of the hall, he turns to you with a grin that curls,” We proudly represent every group, however many are limited edition and others rarer than their fellow androids. Why no one is as mindful as us, to make such a palette for every vice!” With a bright smile, his cane hits the ground and with a grand sweeping gesture he mentions to the wall,”Behold!

”....A wall?”

“Very observant, but not quite!” He tuts, lifts his cane and holds it between his hands, and just as easily did the cane melt into his palms and is no longer there. With a flicker of his hands, the elegant way he spun his fingers did come from his palm, a key similar to the one Manager Unit had earlier, appeared. He held it up to you, the flicker of your reflection looked back at you and once again it was gone with a twist of his wrist.

“Ready my dear customer?” He asks, his eyes glow from behind his mask,” Now don’t be afraid, where we go many new faces await for us so…”

He offers that gloved hand, the faint scent of leather waft, the golden talons of his fingers click as they wait for you,”-- Take my hand and do not let go.”

His voice low and lulling, washing over you like the first spring rains that come at night. The tips of those lips that carve into your mind.

You step forward, and against any better judgment take his hand. The cool touch of gold over your fingers felt oddly nice. With a key in his hand, he unlocks the wall, and it ripples— till it smoothes and shines like polished stone. The mysterious Crowley slowly begins to step back, enticing you into the mirror. It's dark glass consuming him, the small pin point of his eyes coax you to join him as he sinks in…

“Dear flower of evil, come into our mirror and see our wonders.”

It felt weird, almost like stepping into a wall of water rather than metal or even goo. Once through you smell the faintness of metal, the whirl of fans and flicker of fire. Your eyes snap open and you look around, your voice hitched in your throat. Whatever the budget they had, it's been well spent. The ground wasn’t carpet, its polished black tiles, and smooth stone walls. White skeletons who kneeled but their heads gaze up at the tall ceiling that curves into a softer type of stone. Pillars of marble, smoothed over and so carefully carved into rolls of clouds that were sealed with— what you hope weren’t the blood of your fellow commoners– gold.

Once more, like the second floor there was another split into two halls. Where the skeletons lined up, was a hall of marble pillars polished and blinding. Lighting the room seems to be a mix of traditional veilfire of bright blue, and the holograms that popped up with cheery facts of this hall.

Ignihyde— current androids on display: 2. Representation of the Island of Woes, King of the Underworld–Hades.

There was more information, but that didn’t matter right now. You can’t read it fast enough as the words go up in smoke and rewind. Turning around you see no one, Crowley had practically disappeared. Turning back, you see the other hall lined with torches of green veilfire, walls lined with thick branches of thorns, unlike this hall you can’t see anything else around the bend of its hall. A faint pulse of green light glows, soft and pretty…

Green like emerald, pulsing as a heartbeat would….

The light of the fire curls around the thorns, creating faces and dancing wings that flutter between the flickers of veilfire…

You take a step towards the hall but before you can go any further, the beat of feathers accompanied by the click of heels.

“Dear Customer! Where are you heading off too?” Crowley’s voice brings you out of your stupor. He continues, now looming over your side as he herds you back to the spot where you entered,” Now before we head off, I must ask you my dear, what does our world value most? Tradition or Progression?”

It's a strange question, asked by a strange man but before you can answer he ignores you as continues to speak,”Why it's both! As traditions have become our stability, an identity and our roots, progression has led us far with its innovations to surpass what was thought to be impossible. Far have we come from our Golden Era of magic, where legends had risen from the ashes and hero’s have come from humble beginnings.” He twirls you around, making you stumble after him as he does, suddenly you wish the Manager Unit was here instead as you’re pretty sure the more sassy unit would at least get to the point.

“Like the Great Seven,” You add in, catching yourself from the temptation of stepping on his cloak,” They were the foundation of how magic grew over time—- the grand Vizor was able to make advanced machines during the Scalding Sands development.”

Crowley claps his hands rapidly,” Bravo! Bravo! It seems you can be clever when you wish!”

You felt your blood rise but keep it down. “Gee thanks.”

“Now don’t be so humble!” Crowley tuts,” Take your praise in stride! Where progression creates, it must have a foundation in its roots. To our future, we have brought you magic that can come to even the smallest of its holders. To magic users, technology that created companions. Now, my dear customer….which will you choose to venture in first?”

He leans back up, straight and chest out as he raises an arm to the Grecian like hall,”Progress…”

He raised his other hand, cane in hand, to where the dances of shadow in veilfire await.” Or Tradition…”

He smiles widely beneath that mask, his eyes flicker… “Choose, flower of evil….”

#twisted wonderland #reader insert #disney twisted wonderland #twst crowley #dire crowley x reader #diasmonia #ignyhide #twst idia #idia shroud #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twst #neige leblanche

56 notes · View notes

aphroditestummyrolls · 10 months ago

Note

I couldn’t choose so have 2, 16 and 32

HELLO! Such interesting choices you have here 👀 it’s definitely a step back into a type of writing I haven’t done for wesper before. It was a lot of fun, and definitely a muscle I’ll be flexing more often in the future (not taking your niche, though, promise! 😂 Colm Fahey Enjoyer is still very much my niche, but this? This was fun!)

I meant to get this posted last night, but then decided I hated what I’d written and that I wanted to do an edit with fresh eyes. So I waited till this morning. I like it a lot more now, and hope you like it too ☺️

Enjoy these ~2k words of semi-public frotting! I even put it in the engagement series for you!

His breath unfurled into the icy air, frosty and silver in the moonlight.

In the parlour behind him, he could hear the muted din of the party— champagne bottles popped, fine crystal glasses clinked; the hearths were crackling and warm, almost too warm for Wylan’s wine-flushed cheeks; the room was dazzlingly arrayed with decorations, polished to a shine. And their guests! Each gown was more intricate than the last, each suit tailored and pressed like paper doll penguins.

All was well. But Wylan was quite certain he hadn’t taken a deep breath since dinner.

More like for a few weeks, he groused, since preparations began.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it— Inej and her crew had come in for the festivities, even picking up Colm from Noyvi Zem on their way. The house was full, the nights were long and full of company, and Wylan was still pinching himself. How he’d gotten so lucky, he’d never understand. For most of his life, he couldn’t imagine having a party like this— an engagement party, no less— being thrown for him. To have such a family of people to celebrate this with them.

But, it… it was all so formal. There was so much to be done, and so much pious posturing that needed to be observed for The Church of Barter to marry them— they had to at least make a public show of following the courtship rules of an engaged geldstraat couple.

All that to say that, between the chaos of hosting his friends, and the ever-watchful eyes of the council, Wylan felt like he had scarcely seen Jes in weeks.

Even while sleeping in the same bed with him, Wylan caught himself missing Jesper. He missed him tonight, while sitting across the table from him. When had he last been held by him? When had they last been alone together?

The cold winter’s night cut through his elegant suit jacket like it was nothing, and the young merchling leaned in gladly. It reinvigorated him, like fresh blood was pumping through his veins again. He blinked out at the gardens from the edge of the terrace.

The moon was waxing, nearly full as it cast the night in a wash of silvery blue. Stars twinkled in the velvet sky. He set his hands on the cold stone of the terrace railing, and let the prickling sensation of overstimulation fade.

It took less than a couple minutes for him to go from exhilarated by the chill to fighting the first shivers, but he resisted. He didn’t want to go just yet.

He didn’t hear the muted open and shut of the fogged up parlour door, or the call of his name until there were footsteps trotting up beside him. Jesper was grinning, loose-limbed with wine and happiness, slipping a hand around his waist as he came to stand beside him— if Veld or Boer saw them so close, they’d be scolded like horny teenagers.

Wylan pressed closer.

“Skipping out on your own party? Bad form, merchling.”

“Our party. I’m not marrying myself.”

“If it was our party, you’d be helping me fend off the miserable old prunes you call councilmen— Gekkehuis just tried to corner me by the punchbowl. I nearly drowned myself in it just to make a quick escape.”

Wylan couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in his chest. There was something quippy and bright on the tip of his tongue, but he never got the chance to say it. He looked up and over to see his betrothed, and saw him bathed in moonlight. His curls were moisturised and styled, falling over his forehead with the shine of a silver blue halo. There was a smudge of kohl lining his luminous eyes, and the winter air had already bitten a little colour into his cheeks.

Jes blinked down at him with the twinkle of a laugh still in his eyes, but it faded quickly to something more subdued. “It’s bitter out here, Wy— you’ll be turning blue soon. Let’s get you back inside, warm you up—“

But Wylan couldn’t make his feet move. Maybe it was the spell of the moonlight, and the way it hugged along Jesper’s lanky, lovely frame. Or maybe it was the curl of desperation he felt to finally be alone with his betrothed after all night under so many watchful eyes. His body was so warm and alive pressed along his, and even just the one step he’d taken away from him was too much.

