#in a rage because I spilled one small basket

[platypusisnotonfire]

I’m hanging on by a thinner thread than I thought

[agustdiv1ne]

hi!! congrats on 3k <3

for the event, could i request taehyun + twilight + fluff/smut

tysm! and congrats again!!

NOW SHOWING...

pairing: kang taehyun x fem!reader

genre: fantasy/supernatural, fluff, smut

wc: 2.8k

details + warnings: mdni, vampire!taehyun + human!mc are not representative of any particular characters they're just vibing in the twilightsphere, taehyun (looks-wise,,) + mc are in their early twenties, sex in the great outdoors, dom!tae, sub!mc, mc is kind of a masochist LOL, light spanking (f receiving), praise, thigh riding, face sitting, tae calls mc: baby

note: thank you nonnie!! i hope you enjoy :))

you maybe, kind of, sort of hate the town that is forks, washington.

forks, in your honest opinion, is...painfully gray. clouds constantly hide the sun from view. it is almost always raining. fog is the norm, not the exception. the real cherry on top is how the town is blocked in and divvied up by expanses of creepy trees of which you have no desire to step even a single toe into. it's dreary, it's boring, it's weird — and it's just all too fucking gray.

you wonder what your life would be like if you had left while you could, if you had uprooted your life and attended college in some state far, far away, if you had gotten a degree and become a teacher or an artist or even some bigshot lawyer. maybe you wouldn't be wasting the years of your youth in your parents' little diner. maybe you wouldn't be stuck with the indelible expectation that said diner will be yours one day, hanging dark and heavy over your head like the storm clouds that loom over your house ninety-nine percent of the year.

then again, if you had left, you would never have met taehyun.

he moved into town when you were nineteen, an age at which you were hard-headed and bitter because everyone else your age had already moved on to bigger and better things while you were abysmally stuck like a tire in mud. you felt abandoned, alone, and you saw yourself in him because he, too, seemed to have no one else.

at the same time, you also thought he was a little strange — stoic, reserved, out at odd hours of the night — but you couldn't really judge, lest you sound like a raging hypocrite. you remember the first time that you saw him: it was well after midnight, you had just closed the the diner, and the streets were eerily empty — yet there he stood, across the street, turned away towards the tree line. he seemed to have been watching something in the woods, but as soon as he picked up on the crunch of your shoes against the gravel parking lot and saw you behind him, he fled, gone as quick as lightning. you almost thought that he was a figment of your imagination, that you were finally losing it after your nearly lethal consumption of caffeine that night.

however, after that incident, he began to show up during your shifts, sitting in the far corner of the small space for hours, answering your questions with curt nods and quiet hums. very real, very much not a hallucination. he never ordered anything other than a water, and his eyes often stayed trained on the woods that lay just outside the windows. watching, waiting (for what, you didn't know, but you didn't really care to find out). though the fact that he never once ordered something — not even a basket of fries, or a milkshake — irritated you to no end, but you bit your tongue like a good waitress had to and allowed him to sit there. not many people stopped by at such late hours, anyway, and maybe his presence cured some of your loneliness; he wasn't good company, by any means, but company nonetheless.

one particular night, a few months after he began to come in, things simply weren't going your way. if the argument between you and your parents before your night shift started wasn't enough, you burned your forearm when you accidentally spilled a pot of coffee and slipped and fell onto the unforgiving linoleum floors while carrying two plates of food. by the time he showed up, you were in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown and could barely hold back tears as you greeted him at his normal booth.

“are you okay?” he had asked, his eyebrows furrowed, betraying his typically apathetic expression. in response, you burst into tears, apologizing as you attempted to run to the back, but he stopped you, his ice-cold fingers looped around your wrist. the sensation sent shivers straight down your spine, something that you can still vividly remember. you whipped around to face him. his wide, carob eyes cut through you with an intensity that you’d never experienced before. “sit. with me, i mean.”

“i-i’m working,” you choked out. 

his lips formed a flat line. “no one else is here.”

“fine,” you mumbled, taking a seat on the other side of the booth. he had let you vent about everything and anything that plagued you, silent while he listened. the words he spoke once you finally exhausted yourself stick in your mind to this very day.

“it’s never too late to start carving your own path, y’know. you’re young, you have time.”

things changed after that night. a friendship bloomed, then a relationship began after about six months of knowing each other. things changed again, however, growing strange once you did begin dating. he made constant excuses as to why he couldn't sleep over and why you couldn't come over to his place; he didn't touch you often; and the weirdest of all his habits: he never, ever went anywhere near your neck, whether it be with his hands or his lips. loneliness and the acrid feeling of being unwanted returned in full force, nipping at each and every nerve within your body.

sick of it all, you eventually confronted him about it during a picnic date in a large clearing one evening. naturally, when your boyfriend admitted to you that he's a vampire — in the middle of the woods — and showed you his sparkling fucking skin, you were freaked the hell out. yet, in the end, it didn't scare you away, especially once he said that he only ever fed from animals he'd find in the woods. you cared for him just as much as he cared for you — human or not, you decided that you loved him either way.

(also, he'd always seemed a little off, other. maybe you were a little satisfied to know that you were right, but you'd never admit to that.)

nearly two years have passed since then, and while your feelings about forks haven't changed in the slightest, taehyun brings an ironic sense of life to the dismal little town.

“you’re staring.”

you feel your face heat up at your boyfriend’s words, your gaze immediately diverting away. you were not staring, no way. though he moves to find your eyes again, you maneuver out of his hold, now glaring at a spot on his shoulder. “no, i wasn’t.”

“aaand your heart rate just picked up.”

“you’re so unfair,” you hiss. “just— just keep your stupid vampire senses to yourself!”

he laughs, the sound light and melodic, as he attempts to wrap his arms around you again. you've turned away from him, arms crossed over your chest and in a state of faux despondency. he knows just how to press your buttons; the fact that he can pick up on each and every minute change of your heart rate and scent will forever be something that gets to you. you can't hide anything from him, and both of you know it.

you feel like you spend every waking hour with taehyun nowadays. if you're not working, you're with him doing fuck all just to spend time with each other, but even in the most mundane moments, boredom never becomes an issue. even right now, as you lay together in this small clearing in the forest, simply talking and staring up at the pewter clouds, everything feels...right? complete? you think that's the word that you should use — like the final piece being placed into a puzzle.

“c’mon, you can’t stay mad at me,” he goads. he blows into your ear afterward to make you flinch, earning a yelp in response. “you just make it so easy to tease you.”

“yeah, yeah. make fun of the defenseless human,” you sigh, turning back around to face him with pursed lips, delivering a firm poke to his forehead. “you’re lucky that you’re pretty.”

if he had said anything similar to you a couple years ago, you would've likely stormed off and ignored him for hours. you're not proud of how you once acted, but at least you've grown softer around the edges over the years. kinder, less resentful. and rather than tear your walls down, he scaled them slowly and met you at the top, took them apart brick by incorporeal brick as the trust between you grew, gentle and never prying.

one of his eyebrows raises. “pretty, hm? is that all i am to you?”

pretending to think, you tap your chin, your eyes shifting up towards the sky. you've grown softer, no doubt, but your witty edge refuses to disappear. how else could you keep up with him?

you make eye contact with him again, finding an expectant glint in them. you can barely bite back the smirk fighting to pull at your lips. “hmm...yeah, i think that’s about it.”

“you are such a brat, my god,” he groans, head falling against your chest. “is your life goal just to rile me up?”