He wanted to be with Jesper. Just Jesper. He didn’t want to go inside and go back to keeping up the tender distance of a proper, not-yet-married couple. So, he caught Jes by the wrist before he could make a move to the door, and reeled him back in until they couldn’t get closer. The lapels of his fine suit jacket— a stunning green fabric Colm had brought in from Noyvi Zem just for the occasion— slipped softly under Wylan’s fingers. Underneath, his heart beat steadily. The warmth of his chest suffused into Wylan’s palms, and he was greedy for it.

Whatever expression was on his face, Jes took one look at him and he knew.

“Don’t want to go back yet.” He said anyway.

It earned him a rakish smile that kindled low in his belly. Wylan wanted the heat in his eyes, he wanted the heat of his lover.

“No?”

He shook his head, giggling a little deliriously as Jesper crowded him up against the stone terrace railing. “Can’t go back to all that… just yet. Warm me up.”

Jesper knew what he meant.

He brushed the tip of his nose to Wylan’s. “And what about Ghezen’s rules of propriety for unwed couples?”

“Some rules are meant to be broken.” It wasn’t as if they weren’t breaking them in their private life every day, but it sent a thrill along his spine just the same. “No one on the council will be looking for us out here tonight— not for a while, at least. Too cold for them.”

“We have a minute or two.” Jesper nodded conspiratorially. His hands were wandering, squeezing at Wylan’s hips and brushing along his thighs. It was like he couldn’t help himself— and Wylan wouldn’t dare stop him. “Missed you, merchling.”

Oh Ghezen, it was such a drug to have a moment to themselves. He tilted himself up, leaning back in those strong arms, waiting for a kiss that hovered just out of reach.

“Show me how much.” He whispered back.

The first brush of those perfect lips was barely more than warm breath on his cheek. It made Wylan shiver. The second kiss was that little bit more solid, pressed to the corner of his smiling mouth. When the touch made him sigh, Wylan’s exhale once again curled out in a frosty plume.

Jes had slipped his hands under Wylan’s open suit jacket, pulling him flush by his hips. He was so warm.

“Saints, you’re so cold, Love— the elements are against us.” Jesper chuckled, his hands roving across his back, sneaking up between his shoulder blades while the other stroked along the dip of his spine. Saints.

Wylan looked up at his betrothed playfully from under his lashes. “Never knew you to back down from a challenge.”

And then, Jesper wasn’t just kissing him, he was plundering him. He freed a hand to sink it into the curls at the back of his head. His palm was so warm, his body hot and insistent against his own. He scrambled for just a moment before getting his cold, clumsy hands wrapped around his lover’s shoulders, refusing to let him go further than a breath away from his lips while Jesper said challenge accepted.

Time seemed to go syrupy slow in their little bubble of the world— the moon, the frost, the cold stone at Wylan’s back and the hot, hot body wrapped up around him. He felt utterly enveloped by his lover. The kisses were deep and drugging, his hands were roughly squeezing, trying to get Wylan impossibly closer and closer. He was no longer shivering with cold, but he was trembling with want.

Heat throbbed through Wylan, the rush of it making his knees buckle. Jesper’s thigh pressed in, slotted with Wylan’s own— there were sparks flying behind his blissfully closed eyes, his hands fisting in that beautiful green suit. There was a deep blush blooming in his cheeks. He could feel it rushing down his neck as those lips pressed searing, openmouthed kisses down the column of his throat. His ass was half leaned against the stone behind him, and half hiked up into Jesper’s hand. A choked off gasp split the night, and Wylan let Jesper kiss it out of his mouth.

There was a familiar curl of desperate heat, coiling and unspooling itself in the cradle of Wylan’s hips. As the want mounted higher and higher inside him, he couldn’t help but rock into Jesper like a tide, and Jes only urged him on with his own rolling hips. The hot, hard length of him was pressing insistently against his own, the friction of their clothes feeling maddeningly good and nowhere near enough, not enough—

Somewhere in the back of his addled mind, he knew they needed to stop soon. Wylan needed to straighten out the wrinkles in his suit and try to fix the mess Jesper was certainly making of his hair. They were the guests of honour— they couldn’t disappear from their own party indefinitely just to make out like horny teenagers and give themselves hypothermia.

That was until his betrothed fisted that hand in his curls, sending a satisfying sting zinging down his spine. With his throat bared to the cold night, Jesper licked a hot stripe to his jaw, and bit.

The sound Wylan let out was a long, keening thing, firecrackers popping behind his eyes and blunt fingernails scrabbling along Jesper’s back. In that moment, he would swear he’d never felt so greedy. He needed more, he needed everything—

As if on cue, a throat cleared roughly behind them.

“At your own party? You’re lucky the windows have drapes.”

Wylan nearly toppled backwards into the garden, biting back the shocked yelp as reality came slamming back into them. Jesper jumped back a full step, all the body heat between them going cold and empty again. The terrace was still frosty blue, and the hubbub of the party continued in the amber light of the parlour, a constant murmur behind the curtains and foggy windows.

Kaz looked bored.

At least it was just Kaz. Wylan gingerly set his feet back on solid ground, slipping down from the stone railing. Jes seemed to be thinking the same thing, deflating his shoulders with a relieved sigh. He hooked his arm around Wylan’s waist and grinned at their friend like the cat that got the cream.

“Wylan was cold.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was.” Kaz rolled his eyes. “What if someone had seen you? Are you trying to kill Gekkehuis? Because there are easier ways to do it.”

“Not more fun ways, though.” Wylan chimed in. His voice was so wrecked, he hardly even recognised himself, breathless and raspy.

The huff of Jesper’s laugh made a frosty cloud unfurl from his lips. Wylan missed him again— the heat, the easy way he touched him, the closeness.

Their friend didn’t seem pleased about it, but he at least conceded to their point. “Just get inside before somebody else sees you. And fix your hair— you look like you’ve been mauled, Wylan.”

He could swear that his blush didn’t fade for the rest of the night.

#six of crows #wesper #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #the engagement series

16 notes · View notes

bobwess · 2 years ago

Text

May I offer you another fanfic?

[In this trying time? One-shot. Finale fix-it. SPN. Deancas.] (D'yer Ma'ker also on Ao3)

(It got a polishing before it went on ao3: this is copied from my fanfiction net account so there may be slight editing errors or repetition.)

Sam had been walking past Dean's room when he heard the phone ring. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but Dean wouldn't be back from a breakfast run for another half hour, and if they knew Dean's number, someone could really be hurt.

The younger hunter froze when he heard the voice on the other end. "Cas?"

"Sam…"

"How-?"

"Jack brought me back." There was a pause that sounded like Cas was struggling to describe whatever just happened. "I still don't… I'm a bit more than an hour away. I wanted to let you know-"

"No, Cas." Sam said firmly, feeling a wave of concern. "Don't… not uh… not here."

The angel on the other line went notably quiet.

Sam closed his eyes. "I mean… let me come out and meet you. Where are you exactly?"

"Fairbury."

"Nebraska?"

"Yes."

"I'll come to you. Open the phone book and meet me at the first motel on the list."

Cas paused again, but finally he let out his breath. "Alright."

Sam pulled up outside a bland motel with a sign that looked like it hadn't been touched since the fifties. He clocked the familiar tan coat right away, and he picked up the pace. He grabbed a bag from the back of the car and took a deep breath to ground himself. It didn't help.

Sam only began to relax half way through testing him. Silver, holy water, borax. He kept at it until he was running down every test he'd ever heard of, including several he'd only recently read about in Men of Letters texts.

Cas was quiet during each step, obeying each request with an expression that reflected understanding for the scrutiny.

Sam looked at him warily. "Your grace…"

Cas nodded, pulling enough grace that his eyes reflected a soft blue instead of the glowing red Sam was worried about.

The younger hunter let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Sorry, man."

"How long has it been?" Cas brushed it off.

"Almost two and a half months." He sat down on the chair opposite him. "We didn't think you were coming back." Sam frowned. "At first we thought maybe Jack would bring you back, but he didn't answer our prayers and… well, we sort of thought that was it."

"It took him some time to figure out how to get in there."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Cas considered his next question for a moment, not sure what answer he wanted to hear. "Dean didn't want to-"

"I didn't tell him." Sam cut in. "I left a note saying I was going out for a bit."

Cas gave a short nod. "You didn't want to tell him before you knew it was me."

"He just barely has started to come to terms with it." Sam admitted softly. "I couldn't undo that if…"

"If I wasn't me."

Sam nodded.

Cas bowed his head. "I have to talk to him."

"Yeah." Sam said softly. "Let me break the news to him first."

Cas studied him for a moment. "Alright."

It was after midnight by the time they reached Lebanon.

Cas looked up at the decaying factory looming overhead as Sam pulled to a stop in front of their recessed entrance. He felt something in him stir before he swiftly clamped down on it, trying to focus on the facts.

He was home.

His resolve immediately wavered. Was he home? He left Dean with his last confession… the chances they could go back to the way things were felt slim. He didn't think Dean would ask him to leave; Dean would feel too guilty. It would be up to him to determine if it was uncomfortable enough he should go anyway.

Cas shoved it down again. No use speculating. It was time to just see what happened. He followed Sam down the cement steps and through the heavy metal door. He closed his eyes, feeling the sound reverberate through the map room and library, the sound so familiar it almost hurt. He hadn't realized how much he ached for this. To be here again. To come back.

He must've hesitated just too long, and Sam caught on. "He's not here."

Cas looked at him.

"He's, in his words, bar hopping and looking for chicks."

"Oh."

Sam rolled his eyes. "He has the impala parked about a mile into the woods." He started down the stairs ahead of Cas. " It's, what, 2am? If he hasn't drank himself unconscious by now, he will shortly."

"He-"

"Every night for a month now."

Cas shut his mouth, taking in that new information. He felt a small shudder down his spine as he tried to sort it through. "I see." He settled at last.

"Come on. Make yourself at home." Sam threw him a sheepish glance. "I am going to head to sleep if that's alright. It's been a long night, and I'd like to be back from my run in time to talk to Dean."

"Of course." Cas said easily.

"Alright." Sam stopped, giving Cas one last long look. "I'm glad you're back." He said. "Good night."

After Sam left, Cas stood for a moment, completely unsure of where to go or what to do. It felt almost made up, as if this was perhaps just another torture, another illusion dreamed up by the empty. But he knew it wasn't. The empty could only show him sins of his past, and this definitely didn't happen before.

He stopped in the library, eyes finding the table almost immediately. He took a step forward, following the new additions to Sam and Dean's name carved into the wood. He felt his chest clench, and for a moment he was horrified with the strength of the emotions that came from seeing it.

It felt like something, something he couldn't put a word to.

He decided to leave it for a time he was better equipped to deal with that.

It was by instinct that he found his way to the room Dean had dubbed his. He had initially thought it was silly, Dean giving a room to him when he was an angel. Deep down he knew Dean was compensating for throwing him out when he was newly human. He had forgiven Dean for that a long time ago, but he knew that would not slow Dean's insistence on torturing himself. Thus, he accepted the room without argument.

Inside was still mostly bare. There was a thin layer of dust that confirmed no one had been inside in weeks, but still it was clear that someone had been in at some point after he had died.

The bed was pristinely made; In fact the whole room was neater than he left it.

Hung carefully over the chair was a green jacket with a rusted bloody handprint on the shoulder. On the desk was a straw hat, and a mixtape with a hand written label. Tucked underneath was a photograph Dean had forced Sam to take.

"Texas Rangers." Dean had said, clearly beyond pleased that they had been mistaken for such. "Come on, Cas. Give us your best blue steel." He hadn't known what Dean meant, but he did his best to mimic his expression, and it must have done alright because Dean seemed pleased with the result.

Cas recognized that this was the type of memorial that Dean might put together in lieu of a headstone. He ran his hand over the sleeve of the jacket, vaguely remembering grabbing Dean's shoulder and pushing him from danger. He hadn't noticed the mark he was leaving behind.

His expression settled into a sad smile. The irony of his first and last contact mimicking so closely was not lost on him. The symmetry was almost poetic, though he supposed it was somewhat spoiled by his return. He knew Dean wouldn't think of it that way.

He retreated once more, deciding to walk the halls and reacquaint himself with this place he hoped he might still call home.

Dean sprang awake, jumping upright so fast he caught his side on the steering wheel, causing a sharp bite of pain to shudder up his ribs. He hissed before taking a minute to try to slow his breathing to a more reasonable pace. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to blur the memory of the dream.

He took a final shaky breath before straightening up on the bench. He looked around, trying to find a landmark, something to focus him. The steel walls of the car felt like they were getting closer, crushing in on him.

Dean decided to take advantage of the adrenaline rush to find his way back home. He wasn't sober, but was guilty to admit head driven in worse shape before.

When he saw Sam's car outside he pulled around into the garage. Walking inside, he considered briefly going to his room and trying to get a few more hours of restless sleep, but decided against it. He was still too wound up from his rough awakening. He instead turned and headed towards the kitchen on auto-pilot.

The gentle hum of the industrial fridge somehow felt oppressive. He considered not for the first time that he should really invest in a pair of headphones that could play nice with his phone. Sure, they wouldn't be as good as the ones for his laptop, but honestly the silence was killing him.

During the day he could fill his time. Talking with Sam, occasionally taking a case. But there were too many moments with too much room for thinking. That wasn't good for him. Or at least not when he was in a mood like this.

It took a moment to realize he was staring into the fridge, the cold seeping out sending a shiver up his spine. He vaguely looked down, noticing for the first time that he had left without a jacket; No wonder he had felt cold in the impala. October was bringing the first whispers of cold.

Right. Still staring into the fridge. Moving on auto-pilot Dean began piling things on the counter. He turned on the stove, staring at the flame for a second before he remembered to grab a pan and put it down to heat up.

He felt like he was swimming. Like his body was moving on its own. He was just a passenger, drifting with the tide.

And apparently making breakfast.

He set a carton of eggs on the counter.

Normally he wouldn't be doing this until a more reasonable hour of morning. Though, he reasoned, normally he wouldn't have stumbled back in until almost seven. He usually timed it to try and get back while Sam was out on his morning run.

Maybe this was better. If he hurried, maybe he could eat and be done before Sam ever woke up. Catch a few more hours of… well, probably not sleep, but he could lay down on his bed with his headphones on and block out the world for a bit. Then he could emerge and they'd start their day. Maybe he'd look for a case. Maybe he'd try to find something else to do. Maybe Sam would be up to a day outside the bunker.

No, he remembered. Sam had plans to go to Eileen's for a few days. Fine. Case it is.

Dean had been taking more cases on his own. With Sam backing up Eileen, he didn't feel he had a choice. Sometimes he told Sam before he left, other times he'd call with an update from the road. Sometimes he'd never tell him at all. He was aware it probably wasn't the best practice, but he really couldn't stop himself.

He looked at the pan, and then at the stove, frowning as he realized the pan was way too hot. He sighed, turning down the heat, resigning himself to the fact that he'd have to wait for it to cool again before he could add the eggs. Waiting again. Yeah, maybe I'll buy some headphones tomorrow.

Cas was so far lost inside his thoughts he was surprised to have completely missed hearing the obvious signs that Dean had returned. He was entirely unprepared to turn the corner of the kitchen and find himself within feet of the hunter.

Dean's back was turned to him, and he froze, with no idea what to do.

"What the hell are you doing up so early?" Dean asked, assuming the figure behind him was his brother. "Nevermind. You want eggs?"

Cas opened his mouth but he had no idea what to say.

"Just gonna stand there and-" Dean turned, green eyes meeting blue, and a deafening shock split through him, as a fresh wave of adrenaline took hold again. He moved back, bumping the stove, hissing as his arm swung back and into the searing hot pan.

"Dean-" Cas said, acting on instinct and reaching out a gentle hand. He had just grazed Dean's arm with the intention of healing him when Dean wrenched out of Cas' touch, quickly rounding the kitchen counter, keeping it between them.

Dean reached back for a gun, coming up empty, and cursing his stupidity for ever leaving the bunker unarmed. He acted on instinct, grabbing a knife from the butcher's block and holding it at the ready. "You're not here." He accused, so quietly Cas wouldn't have picked it up without his angelic hearing..

"Jack brough-"

"No." Dean cut him off. His voice betrayed a bone deep exhaustion, but it was firm. "Jack brought everyone back months ago. Not you."

"It took him time."

"Bullshit."

Sam had been readying to head out on his morning jog a bit early when he heard the voices. "Shit." He had been hoping he'd have more time before Dean was home… he needed to break the news himself. Too late now. He hurried his step, walking in just as Dean tightened his hand on the knife, gauging whether or not to use it.

The air felt fragile, and he took care to walk into the room slowly. "Dean, put down the knife."

Dean didn't move, keeping his gaze directly at Cas.

Sam put his hands up slightly, trying to diffuse some of the tension. "It's him. I've run him through every test we know how to do."

"No, Sam. It's just Lucifer." Dean closed his eyes. "It's just a dream."

Sam's face scrunched. "No Dean, it's not."

"It always is." Dean waited. Every night he has the nightmare. He gets the call and goes running. He's on a case and he sees him. A hundred variations on getting Cas back, and it's always Lucifer.