“honestly? yeah. it’s just so easy to tease you,” you throw his earlier jeer straight back into his face, but the words are soon followed by a series of shrieks as he pushes you onto your stomach, unfazed by your feeble attempts to break away from his inhumanly strong hold. a hand leaves your wriggling waist to deliver a light slap to your ass. it’s careful, barely there. he knows how much more fragile you are compared to him, after all. the last thing he’d want to do is hurt you. 

what he doesn't account for is the way you'd moan at the sensation.

a tense silence overtakes the air around you, the only noises remaining being the rustle of trees and the chirping of birds. you've all but buried your head into your arms. although your current position renders him unable to catch your flustered expression, your scent — fuck, your scent has changed, something heady and sweet and it's almost as if he can taste the lust and need rolling off of your form. your blood rushes faster beneath your skin, the erratic ba-bump of your heart loud in his ears. he pushes his base instincts down; he's better than this. he can't hurt you — he won't.

“you— did you like that?” he carefully asks, a gentle hand pressing into the middle of your spine. it’s not often you find each other in spontaneous intimate moments, mostly due to his fear of losing control, but your trust in him is immutable. in the span of two years, he has not once hurt you — but you still find yourself shaking your head in denial, the embarrassing heat gracing your cheeks keeping you from looking at him. he won’t hurt you, you know that, but that doesn’t change just how mortifying this moment is. you and him haven’t explored this part of your sexuality yet, the hidden side of you that enjoys a little pain amongst all the pleasure. it’s something that you’ve barely touched upon yourself.

taehyun, on the other hand, isn't satisfied with your answer. a morbid curiosity eats at his nerves, and he can't help himself from gathering you into his lap so that you straddle his hips. you are wearing a thick pair of jeans today, but it's not enough to prevent your scent from overwhelming his senses further due to your spread apart thighs. he steels himself, trying not to press the pads of his fingers into your hips too hard. you still refuse to look at him, your head hanging low and bottom lip tucked beneath your teeth. he brings a hand to your chin, tilting your head up. your eyes divert to his shoulder under his intense gaze.

“look at me, baby,” he orders softly. he watches a shudder run through you before you listen to him. the muscles of your throat contract as you gulp, though his expression remains neutral, his fingers squeezing your chin. “i’m going to ask you one more time: did you like that? did it feel good?”

inhale, exhale, nod.

his lips purse. “words, baby.”

“y-yes,” you whisper, weak and breathy, like you don’t want to admit it to yourself either. it earns you a quiet “good girl” and his thumb brushing over your lower lip. 

taehyun stares at you for a moment before he asks, “do you trust me?”

of course you do, and you tell him just that, pulling a smile from him. “i want you to take your jeans and panties off for me, okay?”

you nod, rolling off his lap with shaky limbs and removing everything below your waist. the chilly air nips at your bare skin.

he takes no time in maneuvering you back onto his lap, legs straddling only one of his thighs now. you send him a questioning glance, with which he responds by rubbing soothing circles against your bare hips beneath your oversized sweater.

“get yourself off on my thigh,” he encourages. he doesn’t trust himself to be inside of you right now — he’s barely keeping it together as it is — but that won’t stop him from making you feel good.

you're silent as you take an experimental roll of your hips. the friction of your clit against the rough fabric of his jeans causes your mouth to fall open. you press your hands against his chest, grinding down again. and again. and again. the picnic blanket below you digs into your knees. taehyun grabs your hips a little tighter, beginning to help you move your hips faster, pressing you down harder. his grip is nearly bruising, but the ache that it brings renders you speechless, unable to speak besides the quiet gasps that you let out. quickly, you grow lost in the pleasure, the delicious friction against your clit growing more intense as the seconds tick by.

smack! taehyun brings a hand down against the swell of your ass, much harder than the teasing one he gave you earlier. you jolt on top of him with a loud moan, clenching around nothing. “tae— fuck!”

“yeah? what is it, baby?” he coos, slapping his palm down again. he’s barely breathing, monitoring your expression to make sure he’s not hurting you too much. but all he finds is pure, unadulterated pleasure, your head thrown back and your eyes fluttering as your movements grow more desperate. his head grows fuzzy at your strengthening scent.

“gonna— ‘m gonna cum, please,” you whine, nails now digging into his chest. you look like pure sin, with your flustered face and heaving chest and your glazed over eyes straight into his. “please please please—”

he can't take it anymore.

suddenly, your body careens through the air before you can even process it, your thighs now cushioning taehyun's face while he fully lays back. he gives you no time to complain of your ruined orgasm, his lips suckling your clit while his tongue circles the weeping bud. your hands grab at his hair, pressing down. there's no way that you can hurt him, so you allow yourself to grind down on his face like you did his thigh, using his face as your own personal toy. he gropes your ass all the while, pushing you further down against him until you smother him, ravaging you whole. you can no longer hold in your moans, and they only serve to spur him on. one of his razor-sharp teeth slides against your lower lips, and that's enough for your high to wash over you, your vision flashing white while you quake above him. he holds you up with strong hands, continuing to tongue at your clit until you're pushing his head away.

“tae, stop,” you beg while he cleans you up, ignoring your heightened sensitivity. “tae.”

“fine, fine,” he mumbles once he pulls his mouth away from your center. “can’t help it, you taste good.”

“quit being embarrassing,” you groan, your submissive tendencies all but gone. you struggle to lift yourself off of him and wiggle your jeans back on. he ends up helping you, patting your ass when you’re all done. you slap his chest, but you lean up and press your lips to his anyway. pulling away, you slide a hand under his sweatshirt. above, beams of sunlight break through the thick clouds, illuminating his skin. biting back a smirk, you rub a thumb over his cheek where it shines. 

“take me home,” you purr. “we’re not done yet.”

you're careening through the woods moments later.

3k event masterlist | masterlist

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[villainofmyownstory]

wip wednesday

I have written about 3k words but still struggling to write smut maybe if I post this, I'll somehow motivate myself to finish it

virgin!Simon Riley x virgin!plus size fem!Reader

“What an asshole!”

With rage, you slam the maroon door, an old - probably 20 years old, Volkswagen Golf. With a squeal of tires, the car drives away from your family home at a fast pace.

"He can't even afford to paint that rusty hood, which is probably from some other car! Because it's fucking greeeeen!!"

Angry and probably already all red in the face, you shout in the direction in which the car drove away. Stopping in front of the fence of your family home, you search for your keys in a small black purse. Which you borrowed, from your older sister. You practically begged her for the item.

A fun start to dating, in your barely begun adult life. Just as quickly as it started, it ended just as quickly.

You don't have much stuff in your purse, a packet of tissues, lip gloss, some box of peppermint tic tacs and-.

And one foiled packet of brand new. Condoms.

Well, you prepared yourself. It was going to be exactly this evening and just this boy. Tonight.

And yet everything turned out not as you planned. The prince in the maroon car, turned out to be a total loser and a regular prick who wanted to get you laid for a bet.

Thanks to the alcohol you drank in the pub, you found out about everything before anything happened.

Maybe you should send a basket of goodies and a hand-written thank-you card to that Boddingtons Brewery, which made the boy tell the whole truth so quickly. A few beers drunk, and your long-awaited perfect evening turned into a nightmare.

A single tear runs down your cheek. A sign of anger, but in a way also of embitterment. Perhaps also a hint of sadness. Who would want a curvy, shy girl.

"What the he-?"

You spill the contents of your purse on a short brick wall, like pretty much everything in this neighborhood. Brick and red buildings, standing in a row. They line up one next to the other, on two sides of the street. Each one - the same. Boredom and monotony, like everything.

As you hated this place, this town, all that was in your life. That's probably why you hated it even more when someone could see you in such a vulnerable state.

"Hi neighbor".

Talking about your misfortune today.

You roll your eyes and turn your purse cover inside out, those damn keys must be here somewhere.