"Not this time." Sam shook his head. "It's him."

No one moved, the blanket of silence punctuated only by the gas flame of the stove and the old fridge.

Both Cas and Sam flinched when Dean threw the knife onto the metal table, the sound feeling as loud as a gunshot after the extended quiet. "No." He repeated firmly. "It's not." Ignoring Sam's repeated pleas to stay, Dean turned on heel and left.

Sam watched him go, debating on whether or not to follow him, but he didn't really think it would help any. Dean needed to calm down, and maybe sober up before it would do any good to try to explain. Feeling suddenly exhausted, he made sure to switch off the stove before sinking down at the table.

"He's just…" Sam struggled to find a way to word it. "He's covering for how freaked he is."

Cas stared at the door, feeling an almost unbearable wave of disappointment. He blinked a few times, watching Sam sit and deciding to sit across from him.

"Dean has been pretty messed up." Sam looked over at him. "A couple of days after you…after you two faced Death, Lucifer got into the bunker. He called Dean's phone using your voice, asking to be let inside."

Cas closed his eyes. "Jack neglected to mention that in his summary of events."

"I think it's going to take a bit of time to really believe it's you." He sighed, taking a moment. "Cas, whatever happened down there. He couldn't get past it."

"Did he-"

"No, he never talked about it." Sam confirmed, guessing where the question was going. "And it's not my business, but Dean's barely had a handle on it." He shook his head. "He's covering now… and that's good. It's progress. Right after… well. I was worried about him." He gave a short humorless laugh. "Who am I kidding, I'm still worried about him. He's grinding. Case after case, without me most times."

"Alone?"

Sam nodded. "And when he's here… He calls your name sometimes, when he's dreaming. He won't talk about them but…" He sighed. "We didn't think you were coming back. After the phone call. After Jack brought everyone back but you. We really didn't think you were coming back."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"I'll tell him too."

Dean didn't allow himself to process a single thought between the kitchen and the exit. It was only after the bunker's main door clang shut behind him that he realized he had no idea where he was going.

With the impala in the garage, he didn't have a real course of action. He could hot-wire Sam's car, but he didn't really know where to go. He stumbled slightly, balancing himself against the cool concrete for a second. Still drunk. Also a reason not to steal Sam's ride.

He shivered slightly, realizing he had still failed to grab his coat. Oh well. It's not like you can do anything now.

Nothing made sense.

It was Lucifer. It was always Lucifer. That never changed. He never got away before it happened. He had never made it outside, to be greeted with the painful lack of wildlife sounds, to feel the uncomfortable cold against his bare arms.

It was always Lucifer.

But this time it wasn't.

Deep down he felt something give. This time it wasn't. It happened too differently. It felt too real. He ran his fingers over his arm. His blistered skin barely registered over the sheer panic he felt coursing through his body. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

Jack brought him back. It took him time.

No. He thought. It isn't true.

But it was.

Cas was back.

Static filled his head, that looping thought the only one that stuck.

Cas was back.

He didn't know what to do with that. He couldn't do anything with that. It couldn't be. Impossible. Never going to happen.

It's real.

Sam decided to forgo his morning run, wanting to be there to run interference whenever Dean finally decided to come back inside. Once changed, he settled into the library to listen for his brother's return. It didn't come.

So he read. And read. Occasionally he'd glance up at the entrance, waiting as if staring at the door would will it to open. But it didn't.

At half past two, Sam glanced at his watch, frowning, feeling a small twinge of concern, followed quickly by a swiftly settling dread. His car. He acknowledged for the first time there was a high possibility his brother wasn't there at all.

Sam pulled himself to his feet, trying to force himself to be casual, setting aside the book and stretching. He fought to keep his pace slow and steady as he traced Dean's path out of the bunker, stepping into the chilled mid-afternoon air. He blinked a few times, the sun somewhat blinding. He looked around, squinting against the light reflected back against the lingering dampness from the morning frost, making the ground almost glitter. His gaze finally found his brother.

Dean had clearly broken into his car, but he hadn't gone anywhere. Instead both rear doors were wide open, and Dean was laid across the bench seat on his back. His legs were crossed, feet hanging out the other side, and his head rested in the door frame closest to him. He was staring up at the car roof. "Dude… you're letting bugs in." Sam muttered before he could help himself.

"Too cold. Not many bugs." Dean said absently, shifting slightly to try and wrap his arms a little closer to his chest.

Sam sighed, walking up and leaning against the closed driver door. He resigned himself to quietly waiting for Dean to say something.

"You're sure it's him?"

"Completely."

Dean closed his eyes, a hand coming up to push back his hair and rest on his head. He took a slightly unsteady breath, letting it out slow. He didn't open his eyes. "How?"

Sam scuffed the dirt with his shoe, resting his heel against a small rock. "He says Jack got him out. That it took him a long time to figure out how to get in."

"Mmh." Dean took another slow breath, trying to pull his head back from the weird detached static that had yet to fade. Sam repeating Cas' earlier words didn't make it feel any more real.

"I really did everything. It's really him."

"I know." Dean heaved himself upright, swinging his legs around to face Sam, sitting on the edge of the seat. He had finally come to terms with it. "Don't know what to do about that."

"You could try talking to him."

"Yeah." But Dean's tone made it seem unlikely he would seek out doing so.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

Sam pushed himself off the side of the car. "Alright. Well. Close the doors when you head back in."

"Mmhmm." Dean frowned. "Thanks. For checking him."

"Yeah."

Dean let his thoughts wander again as he listened to the door to the bunker swing shut again.

His hope of avoiding Cas for the time being evaporated the second he pushed open the door to his room.

There, standing in the middle of the room, was Cas. Looking exactly the same as the day he left.

"Dean." He sounded a little unsure, clearly second guessing his decision to meet Dean there.

"Cas." He was unable to put any tone into the word, body completely still, standing in the doorway.

"I thought we should talk."

"You thought wrong." Dean forced himself to move despite his brain screaming at him to not. He walked over to his desk, sitting down at the desk and hoping Cas took the hint. He opened his laptop, pulling up the article he was reading before and tried to be convincing that he was reading it.

Cas didn't leave. "Dean-"

"I said you thought wrong." Dean repeated, firmer this time, and with an edge.

Cas hesitated, staring at the back of his head. "I'm sorry."

The hunter stood so suddenly Cas almost jumped. "I had nothing, you asshole. The empty came and took you, and I didn't even have a body to burn." He clenched his fist. "All I had was my coat with your god damn hand print on it. And I-" he broke off.

"Dean…" Cas said softly, reaching out.

Dean flinched, dodging his touch. He took a moment to breathe, trying to hold on, trying to keep that barrier up, to deflect, dodge, run. He could do none of it.

Dean's shoulders slumped, and he instantly felt so defeated. He couldn't look at Cas when he spoke again, instead keeping his eyes intently on the floor. "It didn't feel real… I… every other time, when we didn't have a body, you… you always came back. When Lucifer… the second time he… I. After Jack was born. When we burned you, it felt real. This time… I don't know, I let myself hope." He shifted his gaze to the wall. "It was worse. The hope. When it finally faded."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck you."

Cas closed his eyes.

The fire returned. "Fuck you, and your sorry. Fuck you for every single time you died." He resumed pacing. "Fuck you for every time you left. Fuck you for every time you lied to my face." He rounded on the angel. "Fuck you for dumping that on me and then just letting it take you."

"I never meant-"

"Go to hell." Dean spat.

Cas gave a small sad smile, attempting to breathe some scrap of humor into the situation. "Again?"

Dean wasn't phased, and his cold glare never wavered. "You kept it from me."

"Which part?"

The hunter reacted violently, swiping across his desk and dumping everything to the floor, bottles and lamp breaking on impact. "Everything." He kicked the last intact beer bottle into the wall with enough force that it too shattered. "You knew about your deal for over a year." He came to a stop in the middle of the room. "I forgave the kid, whatever. Jack was just doing whatever you said to do."

"I didn't think-"

"Yeah, you never do."

"I didn't think it would ever come to claim me." Cas finished.

Dean stared at him, expression set.

"True happiness should be inaccessible to an angel." He said softly, trying to make Dean understand. "I could feel it… but I knew… I thought I knew that it would never be enough to claim me when you couldn't-"

"When I couldn't what, Cas?"

"You know what." Cas' quiet words were such a contrast to the harshness in Dean's tone.

"And what about me? Hmm? You were so busy thinking about yourself you didn't think once about me."

Cas looked startled by the accusation. "Dean… of course I thought about you… that's why-"

"That's why you kept it from me."

"You couldn't do anything to get me out of that deal. I wouldn't have let you risk Jack's life like that."

"Not the deal." Dean hissed through clenched teeth.

"Oh." Cas said softly, realizing he meant what he had confessed. He was quiet for a moment. "I never intended to tell you. I am sorry that I had to in such a way."

"You didn't think I deserved to know; Didn't think I deserved to figure out what to do with that?"

"There was nothing you had to do." Cas said softly.

"I deserved to make the choice."

"Dean-"

"I killed myself. Did you know that?"

Cas' eyes widened with confused concern. "What?"

"The last time you died, after Jack was born." His flat tone didn't soften. "I killed myself on a case, and I asked Billie to keep me dead."

The angel was silent, looking at Dean with an unreadable expression.

"So don't tell me how the fuck I feel."

Cas opened his mouth, but he wasn't sure what to say. The room closed in on them, the silence almost smothering.

"Whatever. I need some damn air." Dean said quickly, turning and starting towards the door again, this time planning on heading towards the garage. He needed to put some distance between himself and the bunker. A few states ought to do it.

"Dean…" Cas put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean whipped around, fist flying and hitting Cas square in the jaw. Cas hardly flinched and Dean had to suppress a reaction to the shooting pain in his knuckles. "You left." He repeated, raising his hands and roughly shoving Cas.

The angel stepped back, eyeing him carefully, guilt washing over him again as he watched Dean come undone.

The hunter couldn't help the warmth growing in his face, the moisture he could feel collect at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"I'm sorry." Cas said again quietly.

The tears fell. "I love you."

Cas' brows furrowed. "You-"

He was cut off as Dean stepped forward, roughly grabbing him and dragging him into a desperate embrace. The kind that always followed when Cas came back from the dead. But this time didn't end in an awkward pat on the back and a hasty retreat. This time the hunter hung on for dear life, as if worried Cas would disappear the moment he let go.

Tentatively Cas raised his arms, wrapping them around Dean's back. He let the side of his face lean against Dean's head, his mind settling into a dizzying static as he failed to process what was happening.

"You were gone so fast." Dean whispered, not pulling away. "I didn't get to say it." He tightened his grip. "I never knew you-" his voice broke. "I didn't think you-"

"I have loved you for a very long time."

"You're an asshole." Dean breathed, feeling another hot flash of anger jolt through him, but he couldn't step back.

Cas pulled his hand up and cupped it at the base of Dean's head. He gave themselves just enough space for Dean to look up at him before he pressed their lips together. He tensed slightly, waiting for Dean to realize, to pull away, to take it back at any second. He greedily tried to memorize every detail. The curve of his mouth, the hot flush across his cheeks, the taste of the salt from his tears.

Dean broke the kiss, but instead of moving away, he just put his head down to lean on the angel's shoulder. "I love you, Cas." he repeated, his voice barely audible.

"I didn't know."

It was Dean's turn. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

Dean pulled back from the hug, but kept Cas' coat balled tightly in his hands, preventing him from moving. "I can't-" He choked. "If you leave again… if you die, I won't survive it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Dean swayed slightly, feeling light headed as the last scrap of adrenaline fizzled out. "I need some air." He breathed, repeating his earlier sentiment.

Cas gently untangled Dean's fingers from his coat. He kept his hand on Dean's arm, starting to lead him towards the bunker door. Wordlessly they navigated the hallways and map room before finally climbing the stairs and opening the heavy metal door at the top yet again.

Dean didn't visibly react until the crisp evening air finally hit his skin, causing an involuntary shudder. He took a moment to appreciate standing in front of the bunker twice to get his head on straight. He took a few steps away from Cas, turning and slowly leaning back against Sam's car. "Fuck."

Cas stayed standing, a few feet in front of him, careful to give him a little space.

Dean raised a shaky hand and deliberately ran it under both eyes, efficiently wiping away the last tears from his face. He took a deep breath, watching his breath glinting in the last weak rays of sunlight. "I didn't think you were coming back. I thought this was it, man."

"I did not think I would either."

"If this isn't real-"

"It is." Cas cut in, desperate to end that line of thinking. "I am." He debated with himself for a second before walking to lean on the car next to him, abandoning his earlier concerns about crowding Dean. He was reassured when Dean immediately rearranged himself to lean against his shoulder. "I'm really here."

"Yeah." Dean breathed. "It's just gonna take me a minute."

"Take all the time you need." Cas shifted and put his arm around Dean, pulling the hunter a little closer to him.

Dean closed his eyes, breathing him in. "Do you think we can really have this?"

"If you will allow me to give it, you can have every part of me. Anything you ask of me, if it is in my power, I will not hesitate."

"Okay, no need to write a damn poem." Dean replied, rolling his eyes, but it had the desired effect. A small smile danced on his lips, and the tension had bled away from his shoulders.

"I meant what I said, Dean. Before I summoned the Empty."

"I heard you."

"I love you."

"I love you too." Dean was surprised by how natural that felt to say already. He closed his eyes again, feeling a spike of adrenaline as his mind latched onto the possibility that this actually was a dream, soon to be a particularly cruel nightmare, and this would all be ripped from him.

Cas noticed the shift, but decided it wouldn't help to just repeat himself. He changed tactics, aiming to distract. "You added our names to the table."

Dean looked up, surprised by the leap in conversation. "Yeah."

"It is a touching gesture."

"I thought you'd appreciate the irony. Using your full name." Dean said with a weak but genuine smile. "Sam said the ending, -iel or whatever means 'Of God'. Jack's God now. Thought you would want the title back."

Cas' expression was warm. "I do appreciate it."

"Sorry I shortened your name so early."

"It turned out to be somewhat prophetic." Cas said. "And besides, in your words…" He looked up, as if he were searching his memory for the exact quote. "Chuck is kind of a dick."

Dean barked out a sharp laugh, feeling the last shred of tension unclench in his stomach and he leaned back fully against the car. "Yeah, you got that right." He shuddered slightly.

Cas slipped out of his tan coat, handing it out towards Dean. "You are cold." He said simply, acknowledging that Dean had begun to shiver in the rapidly cooling temperatures.

Dean rolled his eyes, but he accepted the offering. He considered making a jab at him about sappy romances but he felt too genuinely touched by the gesture that he held back. He cleared his throat. "You saw Jack?" He waited for a nod. "He's good?"

Cas nodded. "He is well." He looked up towards the horizon, as if he could catch a glimpse of their surrogate son. "He is doing good out there. Fixing the mess Chuck made of heaven and earth."

"Good." Dean said softly. He frowned. "I miss him sometimes."

"He will be back."

Dean looked over at him.

"When he finishes, he'll be back. For a little while at least."

"Good."

"He told me to tell you he said hello."

Dean snorted. "Right." He made a big show of looking up at the sky. "Hello." He replied. "Give us a warning before you pop in, I'll throw some burgers on."

Cas laughed quietly. "I'm sure he'll like that."

Dean settled back again, taking a deep breath before he reached out and grabbed Cas' hand. He used it as an anchor, preventing him from drifting back into fear. "Tell me more."

"About-?"

"Anything." Dean admitted. I just want to hear you talk. I just need to hear you talk.

Cas caught the meaning. "Alright." He began. "Pick a century."

"What?"

"I will tell you all that I remember."

Dean tightened his grip on Cas' hand. "1800s. The wild west."

"I expected you would request that."

"Yeah yeah. Now spill."

As Cas launched into his story, Dean simply laid his head back on his shoulder, listening to the smooth cadence of his voice, and letting the feeling of the coat around his shoulder and the angel at his side warm him from inside to out.

He could get used to it. He would get used to it. He could have this. They could have this.

Dean tried to keep track of what Cas was saying, but really he was just relieved and surprised he was there at all. That this was happening.

Cas was back.

It was real.

#ao3 is down #I'm Bob Wess on fanfiction . net if y'all desperate

66 notes · View notes

basket-of-cats-and-witches · 1 year ago

Text

A Howl in the Night

Since The Night Market is currently in the process of getting edited and put on Steam, I've been missing it quite a bit!

Moreover, I've been missing my girl Hazel and the absolutely fantastic world around her.

So what better way to reminisce than creating more fic?

If you haven't read The Night Market, I highly recommend you check out @night-market-if ! It's an extremely awesome community and a phenomenal read. And this piece will definitely contain spoilers for the end of book 1!

Warnings for mentions of blood, the threat of violence, and toxic parents.

----

There was a presence in the house.

It hid well around Lucinda, a strange pressure on the air that disappeared when she set foot in a room.

She knew the bones of this house well. Every floorboard, every whorl of wood, every pane of glass was hers, swelling with power, down to the very foundation.

The presence was not.

It followed Hazel loyally, swirling around her, settling like a mantle on a queen. Where Hazel walked, the house warmed. Flowers bloomed in the dead of winter, glass polished itself, silver shone bright.