Pretending to be feverishly engrossed in searching for a missing object, you try to hide from the owner of the low and hoarse voice that comes from the neighboring yard.

As if there weren't enough problems that evening.

The quiet clanking of keys catches your attention. You raise your eyes and look in the direction of the approaching sound.

"Simon."

You mumble your neighbor's name and quickly pack, discarded items from your purse back inside. Stepping from foot to foot and clamping your mouth into a straight line, you extend your hand toward the boy.

"You need to watch your stuff more. I won't always be around to help you."

[beeblackburn]

1, 6, 22 and 31 for the asks? 💖

Thank you, @xserpx!

1. Who is/are your comfort character(s)?

I mean... I'm not sure most of the characters I read/watch are comfort ones in that sense, I think?

FitzChivalry Farseer (Realm of the Elderlings) - He's so stupid, it's almost hilarious. Like, he's a mess, he's a right mess, but I've always found something familiar and comforting in how Fitz navigates his depression, his repressed feelings that spill out into cathartic rage, and yeah, his total fuck-ups, but is capable of still having loved ones, making up for his mistakes, and having a semblance of a life. I don't know, as a fellow depressed person, Fitz gives me a strange hope that life isn't irreversibly broken, no matter the circumstances, even if Hobb's too good a writer to promise an utter happily-ever-after for us.

Stannis Baratheon (A Song of Ice and Fire) - He's also really stupid. This fucking lobster king, so pedantic, teeth-grinding, grudge-gnawing, snappish, and socially awkward. There's a lot of good reasons I latched onto this fool in my teenage years and still find a familiarity to him. That being said, I've always found the man comforting in how... solid he is, past the surface. He's all the above, but he rewards good service, he tries to grow past his grievances, he puts in the work and isn't happy to do it, but he grinds his teeth because someone has to do it. He's a source of stability in an increasingly chaotic narrative.

Sansa Stark (A Song of Ice and Fire) - She used to be so innocent in her outlook, just a child increasingly swept up in the storm of a dark fantasy world's chaos, constantly told she's stupid and foolish for believing in better, and refusing to stoop down to it, despite a Rogues' Gallery of mentors trying to corrupt her towards moral darkness. I'll always take solace in how she keeps such hope and idealism, naïve at first, then fiercely held onto, despite most things that gave her joy now give her nightmares and horrors, still keeping in her heart, All the stories can't be lies.

Legosi (Beastars) - I think it's partly how much I can read neurodivergence in him, but there's some deeply familiar with how much Legosi is a deeply introverted weirdo in his own right. He has his little quirks, he loves to read tragedies, he's got an uncomfortable relationship with his body and self and urges, he fucks up in small and tremendous socially awkward ways, all of which I latch onto. Yet, he is always sincere, he tries to be kindly and meet anyone halfway, even if he's scary and weird by society's definition, and even gets to live a content life after dropping out of high school, as a service worker who enjoys getting to know more experiences past a more societally-acceptable course.

Crown Prince Orso (The Age of Madness) - Yes, even with that trilogy ending. Like, it's Orso! Whenever I read his chapters, I just know I'm in for some depressed thoughts, wry, self-deprecating humor, and him to acknowledge he knows nothing, but by god, he'll try his best. In a world full of traitors, cutthroats, and tyrants, Orso's mostly just a nice, depressed dude who wants to do the right thing, treats those he cherishes with all the affection through the haze of depression, and maybe have a drink or drugs along the way, refreshingly so.

6. Why did you do that?

Honestly, because she probably needed the money more than me, and someone else could also watch really gnarly, sicko movies.

22. What type of person are you?

I mean... a self-deprecating, self-centered, hot-tempered, perfectionistic, paranoid, stubborn, spiteful, envious, petty, grumpy, needy, lazy, and depressed basket case of a person.

On the other hand, I do try to be non-judgmental, thoughtful, generous, curious, loyal, and kind, so.

31. What type of music keeps you grounded?

Judging from my soundcloud's liked songs, I'm drawn to future bass type songs to keep me in that specifically grounded feeling. I've got plenty others I listen to, but a good chunk of songs are meant to give me some ambient noise or enliven me a little in mood.

[ryathenaughtykitsune]

I posted 432 times in 2022

192 posts created (44%)

240 posts reblogged (56%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@shroudthecursedone

@deathsprofit

@avariciouss

@whiskeysrpcenter

@sir-crocodile-slut

I tagged 353 of my posts in 2022

Only 18% of my posts had no tags

#on target (ic) - 180 posts

#mun ramblings - 123 posts

#replies - 109 posts

#out of range (ooc) - 102 posts

#spotify - 60 posts

#asked and answered - 54 posts

#mun and muse - 48 posts

#muse music - 36 posts

#writing music - 35 posts

#whiskeysrpcenter - 21 posts

Longest Tag: 79 characters

#and there goes a wheezing fit and hot cocoa in my lungs because of that thought

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Just looking out at the water, thinking, brooding...wondering how to be a good and decent mother to such an innocent soul of a child. She would take on all sin to spare her kid just one more day of innocence. Cursing Teach silently for murdering those she held close. Its probably best the rest of the ship is asleep; she can't scream her rage, frustration, and all other dark feelings out at the water.

Her hunger to be there to see that bastard fall, to deal the murderous blow to that fat bastard. To deal retribution and exact closure. The faint scars on her wrists where the manacles the slavers placed on her all those years ago a reminder of the last price she dealt. She had exacted justice on them as well. Glad to become a pirate, under Shanks, to be looked upon as his daughter.

Would he still call her daughter if she implemented her plan? She had thought this darkness was gone but grief had widened the hole where it was no longer hidden by the boulder she had placed to keep it sealed.

No, after she had accomplished her goal, she would retire. Quietly. Hopefully to where the Marines couldn't track her down. Maybe she would take Whitebeard's offer of a home on one of his old islands. The last offer before....that happened. Tears spilled unbidden.

Just....One Step. One. Step. At. A. Time.... Then Peace?

7 notes - Posted January 19, 2022

#4

"Rya, I need help.." Inana only undid her jacket a bit to reveal the baby she held very carefully. "I have no idea how to care for a child.." // @highxrder

@highxrder

Rya looked at the goddess then peeked the baby in her jacket. He looked so small and full of future. Her heart pinged just a little. The baby reminded her of when Thaddeus was that small.

"Mind his head." She said softly. "May I?" She said motioning to hold the child. Maybe it was her motherly instincts but, that little face, she couldn't help but have such a soft look on her face.

7 notes - Posted March 22, 2022

#3

Watching Fruits basket and on the episode where Hatsuharu is arguing with the class president about his natural hair color which ended in the class president being dragged into the bathroom, a loud male scream, then the president coming out pale.

Kyo and yuki: he didn't

Hatsuharu with a smug grin

Kyo and yuki: *sweating* he did

I lost it to the point my roommate asked why I was giggling like a school girl.

10 notes - Posted March 23, 2022

#2

"I will fill a fucker up with so much lead~"

10 notes - Posted May 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Honestly. Thinking of shelving rya. Hanging up my hat. It's hard enough writing on tumblr as is. But with rumors and shit still ruminating about me or my muse. Getting blocked because shes not what they envision writing with, etc. Practically begging anyone to rp. I want to cry.

Rya is/was in herself a part of me. I've had her since Yu Yu Hakusho. Maybe since inuyasha. Writing her as she is now, I think I've come full circle.

Most people want a polite, sweet innocent character especially if it is an OC. OC characters are the hardest to write. Even more female. Harder still one damaged and still ready to kick ass, that has mental health issues.