Everything was just a fraction smoother whenever her daughter was around, as if the universe wished to be kind to the girl.

As if the very Night Market had found Hazel broken, and fallen in love regardless.

Lucinda was not ignorant of the presence. In fact, she could not be.

The presence hid, but it protected.

In the morning, as much as morning in darkness could be, Lucinda once again tried to speak to her child on the subject of curses.

Hazel's shoulders tensed, and the presence grew ever-so-slightly.

"Hazel, if you only-" As Lucinda reached out to touch her daughter's shoulder, a spark snapped in the air, a pop of static so sharp it made her hiss and yank her hand back.

"Mother?" Hazel looked up, alarmed. "What happened?"

Lucinda waved her off. "It's fine, girl. Don't worry about it. Go wash the breakfast dishes."

Hazel bit her lip, but rose, collecting the plates. As she wandered off into the kitchen, Lucinda glanced down at her hand.

A single bead of blood welled up bright on her fingertip. A warning.

She smiled. "How cute. You'll have to try harder than that."

The air chilled around her. The teacup and saucer in front of her cracked, and plants grew the slightest hint of thorns.

"This is my house. You are not welcome here." Even as she went to pull on the magic around her, she felt the house…resist. It was a strange feeling. The magic that had once been hers seemed to hesitate, almost as if it was used to a gentler, kinder hand.

Her expression darkened. She raised up the hand that had bled, feeling the single bead of blood begin to rise.

And then, footsteps sounded behind her.

The presence vanished. Lucinda closed her hand, tucking it behind her back as she turned. "Hazel, dear, have you finished the dishes already?" She asked sweetly.

Hazel nodded. "Yes, Mother." She shifted on her feet, seemingly unaware of the conflict that had almost occured. "If you'll excuse me, there's a stray dog outside, I have to feed him. He comes by every once in a while for scraps." Hazel dipped past, a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables in her hand.

Lucinda sighed, watching her daughter pass. The presence had vanished, but that didn't mean it wasn't still around, and Lucinda remained on edge. "Girl, there are no dogs in…the…" She trailed off.

As Hazel opened the front door, stepping outside, she set the bowl down and flung her arms around a massive dog. With a long black muzzle and long dark brown fur, it wagged its tail slightly at Hazel's affections.

Mr. Billows wove around it, tail held high.

Lucinda was sure all her daughter saw was a dog. After all, that was what she was supposed to see.

The old witch, however, saw a wolf. Golden eyes like lamplight reflected back at her, staring her down like she was a rabbit on a hungry winter night.

Instantly she understood where the presence had gone. It had always been here.

It would always be here.

And it was making it very clear of who it was here to protect.

Lucinda raised an eyebrow.

Well, well. It seems Hazel's made some new friends while I was gone.

The wolf nuzzled Hazel softly before dipping its head down to eat.

Its eyes never left Lucinda's.

#the night market #hazel albright #lucinda albright #alder (my oc from the night market)#my writing #spoilers for the end of book 1

21 notes · View notes

idiotwithanipad · 6 months ago

Text

Fated Meeting

The first time Amy (my OC) had a real moment alone with intact Humphrey before their father-daughter bonding occurred🖤⚔️

(Also a fic based on this drawing I did weeks back🥹)

(TW: Cursive language, Mention of choking to death, Fear, Slight Angst/Self Blame)

“She’s GOT to come out of that blasted room eventually. It’s been a week!” The Captain blurted, his patience wearing thin by the day. A week had in fact passed since the new ghost died. A young woman, dressed head to toe in strange attire and strange makeup, choked to death on a canned drink. The predicament frightened her, confused her and left her second guessing what any of this meant.

Their introduction to her had been abrupt, to say the least. The ecstatic caveman bounded towards the group hounding and barking about a new edition to the group. She was frightened by them, all of them apart from half of one; Humphrey's severed head had been the least intimidating, a huge surprise to the Tudor man given his appearance.

Yet, despite regular, albeit, unconventional introductions, the new girl coward away every time they entered her room. She'd taken to seeking refuge in a polished wardrobe by the wall, passing through the panes and ducking underneath some complimentary rain jackets and dressing gowns. She sat there for days, never even poking her head out through the wood.

The caveman had tried to surprise the girl one morning, rushing through the wall and shouting a jovial 'MORNIES!'. Though, given her scream and her tinted cheeks fading to a deathly white, he opted to stop; he often forgot how intimidating he could look to the modern person, especially at full volume and with just about three inches of space between them.

Today, she risked a peek, swallowing back her courage and biting the bullet. Her head drifted through the wardrobe door and peered out into the empty room. Her lungs practically deflated with relief, the ever lingering taste of the drink that she choked on caught against her tastebuds.

She rose from inside the wardrobe and got to her feet, she dusted of the back of her skirt, not yet aware that dirt and dust could no longer get stuck to her. The door still remained shut and locked, yet she wasn't sure how much stability that could offer anymore since the new strangers could barge in at any given second.

The girl, Amy, peered out through the door and down the corridor. Nobody in sight. Maybe she could stretch her legs for a while without being spotted? If she stepped carefully enough, maybe those old floorboards wouldn't give under the weight of her thick soles of her boots?

Amy found herself approaching a staircase, she went to grasp onto the banister but stumbled slightly when it failed to support her weight, her hand drifting down through the wood in an instant. She bit her lip, hoping that her shrill gasp hadn't alerted any of the strangers. She waited a complete ten seconds before descending the rest of the stairs.

Half the way down she began to hear voices, a group of voices, which came from a room at the bottom right of the stairs.

"Well, the poor little thing DID have a sudden death. Not a very nice way to go I imagine" A Yorkshire accent protested from the room.

"Never took ME this long to come to terms with it and I saw myself being resuscitated with no TROUSERS on. That was traumatic enough; a bunch of blokes gathered around you in that state... " A sharp and well spoken voice combated.

"Perhaps she's just shy? If I can show her my Canoe trick it might make her feel better" A spritley woman's voice beamed.

"Look, let's all just wait it out. She'll come down when she's ready. Or perhaps she can't talk? Or she's deaf?" The man with the Yorkshire accent added, he ironically seemed to be itching to find a reason why the new girl didn't want to socialize.

A strange, gruff voice cut the other man off.

"Oh no. She talk, me know it. I go see her other day and she tell me to fu-"

"Yes, thank you, Robin!" The older and more assertive male voice barked.

Amy froze on the last step, her figure hidden behind a wall, her eavesdropping prolonged by flooding questions. Why were they so desperate for her to show herself? They had plenty of company, why did they all care so much? As their conversation faded into murmurs and ringing in Amy's ears, she retreated back up a few steps and sat down, her eyes frozen on the door ahead of her, wishing she could just hurl it open and run away, get home as soon as possible and forget this whole nightmare.

All sound that surrounded her seemed to have faded completely. Except from behind her. Footsteps.

Amy whipped her head around faster than a Cobra strikes at a Mouse. The man, he used to be just a head, but now he stood at the top of the stairs behind her. He hadn't registered her there yet and began to descend. His eyes darted down and popped wide open, he paused from any movement and gawked in shock; he looked just as scared and out of his depth as she was.

His hands slowly rose from beneath his fur lined cloak and his mouth cracked open.

"No, no no please don't-" Amy whispered, already trying to rise to her feet and back away from the Tudor man.

" .. 'S alright. You're alright" He whispered back to her, taking another step down towards her, only for her to shamble down a step and stare up at him in dread.

"Go away, please just- leave me alone-"

"Shh, it's alright. Calm down, Poppet, I won't tell 'em you're 'ere" The Tudor soothed, keeping his hands risen and in plain sight, a supposed gesture that he meant her no harm.

"E-Everything's fine. All fine, uhh- hunky dory- jolly jodhpurs... Umm, all-good?.." The Tudor mused, his knowledge of modern slang, albeit a little dated, needed to come in handy in order to soothe the frightened girl.

Amy glanced back over her shoulder towards the doorway to the occupied room, it seemed to drift closer and threaten to expose her to a cacophony of chaos and hounding. The man had wandered down a few more steps and regarded her with a subtlety that the other ghosts hadn't quite mustered yet.

He lowered himself down onto the stairs with a soft grunt and folded his arms.

"Sorry to have scared you, I WAS detached earlier, saw you leave your room from where I was on a cabinet in the hall, thought it best not to call out to you since, well, nervous little thing, aren't you, Poppet?" The man trailed off with a soft chuckle.

Amy stood, cemented to the spot, gawking up at the man, more in surprise rather than fear.

"Then luckily enough, my body wandered by and picked me up. A shock, even to me, doesn't happen too often and I've been dead for 'underends of years" The Tudor broke off that sentence with a beaming grin and a shrug.