Yes, she is a violent bitch. Yes, she is lustful. And God's yes, she's got a bit of a dark, twisted brood mode that I really don't like writing her in because it's too close to Doflamingo level madness for my liking.

But she is a morally gray character, trying to survive. Maybe it's time I go on hiatus again because trying to get people to write with is feeling too much like a job. This is supposed to be fun.

10 notes - Posted January 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[babybatterdelivery]

She said we should separate. I was instantly devastated. I listened to the rest of her explanation without a word. Nodded and accepted her determination.

I was not going to act out.

After she was finished, I gently arose from our couch to put my untouched meal away. She followed me & told me not to forego my meal. I carefully put everything away neatly.

I was not going to act out.

I went to HER bedroom & immediately began packing my clothes, meds & cpap. She again followed me telling me that I did not have to leave tonight, yet I continued to pack.

I was not going to act out.

She asked why I was continuing to pack, to which I replied that if I was not wanted I would not stay.

I was not going to act out.

As usual, she kept talking, refusing to leave me be. Telling me that our son no longer thought we were properly saved in the name of Jesus Christ in the eyes of GOD. Her parents had been telling him we being divorced yet living together was wrong in GOD'S eyes.

Yet I still didn't act out.

Then continuing, she tells me that our daughter says that she has too much on her. That even though we agree that the chat AI apps, sexually explicit audio only YouTube videos, & Obey Me app game is all highly inappropriate & her primary cause for troubles causing her to break out in giant tears when called out for her wrongs. I am told that the spilling of my hearts turmoil, over the ex-wife & the one I know as my soul mate, caused the girl to be too stressed. Well...

I finally acted out.

Cussing, throwing small unbroken items, kicking laundry baskets. Taking a large sledge hammer to intentionally break the kukhuri I lovingly & proudly carried for the last year. Yelling, explaining that nothing I ever do is appreciated. None of them respect my wishes as the father & husband in the home. I have held my tongue against my natural response when slighted, disrespected & ignored for the past several months. I sold myself in the divorce for a value of $800 per year of marriage, & likely not to even receive that within the allotted agreed upon time frame.

Yes, I finally acted out.

Then she contacted my soul mate to tell her how I raged & destroyed everything, what a terrible man I am & she can no longer live under the stresses of such an uncontrolled, angry person.

Because I finally acted out.

The soul mate even seemed to turn on me from our last conversations of reconnecting on some deeper levels...

Because she would not let me leave the house without making sure to push me again until....

I ACTED OUT!

Is it the demon who is created, called upon & summoned to blame for being the demon, when said demon did not wish to be disturbed?

The one that continued to chant, call, summon & create the hatred the demon feeds upon NEVER ACCEPTS THE RESPONSIBILITY. Simply blaming the demon for doing what she damned well knew the demon would do once summoned & awakened.

Now I am alone.

Again.

In a hell I do not deserve.

Continuing to breathe against my desires.

My heart beating against my will.

A life hated.

Continuing unwanted.

Yet I am too weak to act out.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

To Have and To Hold ❤️ (S.R.)

Summary: Reader is trying to save her marriage, but Spencer seems resigned to its failure. Request(s):

Y/N and Spencer have a fight about not having sex and feeling close anymore and then one of them begs the other (your choice) to stay with them and it ends with fluffy smut? Think Twice by Céline Dion

something based off the song “in this shirt” by the irrepressibles! - @losergirl3​

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Parents fighting, divorce/separation, yelling, penetrative sex, discussions of sex, very painful fighting Word Count: 6.5k

MASTERLIST

The sound of mine and Spencer’s marital home was the sound of deafening silence. Even the clock on the wall didn’t dare tick and break the tension that had seeped into the structure, permeating through the home to make it seem like not much of a home at all.

It hadn’t always been like that. Once upon a time, it was filled with laughter, both our own and that of our first and only son. I still got to hear it, but Spencer didn’t. Spencer didn’t hear much, seeing as he was absent more often than not.

I stared at the place on the kitchen counter where a vase used to sit, and my stomach twisted into knots that felt permanent.

It wasn’t always quiet, but lately that almost seemed like the more merciful way to be.

“It’s like this every time!” I screamed loud enough to hurt my throat, the basket in my hand clattering onto the floor and spilling its contents across the floor.

I felt like that, too. Fragmented and scattered and helplessly lying at the bottom of something I wasn’t equipped to climb out of.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

Spencer, on the other hand, was quiet and composed in his anger. He always was. I wondered if he secretly held it against me that I couldn’t be more like him. That I couldn’t compartmentalize my feelings and speak logically in the face of the completely illogical.

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I can’t be the person you want me to be,” he answered just as vaguely, watching as my hands balled into fists and shook under the weight of it all.

“What, which part?” I said with a bitter laugh, gesturing to the cold, empty house around us. “Do you mean you can’t be a father who’s actually there?”

He tried to cut me off, but his voice was too small and too broken to be heard over the chaos of my rage. That, too, was pooling in my mouth and falling through the room too fast, too strong.

“That’s not fair.”

“Or do you mean a husband that actually likes his wife?” I spat. My heaving chest was the first time I realized that I hadn’t taken a breath. The anger was literally suffocating me, and I didn’t know how to expel it from my lungs without hurting everyone around me.

I couldn’t breathe. I needed to breathe.

“Stop. Just stop,” Spencer urged, his voice hard and loud now, albeit stable. “This isn’t solving anything.”

Taking a few steps forward to stand before him, I met his eyes for the few seconds he let me. I laughed as they fell to the ground, but it was the kind of laugh that’s best reserved for things that are irreparably lost. The kind of laugh you have to stop yourself from crying.

“Tell me that I’m wrong then. Tell me that you don’t resent me, Spencer.”

The words were mixed with a whine. The answer had made its way out but was replaced with the heavy lead of sadness.

He didn’t answer me.

“Tell me that you still want to be with me.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said softly before turning away.

I wanted to follow him, to grab him and beg him to look at me. I wanted to tell him that I needed him to answer me because whatever my brain came up with would hurt twice as much. I wanted to tell him that I still loved him, and desperately needed to hear him tell me the same.

But I didn’t tell him any of that. No, instead I just sat there with crackling voice and a quivering lip, letting the anger replace the sadness again.

“Where are you going?” I shouted, hoping that hearing my own voice would convince me that this wasn’t really happening.

Picking up his bag and keys, Spencer finally looked at me, and the apathy I was met with felt like the abruptness of an ending at intermission.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but I couldn’t believe him. “I promise it’s not forever I just… I have to leave.”

“Fine,” I replied, crossing my arms to stop myself from throwing them around him and asking him not to leave them empty again that night.

My husband looked at me, not with a breaking heart, but rather, one that was already broken. He looked down at the disaster at my feet and then up at the disaster that was his wife. I don’t know what he saw, or what he would have said when his mouth opened, but I never let it happen.

I was too scared. I was so, so scared that whatever followed would hurt me more than I could ever hurt him. So in preemptive self-defense, I said the only thing I’d promised myself I would never let him hear.

“It’s all your father ever taught you to do, anyway. You might as well teach your son, too.”

The only response I got was a tear on his cheek and the click of the lock after he left.

And then, I was alone, with only the silence left to keep me company.

In a pathetic desperation to break the suffocating silence, I violently threw my hands against the counter and its contents resting so peacefully there. I destroyed everything that sat there, mocking me and reminding me of all the mistakes that had led me there.

The memories were tainted now, so why should anything else remain intact?

But when I stared at the remnants of the vase holding a dried bouquet, I realized that no matter what I destroyed, I would still feel like the most broken thing in the room.

I almost missed the sound of destruction in my kitchen. I almost missed the screaming because at least then I knew that we still cared enough to be angry. No matter how much I really, really didn’t want to be angry.

Staring at the screen of my phone for a few too many minutes, I sighed when I finally sent the message that had been staring back at me for hours.

“Are you coming home tonight?”

His answer was almost immediate, which should have given me the answer in itself.

“Should I?”

“If you want to. Your son misses you,” I responded after a minute, turning to look at the staircase still littered with his toys. A toddler who was starting to be old enough to remember the fights was certainly old enough to notice his father’s absence.

“I don’t want him to see us fighting.”

And apparently, Spencer was only worried about one of those things. But that wasn’t what really made my blood boil, causing my fingers to sprint into quick, loud tapping.

“Why do you assume I’m going to fight with you, Spencer?”

“We’re fighting right now,"  he responded without a second of hesitation, almost like he’d had the message waiting.

I typed my reply so many times, unable to show him the hurt and sadness that I felt inside. The texts on the LCD screen would have never been enough.

“That’s not my fault,” I said, praying that he would understand the meaning behind the words.

Unfortunately, it seemed that neither of us were prepared to face what was clawing at the surface of our throats. Stubbornly dedicated to the misunderstandings above all else, Spencer answered with what he knew would hurt me the most. The same as I had.

“It never is, is it?”

It was my turn not to reply. Tossing my phone onto the counter, I forced myself to ignore it for the rest of the night. The real world could wait while I drowned myself in the bottle of wine I’d been trying to convince myself not to drink. Might as well drink it all, I figured, since Spencer wasn’t going to share it with me, anyway.

Lounging on the couch, I made a point of sitting in his seat, hoping that I would one day be able to claim it as my own. The only problem was that it gave me the perfect view of the clock— the very same thing I’d spend hours watching, waiting for him to come home.

He’s not coming. I don’t need him, anyway. He’s not coming. I don’t need him, anyway.

I repeated the words to myself so that one day I might believe them. I kept pouring the wine hoping that eventually I might be able to cry the tears that I’d been drowning in since the last time we shared our bed.

But I felt nothing. Even when the locks started to click open, my eyes stayed fixed on the clock that read 11:33PM. And even when he turned to see me next to a nearly empty bottle, I didn’t avert my eyes.

“He’s pretending like he’s asleep but he’s not,” I said between sips, “You should go see him. I think he’s waiting up for you.”

From my peripherals I saw him watching me, opening and closing his mouth with words better left unsaid. They would stay that way, too.

All he said, instead, was one quiet, broken, “Thanks.”

Why did the sound of his footsteps on the staircase feel so overwhelming? Why was it so fucking loud, to feel his presence in our home? The same feet in the same places where he’d struggled to half carry me up the stairs when we returned from our wedding, laughing and drunk on the love that we promised to never let die.

I felt sick, but I blamed it on the wine that I never stopped drinking. By the time Spencer returned, though, both the glass and bottle were as empty as I still felt. His eyes followed me when I walked them to the sink, setting them down to be a problem for a future self. The present, despairing version of me had had enough of them.

“Are you leaving?” I asked to the sink, too scared to face him when the thinly veiled plea let my lips.

As we often did, Spencer took his turn of silence. I heard him putting on his coat, the jingling of his keys the only other indicator that he was still there.

My fingers tightened around the lip of the counter, knuckles whitening with each second of silence from him that passed.

“Please, Spencer, just answer me when I ask you something.” The words were sharper than I wanted them to be, and I blamed the wine. I also blamed the wine for the way I could barely stand without the support of the counter I limped alongside.

“You already know the answer. Why would I want to open a dialogue about it?”

Beneath his monotone, I heard a shred of empathy and concern that I would willfully misinterpret as disgust and shame.

“Because that’s what you do when you respect someone,” I challenged, looking up at him with flat lips and a pulse that seemed too fast in a world moving in slow motion.

“You're right. I’m sorry,” he conceded the disrespect but didn’t counter it with anything but a predictable but unavoidably painful answer. “Yes, I’m leaving.”

My hand slid over the stack of papers at the end of the counter, and I swore I almost saw him flinch when he thought that I might fall. But I didn’t. After all, I knew the dips and bumps in these floorboards by heart. He couldn’t say the same, even with his memory.

“Take this with you, then,” I muttered, shoving the papers at him until he reluctantly accepted them. It only took him a glance to recognize the forms.

“Okay,” he said.

“That’s it?” I laughed because there was nothing else to do. “Just ‘okay?’”

Although he looked down at the Washington, DC court forms again, he sighed and shook his head. He didn’t look at me when he explained, “I don’t want to fight with you. He’s still awake.”

And that was just it. He looked down at my cry for help, the papers to formally designate our love as dead, and all he had to say was that it wasn’t worth the fight. He looked at the papers I gave him, knowing that they were me begging him to do something while we still could, and his answer was resignation.

But nothing about a separation was okay. It was painfully dragging out the inevitable end, clinging to hope that we could find each other again. Keeping us on hold and preventing the seeking out of other people’s embraces.

‘Please don’t leave me,’ I said, and ‘it’s not worth the fight’ was his response.

‘You’re not worth the fight’ is what I heard.

“I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want—" I choked on the sadness and wine drowning my heart. I forced the words out and hoped he would fight me on them. “I want to make sure that it’s all you have to say about it. That’s all.”

Anything to make him stay.

Please, stay. Please, stay. Please, stay.

If he could read my mind, he gave me no sign that he cared about the way I was crying out for him. He didn’t do anything until I couldn’t look at him anymore.

He touched me. Gentle and tender and careful, his hand came up to rest against my face that was hot from the wine. It felt so cold and alien and strangely familiar at the same time.

“(Y/n)…” he whispered, his thumb crossing my cheek and wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed in the first place. But once I did, so many more followed.

I had tried to cry. Apparently, all I had needed was for him to touch me again.

“Is there someone else?” I said between small sobs, resting my face against his palm and hoping to God he wouldn’t take it back yet. Praying that this could be an easy fix, an easy way to hate him. But nothing about this was easy.

“No,” he answered, and I couldn’t find any sign of deception or disgust, no matter how hard I searched.

“Right. It’s a stupid thought, I’m sorry,” I chuckled, wrapping my arms around myself in an embrace I wished he could give me instead. “You hardly have time for your son, how would you have time for someone else? Not like a girlfriend would be that patient.”

But when I went to turn away from his hand, he stopped me with his other. With both hands on my cheeks, he forced me to look him in matching glassy eyes.

“It’s not a matter of convenience or availability,” he rasped with a throat raw from the way the words stung.

“Then what is it?” I cried, searching for the words we both desperately needed to hear; the words we both desperately needed to say.

Spencer’s mouth opened, and then closed. And in that terrible, heartbreaking silence, I wondered if I would ever hear them again. But his hands were still on my face, holding me in front of him and smoothing the tears away. They would still sink into my skin, and I would be left to carry them while he washed his hands of me.

“I’m guessing it’s…” he muttered, trying to give me something without throwing the boxing match of broken hearts, “I’m guessing it’s the same reason you handed me legal separation papers instead of divorce papers.”

I laughed, because it was such a Spencer way of saying ‘I still love you.’ Always a riddle. It gave me enough solace for me to rest my red and weary eyes, trusting that he would protect me while I couldn’t see.

“Don’t leave tonight,” I said in that first comfortable quiet, “Please, stay.”

He waited for me to open my eyes and see the look on his face. He wanted me to see the look on his face because he wanted me to feel bad for him when he pathetically stuttered, “I-I… I can’t.”

“Don’t say it,” I begged, but he didn’t listen.

“I have to go back to work, I’m sorry.”