Amy shuffled in her spot, the toes of her boots tapping together.

"Well... If you're not here to drag me in there with that lot- what DO you want?" Amy spat. The man glanced around defensively and held up a hand again.

"Nothing. Nothing at all, again, I had no idea you were 'ere. Just- happened upon you, I guess. Although, I wouldn't mind a good thick slice of smoked pork" He hummed, his lip smacking at the delicious memory of the taste.

Amy's brow furrowed in confusion; when did this conversation switch to food?

"Huh?" Amy stood puzzled. The man's eyes then darted back to her, the absentminded grin on his face vanishing in a second.

"Ey? Oh, I thought that was a general question when you said- what I wanted. But umm, what umm- what would YOU like? If you could 'ave anything?" He asked as he leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together.

Amy looked back towards the door, she practically itched to dive towards it and flee.

"Honestly? I wanna go home. I just wanna forget about them. About all of this" Amy gabbled, giving a dismissive flourish of her hand towards the room the rest of the ghosts resided in, still unaware of her presence.

"I never should've come back inside, I should've just- fucking stayed outside!" Amy blurted, her arm slapping back down at her side while her other hand came up to wipe at her eyes.

The Tudor man's gaze dropped down, pity washing over him.

"I know, Poppet. I can't say I know how you feel really; this place was my home before my death, so really, I never left my home. But I can only imagine how- painful it is to be away from your old home" He spoke gently, his eyes struggling to focus on her.

Amy released a sharp sigh and itched at the back of her head in frustration.

"Such a fucking idiot... " She muttered to herself.

The man fiddled with his frilled cuff briefly, unable to find the words to console her, but he noticed she began drifting closer to him in her fit of annoyance towards herself.

"Moron... Such an idiot-" Amy cut herself off as she dropped down into the same step at the Tudor, resting her face in her hands. The man froze and stared at her; he never would've expected her to approach him, let alone sit next to him.

"Wasn't your fault, really. It was- just an accident-" He tried to reason.

"Well, it was a LETHAL accident and now I'm stuck in this giant shithole for God knows how long, Harold!"

"Humphrey.. "

"Ye- whatever!"

Humphrey retorted.

"I know a thing or two about 'lethal accidents', believe you me..." He mused, pointing towards his neck with a raised eyebrow. Amy caught eye of his gesture and fell silent; she couldn't fight him on this, he DEFINITELY knew how it felt.

She rested her elbow against her knee, then rested her chin into the palm of her hand, letting out a drawn out and defeated sigh.

"Still- I'm surprised you never died of a broken ankle with those shoes of yours. How thick are those soles?" Humphrey added, peering down passed Amy's knee and towards the infamously thick soled boots, partially hidden beneath her woolen leg warmers.

Without looking up at him, Amy returned.

"... Four inches"

#bbc ghosts #humphrey bone #original character #amy #Amy Bone🥹#larry rickard

5 notes · View notes

dandelion-wings · 2 years ago

Text

My favorite headcanon about Kaeya’s mother is that he watched her succumb to the curse of Khaenri’ah and turn into a monster when he was young. I play with a lot of different variations of this, but... this is one of my favorites, purely for the later Diluc-and-Crepus parallels.

---

Edit: now archived on AO3.

---

Something is wrong with Kaeya's mother.

He's known for a while, and he thinks so has she. She's been tense, inattentive, distracted. At first Kaeya had thought it was because she was worrying for his father. She always worries for his father, off on his trips to the world above, where any god-touched child of Celestia would feel no censure if they killed him. But the past few weeks she's been moving wrong, too, jerky and twitching. She's always been graceful, standing tall, head high, a true descendant of King Deshret. Now she hunches her shoulders and walks too heavily and flinches at every wrong movement.

When he awakens today, it's even more obvious. His mother is sitting by the fire, just as she had when he'd gone to sleep, polishing the long knife she always carries. The patterned red-and-brown scarf she always wears is pushed down around her shoulders. She looks up at him and he can't help but whimper.

There are black lines running across the skin of her face, the brown around them gone bloodless and ashy. Her eyes are going black, too, darkness pooling in them as if the black of her pupils was spilling outward. It's starting to seep into the whites, as the black lines are starting to seep into the brown-turned grey, as the despair is starting to seep into her expression.

"Kaeya," she says, setting the knife across her knees to beckon him to her. Her voice is as soft and as gentle as ever.

Despite that, it's a struggle to make himself move. He looks at the black spreading over her face, into her eyes, and shudders. But his mother's requests, however gently voiced, are not to be disobeyed, no more than are his father's. Kaeya pushes himself free of his blankets and goes to crouch down beside her.

She reaches out to stroke his cheek, and Kaeya tries and fails not to flinch from her hand, also black-veined and ashy. For all the darkness clouding them, there's pain in her eyes as she pulls back from the aborted caress.

"What's happening?" he whispers. He's all too aware of what's happening, now that the signs are visible. But he wants her to tell him differently. Wants desperately for his mother to tell him that everything is all right and there's nothing for him to be frightened of.

His father would chide him for the flimsy attempt at self-deception. An Alberich should face the reality of things squarely, head-on, with firmness and conviction. His mother only smiles sadly at him and starts to raise her hand before settling it firmly in her lap again without even trying to touch him.

"The curse, I imagine," she says, and he could almost take the resignation in her voice for calm. "Your father did tell me that by joining with his people, I took on the weight of their sins."

Kaeya swallows against the choking lump in his throat and blinks back the tears that he knows she'd be ashamed of if she saw. Tears are a waste of water. He clenches his hands into fists at his side.

"Father is coming back soon. Maybe he'll know a- a cure, or a way to-"

He trails off there, because he knows better. If there was a cure, they wouldn't have to be constantly on guard for their own people, transformed into monsters and roaming the depths of Khaenri'ah-that-was. If there was a way to stop it, he would still have a grandfather in his life, and an aunt and uncle, and maybe the cousins they never got to have for him to play with. At best, *maybe* Father knows a way to slow it down, and Kaeya knows they can't count on that, either.

But at least if it doesn't happen until Father is here, Kaeya won't have to deal with it. That's an awful, selfish thought, but one he can't help thinking. This is the sort of problem his parents are supposed to deal with for him. Even his father wouldn't expect him to survive by himself, and that's... that's what this is going to mean.

Kaeya blinks again, hard.

"He won't be back soon enough," his mother says, softly, gently. She reaches down for the sheath of her knife and slides it back in. Then, instead of fastening it onto her belt, she holds it out to him. "I am going into the lower tunnels, while you carry on upwards to meet your father. Take this with you."

He stares at it blankly. "But you'll need it."

"Not as much as you will. Take it, Kaeya. Carry it as your reminder of me. You should run before you fight, but use it to defend yourself if you have to. I don't want you to be in the tunnels unarmed as well as alone."

After another moment's hesitation, Kaeya reaches out, slow and reluctant, to take the knife from her. It's nearly a small sword in his hands; when he fastens it onto his belt, still crouching, he has to do it at an angle. The end of the sheath still scrapes the floor. He waits for his mother to scold him for that, but she only looks at him with anxious sorrow.

"You know the right path upward?"

"As far as the meeting-place," Kaeya assures her. She's taken him on that long walk nine times now, every year since he was born, to meet his father coming home. He can walk it easily.

"Good. Be careful, Kaeya. Walk quietly, watch the path, and run or hide if you have to. It's important that you be brave, but it's more important that you be safe."

His mother starts to reach for him again, then lowers her hands before he can flinch.

Grief and terror sweep through Kaeya in a wave. It's enough to propel him forward, and he throws his arms around her shoulders, pressing his cheek against hers despite the black lines on her skin and the strange, feverish warmth emenating from them when their cheeks touch. He clutches at the soft silky fabric of her shawl. His mother makes a soft sound, not quite a sob, and wraps her arms around him, too. She squeezes him so tightly it almost hurts.

Then she makes another noise and shoves him back so quickly he almost stumbles. Before he can recover, she's up on her feet.

"If I come back, Kaeya... do whatever you must to protect yourself. Be *safe*," she tells him again, her voice breaking on the word, and turns and walks away, out of the camp, out of the circle of firelight, into the darkness of the tunnel leading off below.

Kaeya turns to watch her go, blinking back his tears in case she looks back, wrapping his arms around himself as if by doing that he can preserve the warmth of her a moment longer. He opens his mouth to call after her, to ask if she wants her blankets, or some of their food. Then he closes it again. He knows better. She won't need any of that soon.

Well, she might need food. But those monsters who do prefer to hunt their own. On that thought, Kaeya turns to start breaking down the camp. He doesn't know how far she'll get before- before she starts hunting. He needs to be as far from here as he can be by then.