Tearing myself away from his hands, I nearly fell over but refused his help all the same. Teetering against the wall, I rolled away from him and back towards the stairs.

“Just go. It was stupid to even ask.”

“You saw what happened. We lost Garcia, then Dave, then Jennifer,” he appealed in a loud whisper. At least he had the decency to have emotions when it came to work. My anger clung to that, and refused to budge even after he tacked on, “We lost you. Someone had to stay.”

“But why did it have to be you?”

And then he said the words I’d grown to hate him for. The words that gnawed at me late at night in an empty bed. The words I heard echoing in the halls of our otherwise silent home. He looked me in my eyes when he said, “They needed me.”

“Spencer, I—!” I shouted, the sound shocking me back into silence in seconds. I took a deep, trembling breath as my entire body shook with the force of my clenched jaw and putrid, poisoned heart. “I needed you.”

I still need you. Please, hear me. I still need you.

But Spencer couldn’t read my mind. He was too busy looking up the stairs to see a tiny hand clutching the door frame that was opened just far enough for two little eyes to peek out at us at the bottom of the stairs. I stared back him, and I saw that we’d done the thing we said we didn’t want to do most of all.

It wasn’t his fault. He wouldn’t understand that. All he saw was his parents, staring back at him covered in tears and angry words. I couldn’t stop it; like a head on collision on a one way street, I wanted to speed up and hope that it would hurt less than if I tried to save myself.

“Please don’t cry,” Spencer said from behind me, his hand still wet from my tears wrapping around my hand to pull me back to him.

The warmth made me sick.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, ripping my hand back before I headed to the stairs. “Go to work. My son needs me. Goodnight, Spencer.”

With those last few bitter words, the door closed and took half my heart with it.

The sound of the rundown motel was anything but silent. The buzzing of fluorescent lights and speeding city cars didn’t allow for much else. I wasn’t sure how Spencer managed to stay sane here, considering how he’d called a repairman insisting there was something wrong with the fridge due to a noise no one else could even perceive.

For that reason, I knocked loudly at his door. He knew that I was coming, so it didn’t take him very long to answer.

I could blame the bottle of wine I’d downed for sending the text asking to meet, but I would have done it anyways. We needed neutral ground to talk and there was too much tension at the house for anything to feel fair. The thought of our son associating our home with lovelessness was enough to make the decision to meet Spencer at his bureau-appointed motel.

I had played out potential scenarios in the shower, trying to find one that wouldn’t end in property damage or more collateral damage to our relationship which was already hanging on by a thread, but hadn’t found one that checked both boxes.

“Come in,” he yelled back, also compensating for the background static. It was the first time he’d raised his voice in a long time. I wondered what he thought about the fact that it was still directed at me.

“Hey,” I muttered as I closed the door behind me, hugging my overcoat tighter. It wasn’t much warmer in his room than it was outside. He always preferred it cold at night, I reminded myself. He said it was easier to sleep, because he could hold me without overheating.

I wondered what kept him warm now.

“Hey,” he answered, turning in his chair to look over my shivering figure. “Are you alright? You look nervous.”

What a stupid question.

“Yeah, I am.” I swallowed, biting on my bottom lip and taking a few steps towards him. My eyes swept over the room that seemed almost untouched. Figures, he didn’t spend much time there, either.

“Alright, or nervous?”

I looked at him, the question both catching me off guard and confusing me. My furrowed brows gave me away, because Spencer cleared his throat and sat up.

“You didn’t… say which.”

“Both,” I said more succinctly and with a small hint of a smile. It felt wrong to do, but I did it, anyway. Fake it until you make it and all of that. Of course, faking it doesn’t really work with a profiler.

“What’s wrong?”

Another stupid question.

“Nothing, it’s just…” I tried to lie again but gave up halfway through. Deciding to be honest, instead, I came closer until I felt his knee rest against my leg. “I feel kind of stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he assured me, and I hated the way it sparked something in my chest. I could have made it anger again, to tell him that I didn’t need his approval or validation. Or I could let it be love. Let it be him telling me the truth because I needed to hear it.

Licking his lips and swallowing the lump in his throat that he couldn’t clear, he looked down at my hand on the tie holding my coat closed when he asked, “What do you need?”

Slowly and with shaking hands, I pulled the tie loose. I could hear the breath hitch in his throat as I poorly undid the buttons. Inch by inch, my skin was exposed to him through lace. His chest began to move with more purpose, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight. I found the courage to answer him.

“I need you to… touch me,” I whispered, reaching down to hold his hand. That contact was the only thing that successfully tore his gaze away from my body.

“What?”

It was ridiculous just how scary it was to hold my husband’s hand. It felt so heavy but so necessary, like I’d found a part of myself that I only barely recognized.

“Please, Spencer,” I cried, lifting our hands up and resting it against my stomach. “Touch me.”

Whether it was the way my whole body was trembling and tensing, or some other disgust with the situation he found himself in, Spencer recoiled so strongly that his absence felt like a punch to the gut.

“What are you doing?” he spat, standing up and pushing the chair back so he wouldn’t have to pass me when he stepped away.

“I-I was just trying to…” I stuttered, pulling the halves of the coat closed around me; my usually confident voice so timid I could hardly use it at all.

“Do you… Do you think that’s the problem with our relationship? That I’m bored with you?”

He was talking so loudly that he was practically yelling. It was no wonder he didn’t hear my protests voiced through broken breath.

“I don’t know, I just thought—“

“You think I’m not attracted to you anymore? That after you had our child I wouldn’t want you anymore?”

I had said that I wanted to see Spencer show some emotion. And there he was, with the rage and sadness and shame that I’d thrown at him over the course of the year. He spewed them all out into the tiny, sterile room and never stopped to look back.

“Is that what this is?!” he demanded an answer, and I couldn’t have stopped the two-headed monster of our love from bursting out of our chests even if I wanted to.

They tried to find each other; their final stand before only one remained.

“I was just trying to do something, anything to try and save our fucking marriage, Spencer!” I shouted back, feeling uncomfortably exposed in so many ways.

“I don’t just see you as a… sex toy!” he argued in his defense, gesturing to the half-naked state of me before he covered his eyes.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel, but I felt embarrassed and ashamed and something else.

“Well what was I supposed to think, Spencer? We haven’t had sex in six months!” I hated that he wouldn’t look at me. Why couldn’t he just look at me? He couldn’t talk to me, couldn’t touch me, couldn’t bear the thought of my existence within the same walls that contained him. “And the last time it only happened because you were drunk!”

Biting down on both his lips, Spencer wiped a hand over his tense jaw like it would bring back the apathy he’d already released. There was no getting it back.

“How am I supposed to have sex with someone that despises me?”

The world came to a screeching halt, the sounds of the city thriving around us burning into my brain and washing out the thumping of my heart trying to find its other half across the room.

“Despise you?” I spoke the words to try and understand them, but it only hurt with none of the clarity I sought. But I was still too scared to say that I loved him, so instead I denied the opposite. “I don’t despise you, Spencer. You’re my husband!”

The ring on my hand felt so heavy, but I never took it off.

“You’ve resented me ever since you left the bureau,” he spit out the words, his hand clenched in an awkward way to point an angry finger at me. “But I didn’t ask you to do that, (y/n). That was your decision.”

Memories flooded back of when we first met. The long rides on the jet, the late nights at the office. The way Spencer caught me in the parking garage because I’d forgotten my umbrella. It wasn’t even raining, but he ran down four flights of stairs, anyway. The way I thanked him by kissing him, and the way he kissed me back until we didn’t have any breath left.

But then I remembered the day I left— how Spencer promised me we wouldn’t be like Hotch and Haley, or Rossi and any of his failed attempts at marriage. I remembered how Spencer would rush home after a case and hold me the entire day and night, kissing my belly and eventually our baby.

I remembered the first night he decided to stay at work instead of coming home. The first night he let go of my hand and turned over because he needed the rest.

It was too painful to think of the first time he forgot to kiss me goodbye before he was out the door, and there was no umbrella excuse to chase after him. I remembered the way I let him go and told myself that he probably hadn’t meant to forget about me.

The first time I thought: He’s not coming back. I don’t need him, anyway.

At first, I asked myself: Were we reliving the same memories? What did they look like to him?

But then I stopped, and for the first time I asked: Does it matter?

“Maybe I do hate you a little bit for living the life we used to share. Fine. I admit that.” I stopped for a deep breath to calm my nerves. My next step was steady despite the heels, and Spencer saw the shift he couldn’t account for. “But this was not only my fault. I worked that job, Spencer. I’ve lived that life and I know that there are times when you have to make a decision.”

Standing before him again, my hands held tightly to my sides but my eyes matching his, I bit down on my tongue. I hoped that the pain would lessen the impact of the next few words. The real reason I had resented him, and the reason I refused to apologize.

“And you didn’t pick us. ”

For all his brilliance and one hundred and eighty seven IQ points, Spencer had no argument to make. He just looked at me, his eyes roaming over marks from the past and the evidence of how I’d carried his child still visible underneath the lace.

He raised his hand to brush over the touch he’d rejected moments before, but he never made it. Letting it fall aside with his apparent courage, Spencer clenched his teeth and forced out the words, “Please, I don’t want to fight with you.”

I’d grown so tired of that line— that excuse. The absolute bullshit of a lie. With all the air I had in me, I yelled with a hoarse throat and pure desperation, “I’m not asking you to fight with me, Spencer! I just want you to fight for us!”

Spencer’s mouth opened to say something, just like it always did as of late. But in place of the usual apathy in his eyes, I saw something else. Behind the tears and sadness, I saw a man I used to know in that silence. And in the blink of an eye, I felt his hands on my face and his breath on my lips milliseconds before they met his.

Holding me in place, Spencer kissed me harder than he ever had before. He kissed me in a way that made my heart leap forward, looking for him in the dim golden light of a shitty motel room. He kissed me like he’d missed me.

And I had missed him. Each second that our lips stayed connected, the harder my heart tried to escape. It beat so harshly against my ribcage, like it was repeating the same morse code message over and over again.

I remember you.

When I caved in, returning the kiss with everything that was left of me, a weight lifted from my starving lungs and let me breathe again. I took in his frantic breath in exchange for my own, and we shared the mixture of carbon dioxide and love that makes you forget all the reasons to hate each other that you might have otherwise found.

I couldn’t tell which of us started to tear his clothes off first, but I thought it was me. I could feel his buttons slipping between my fingers. I felt the way they didn’t fumble, the muscle memory returning faster than it ever did on a bicycle.

I remember you.

With his pants barely coming off in time, we tumbled onto the bed while still in each other’s arms. There wasn’t time to laugh about how clumsy we were, or how horribly uncomfortable the mattress was. There was too much to do, too much lost time we were trying to make up for.

His mouth left my lips but didn’t stray far. He drew kisses across my jaw and over my pulse, where he stopped. Kissing me softer there, he took a moment to draw his tongue over the rapid fluttering of my heart that still yearned for him. I was reminded of the way that we said until death do us part, and how much I had really meant it.

It already felt so overwhelming, so nauseatingly perfect that I thought I would wake up to my empty bed again, reaching for someone and something I’d let slip through my fingers.

Spencer’s fingers, on the other hand, were sliding under the waistband of the matching lace, dragging it unceremoniously down my thighs until they could be kicked off indiscriminately. I imagined what the floor would look like, littered with our clothes and inhibitions as we discarded the worries and fears of not being enough anymore.

The soft sounds of rustling slacks and briefs were the sounds that would signal the end of six months of solitude. With his mouth returning to mine, Spencer’s hand also came back to the space between my thighs. He paused for a minute, drawing strange patterns over the skin as he stalled. But then he did it, anyway, pushing a finger into my waiting heat. I cried out for him; my body overstimulated by the smallest touch from him after being deprived for so long.

I remember you, I thought it louder and hoped that he would hear. Although he seemed hesitant to my touch at first, I eventually found my way down to his erection and gently gripped. And as he moaned into my ear, I felt something come to life within me for the first time in years.

Moving his hand out of the way, I promptly led him to my opening. Again, Spencer stopped. This time he stopped to look me in my eyes, ceasing all kissing and slowing the momentum to a halt. He looked at me, his eyes burning with tears and a desire to let go of built up nonsense and dive into the oceans of togetherness again.

I nodded, just enough for him to see, but not enough to question whether it was the right thing to do. My husband entered me with such precious precision that I couldn’t help but moan, although he couldn’t recognize it as his name when I spoke it under my breath.

I missed you. We both spoke the words with our bodies that started to blend together again. With my nails digging into his back, Spencer’s mouth returned to showering me with insistent kisses. His hips moved slowly, taking his time to let my body accommodate what used to feel like an extension of itself.

He sighed against my lips when he was fully inside of me. One hand came to hold my hip while the other settled under my head, Spencer’s breath hitched before he kissed me again. I felt his hesitation. It was always the last few bricks of the wall built between us that were the hardest to kick away.

But I refused to leave them. If I had to step over them, I would. I would find a way to remind him that we’d been on the same side all along, and that he didn’t have to be alone anymore. So I kissed him that time, bringing his tongue into my mouth and feeling his moans echo through mine.

There was no lasting like this, with Spencer’s hips starting to drive into me with increasing force. Our voices became louder and our movements more purposeful. I began bucking in tandem with his thrusts until my body began to shake from the overwhelming pleasure.

And he held me, tenderly and carefully and with the greatest level of concern. Spencer felt the way that my walls fluttered around him, and he continued with his strained motions. My eyes were barely open, but stubbornly remaining half lidded just so I could see the look on his face. So consumed with the passion and love that gathered in the little space between us.

There was no escaping it, and neither of us wanted to, anyway. Just as I was about to come crashing back to reality, there was one more broken cry from him; a gentle sob as he finally crashed his hips into mine, holding it there as he filled me with his warmth.

Our lips met as the tension slowly eased from our bodies, our weary muscles shaking as we struggled to stay connected. To stay in that moment and never let it go.

But like all good things, it had to end. We would have to free each other from our arms and hope that it wouldn’t be for good. I wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t be the last time. Because if this happened again, I wasn’t sure we’d ever come back together again.

It really, truly felt like the stars had aligned and some God gave us mercy to find our way back into each other’s arms.

But the longer I stared up at my husband through tears, I realized that we were the only ones responsible. For all of it.

“I love you,” I said before I could think to stop myself.

“I love you,” he returned without restraint, “I’m so sorry.”

Lone tears turned to fountains, and this time when we smeared them into our skin, both of our hands were dirty. We were carrying the weight of each other, and neither of us held it alone anymore.

“I’m sorry, too,” I keened, turning my face to kiss his palm. But then even that wasn’t enough, my shaky hands coming up to hold onto his. “I’m so sorry, Spencer. I love you so much. I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured me with a panicked and pained voice. “I’m not leaving you," he repeated, pressing his forehead against mine before stealing another powerful yet languid kiss. When he tried to end it, I held onto his lip for as long as I could, letting it slip from my teeth with a smile.

And he laughed. He laughed and it reminded me of how long it had been since I last heard it like that. There was no bitterness; no challenge or resentment. It sounded like the old walls of our home and covered me like the sheets we’d get lost in for hours.