***

Kaeya has been helping carry parts of the camp since he was four, and helping break it down since he was six, but he's never before done either of them alone. The full camp is heavy beyond his ability to carry. Eventually he wraps what he can't heft in his mother's blankets and drags the bundle behind him. It's difficult, especially along the winding passages uphill, but it's better than leaving it all behind. It's a bad idea to leave too many traces on a commonly-used path.

Once he's alone in the dark, well away from the campsite where his mother left him, Kaeya lets himself cry as silently as he can manage.

It takes two days to get to the place where they were supposed to meet his father. Who isn't there yet, as he sometimes is. Kaeya feels his heart sink when he sees the little cavern empty. He wants his father desperately, to hold him and take the burden of his grief and promise him that they'll survive this, they'll get through. That they'll endure, as Alberichs do, and continue to burn instead of falling into embers. Telling it to himself just isn't enough.

He cries himself out for the last time after he sets up his camp. There can be no trace of tears tomorrow, or any time after, when his father might arrive any time day. An Alberich never cries for less than lost Khaenri'ah, and the clan has long since shed all its tears for that. His father is even more severe on that point than his mother is on the wasting of water.

There's a little underground stream here that bubbles up in this cavern, which is why they'd chosen it as a meeting-place for his father's returns from the surface. His mother had told him when he was younger that his father wanted her to stay further below, in the secret bastions where the last remnants of Khaenri'ah's people await the results of generations' slow machinations. But she had raised her chin and told him that she had been born on the surface, and she did not fear the sun. Until Kaeya had been born, she had gone with father on his every secret mission.

Kaeya wonders if she ever wished she could have seen the sun again, just one more time, and finds he has a few more tears left in him.

With the stream nearby and the food his mother had brought for the both of them, he can hold out in this cave for weeks if he has to. The only danger is that the water here is a lure to monsters, so he'll have to keep an eye out and be attentive. They'll most likely be hilichurls, which he knows how to handle, but sometimes samachurls or mitachurls come along, and those he'll have to hide from. Or Abyss Mages, who do have to accede to their servants' needs now and then, and he's not sure he *can* hide from them well enough to escape their magical senses. If any of those come, he'll simply have to run. Kaeya huddles in his blankets and tries very hard not to think about what his father has warned him an Abyss Mage will do with an Alberich.

Fortunately, there are, over the next few days, no Abyss Mages. Barely any hilichurls, either. A pair comes to drink on the second day, but they don't even notice his camp, fire hastily doused and Kaeya and his packs hidden behind a pile of rocks. They're too busy looking anxiously over their shoulders, jumping at every little noise and shadow. Kaeya considers what could have them that spooked and decides not to relight his fire.

The next day passes in silence, with Kaeya able to do very little but eat and sleep in the darkness. Nothing else comes along to the stream, though, and he hears nothing alarming from the nearest tunnels. He starts to relax, no longer listening out for monsters quite so closely. By the day after that, he's starting to feel safe enough again that he considers relighting the fire.

It's while he's starting to assemble it that the mitachurl attacks him.

An axe mitachurl, he determines later, but at the moment all he's aware of is the scrape of a clawed foot against stone just behind him. It's the only warning he gets before an axe comes whistling down towards his head. Kaeya flings himself sideways, rolls, and comes up, squinting his eyes to keep the bright glow of the Pyro slime the mitachurl has just wrenched from the earth from completely blinding him. The axe's glow once the slime has been squelched isn't as terrible, and in fact makes it easier to dodge as the mitachurl comes at him again.

He ducks the axe, darts behind the mitachurl the way his father has been teaching him, and draws his mother's knife. He's been practicing swinging it since he was five years old; it's nearly a sword in his hands, but it's not as if his father isn't going to teach him the sword eventually. It's his mother's training, though, that allows him to swing it up and through the mitachurl's hamstring as it turns.

The mitachurl bellows in pain and topples. Immediately Kaeya scrambles up over its arm towards its neck. He has to cut its throat, and fast; no other part of such a massive body is vulnerable to someone as small and weak as he is, and he can only reach it while it's on the ground. If it gets up, it won't be so easily toppled again. His mouth is dry and his heart pounding, hands shaking with excitement and fear and a strange triumph. This scenario had only ever been theoretical before, but his mother has run it through him often enough that he has to do her proud.

Reaching for its mane to wrench its head around, Kaeya feels his hand touch soft, silky fabric, and freezes. In the dim light of the glowing axe, flung off to the side where the mitachurl had dropped it, he can't quite make out whether the shawl draped around the mitachurl's shoulders is the red-and-brown of his mother's, but he can still make out the familiar pattern. The mitachurl turns its head, looking up at him with the blank eyes of the horned mask. He can't see any features beneath it. But the great creature turns its head on its own, the way he would have, baring its throat.

Does it--does *she*--recognize him as her son, despite all the evidence of generations saying that she shouldn't? Or is she simply responding as the lesser monsters (and he hates, suddenly, fiercely, that he's been taught to call them called them 'lesser') sometimes do now and then to the blood of an Alberich? Or, worse yet, does she understand her new existence just well enough to want to die so badly?

"Mama," Kaeya whispers. He's shaking again, and it's no longer with adrenaline or triumph.

She turns her head a little further, massive shoulder twitching to shrug the shawl aside.

"I can't," Kaeya tells her, his voice trembling.

With the mask, she should be impossible to read, but she lays there, throat bared to his blade, and he thinks he can read expectation in her still silence nonetheless. Kaeya swallows hard and lowers the knife down until it brushes against the fur. His hand is shaking even harder, but he'll have to push to get through the skin, never mind the hide. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, starts to push, until dark ichor wells up along one edge. His nerve fails him, and he jerks the knife back. It slips from his shaking hand, skittering away across the stone, and Kaeya kicks it away.

"I can't!"

His mother sighs heavily, a great animal gust of sound. Then her head turns further, so that she's looking up, past him. Kaeya feels a chill down his back. He goes tense, suddenly aware that he's just thrown his only weapon away.

A heavy hand grabs him by the back of his shirt and yanks him up and away from his mother.

"*Mama!*"

Kaeya screams in fear, and again in panicked anger as he sees the blade flash down, the spray of ichor, before the Pyro glow goes abruptly out of the dissolving axe and leaves him again in the dark.

Readjusting his grip, Kaeya's father tries to pull him close against his chest. Kaeya fights him, kicking and flailing, trying his best to wriggle out of his father's powerful arms. He screams out his grief and fury, all the worse for his father's silence, holding Kaeya inexorably against him until he winds down, finally, and stops hammering his fists against his father's chest and shoulders and jaw. He buries his face in the ruff of fur at his father's neck and gasps until his breath comes back.

His father adjusts his grip again, no longer clinging to him against his tantrum but gently holding him close, the way that's always made Kaeya feel protected. He rests his chin against the top of Kaeya's head, and Kaeya wants to lean into him just as badly as he wants to squirm away. He can't quite give in to either impulse.

"That was *Mama*," he hisses.

"I know," his father says, his voice hard. "And she wanted mercy from you. I expected better of you, Kaeya. I should not have had to do that myself."

There's an anger in there that Kaeya only halfway understands. But the chastisement itself makes his stomach sink, because he does understand that. No monster that once was a person of Khaenri'ah wants to be what they are, except perhaps the deluded who join the Abyss Order. It is the duty of an Alberich to give them their release. Kaeya has done it for hilichurls before. He should have been able to do it for his own mother.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. There's something hard and painful lodged in his throat that he can't seem to swallow down.

"So am I," his father says, some of the hardness going out of his voice. "You shouldn't have had to do that yourself, either. But an Alberich cannot falter when they are asked for such a mercy. No matter who it is."

Kaeya takes a deep breath, then another, and is finally to get out around the blockage in his throat, in a stronger voice, "I understand."

"Good." His father sets him down, and then there's the click of a firestarter, and Kaeya automatically shields his eyes from the sudden light. His father surveys the cavern in the lantern-light. There's the briefest flicker in his eye at the crumpled shawl on the ground, ichor-stained, and then his face smoothes out and goes hard again. "We will have to burn that, and then leave before anything that might have been drawn by all your noise reaches us. And it's time, I think, that you hear about what I've been putting into train above."

The shawl burns quickly, and less than an hour later Kaeya and his father are heading downward. They leave the ashes of the fire scattered behind them. Kaeya doesn't dare snatch up even one of the scorched fragments as his father kicks them across the floor. He knows his father will only remind him that an Alberich doesn't wallow in the grief of what they've left behind.

#my original thought for this was to focus a bit more directly on his failure here vs diluc mercy-killing crepus #but i paused for dinner and the end drifted sideways XD;;#anyway #kaeya is a bundle of knives behind a smile #ascended fic

47 notes · View notes