“It’s so hard when half of your heart is never with you,” I thought aloud, daring to ruin the laughter and replacing it with a pain that had to be handled eventually.

“I know,” Spencer said with a shaky breath. He opened his mouth to say something, and I waited for him to close it again, to keep his secrets buried like that last brick he held in place between us. But then, he spoke. “You were right about this job. There are times where you have to make a decision a-and…”

As his tears dripped from his chin to my chest, I felt the full weight of Spencer’s breakdown. He let himself collapse over my heart, listening to the soft rhythm and letting it guide him back to me.

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” he whispered, “I pick you. I should have always picked you.”

They were the words I thought I wanted to hear. I’d been begging him to say them for so long, but it hardly felt like a win. How could it, when he was so obviously miserable? The love of the job was something we’d shared before. The thought of being the reason he left something he loved made me no better than the cases that kept him away from me.

Sobbing like a child with his hands clutching me like I was the only thing that would stop the pain, Spencer still spoke through the labored breaths, “I was just so scared. I thought I had already lost you and I didn’t know what to do.”

It was like looking in a mirror. He voiced his fears and I recognized them as my own.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” Spencer sobbed, and both of our bodies shook. I held him tighter, but just for a second before I pulled him back to look me in my eyes. I looked into the galaxies they contained and wondered how he ever thought such a thing was possible.

“Spencer, I promised you that I would love you until the day I die.”

His eyes were bloodshot but happy, and in the reflection, I saw the past and I saw the future. I saw the memories playing in the back of his eyes and knew that he wasn’t seeing me as I was in that moment. He saw beyond the present, mixing all the memories together to create something new.

But he remembered those words from that day.

“Until death do us part, and maybe a little bit longer than that,” he whispered.

“Until the cosmos swallows reality as we know it,” I answered, tapping our noses together and sharing the very same smile from the first time we promised our souls to one another.

“I will still find a way to love you.”

(Tell me what you thought of this fic here!)

[winchesterxxi]

Enough is Enough (Poe Dameron x Reader)

Rating: T (Teen and Up)

Type: Angst

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Female!Reader

Summary: Reader and Poe have been arguing for over a week and completely avoiding each other. This has come to the attention to the person that happens to be your third wheel most of the time - Finn. Along with BB8 and Rey they come up with a plan to get the two of you talking.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing

A/N: I’m back baby.

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It’s only 8am on a Monday and you already feel like murdering people.

Your fiancé to be exact.

As soon as your alarm had sounded across the room, you jumped out of bed and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You brushed your teeth and hair, got dressed and walked out into the bedroom, striding across it and out the other door.

Poe was awake, facing the door, and he saw you walk out, eyes trailing after your back but a scowl firm on his face. He really had fucked up, and he knew it. But for fuck’s sake, you’re both adults, if you are going to give him the silent treatment like a child, he is not above doing the same to you.

So out he goes. He rises from the bed, tired hand running through his unruly curls at the same time as a yawn proceeding to complete his morning routine, before striding across the same path as you, grabbing his pilot jacket in the process.

The cantina was packed – it’s a Monday morning, of course it is. Pilots, mechanics and Resistance workers from all branches crammed along the trayline trying to get the freshest pieces of toast or the juiciest pieces of fruit before the others could get to them.

Poe doesn’t blame them. Most of these people were either on the brick of hunger and homelessness or being deprived of their needs by the Empire before they had been recruited the Resistance and the fact that they now had warm meals every day for which they paid with their own sweat, was something to be cherished.

The latter case resembled that of Finn who he spotted at one of the tables, and he made a b line to seat next to his friend. Upon getting closer he noticed that Finn was sitting in front of Rey who, in her turn was sitting next to…you.

That’s fine. This is fine. This is absolutely fine.

Before going to the table, Poe decides to take a detour and get some breakfast before sitting down. Because he was hungry. Not because this would buy him some time before inevitably sitting down in front of you and try to contain the immense annoyance you’ve been causing him for the past week.

After a few moments, Poe looks down at his tray and its fullness, food about to spill out – more food than he could ever possibly stomach. He closes his eyes and sighs before an Ewok is pushing him away from where he stood in front of the pastry baskets. Straightening himself back up, Poe finally walks up to the table, flashing a smile at Finn before setting his tray down next to him and sitting in front of you.

When he passes your side you can sense his cologne invade your nostrils and, somehow, that only makes you angrier.

“Morning, pilot.” Rey teases but her smile quickly retracts once she spots the scowl on both your faces, looking from Poe to you and to him again. Finn senses the heavy energy and eyes Rey who gives him a silent clueless shrug.

“So,” Finn asks “what plans does the Dameron couple have for today?”

It’s as if the guy read your minds.

“I don’t know of any couple that goes by that name.” You mumble into your spoon of oatmeal and Poe’s eyes zero in on you.

Panic flashes across Finn and Rey’s once they hear you. Did the two of you break up? Is the wedding off?

“People are individuals, you know, Finn.” You settle down your spoon and turn your face to him, elaborating with a tone that had a slight taint of menace in it “Even though a couple is in a relationship they remain individuals.” You point the tone in word individuals, eyes narrowing to the man in front of you. Rey and Finn exchange a look.

“The fact that people are individuals doesn’t mean they can’t share a part of the other’s identity.” He snakes into the rim of his cup of coffee, eyes never leaving yours.

“It does if that meant they had to give up a part of their own identity.” You snap back, voice low.

“I’m not sure I follow.” Rey wavers and looks between the two of you.

“Thing is, Rey.” You turn to her “and Finn… there is no Dameron couple. There is a Poe Dameron and Y/N Y/L/N couple. But I’m not even too sure of that now.”

Poe puts his mug of coffee down a little too abruptly as he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Are you really that entitled?”

“I’m the one who’s entitled? Have you heard yourself speak lately?” you mimic his movements, leaning forward on your own side of the table

“Why is it such a big deal for you?”

“Because it’s who I am!” you borderline-scream and get all of the cantina’s attention drawn to you, specifically those of the two people sitting next to you, looking in shock at your sudden outburst, which they’d never even gotten a glimpse of.

You and Poe hold each other’s gaze for a long while, focused on nothing but each other and the mix of rage and hurt rumbling inside of you. And when you can’t help your lips from trembling and your eyes to burn with tears, you swear you can see something break inside of him.

He himself swore he was about to break this stupid game the minute he saw your face. For the glimpse of a second, he felt like reaching his hand up to cup your face, or to hold your hand or to stroke your jawline in that way that calmed you down. But before he could act on his impulses, you stormed out of the cantina, leaving behind your cooling breakfast and a torn Poe.

“What did you do?” Rey asks horrified at what she just witness and somewhat ready to throw fists at the man who seemingly broke her friend’s heart.

“It’s not what I did it’s what I said.” He mumbles and stands up from his own seat and, just like you, leaving behind an untouched tray of food and a half cup of coffee while Finn and Rey follow him with their gaze.

It was nice of Rey to ask you to go out for drinks tonight. Not just that, but she didn’t ask questions – she didn’t throw you a pity what was that about? or are you okay? Because it obviously wasn’t. It wasn’t and you don’t think it would ever be again.

So here you were, walking into a low-light bar in Canto Bight in your favourite pair of dress and shoes with nothing in your mind but the drink you were eager to order and the friend you were looking forward to meeting – a luxury that, just a few months ago would not have been possible. When you’re fighting for your own survival, a night at the bar isn’t exactly your top priority, but that was in the past.

Straightening yourself up, you smooth your dress and walk over to the table with the number she had told you – number 15. Upon reaching it, you sat down facing the door and nudging away the waiter who comes by to ask if you’d like a drink. There was no way in the galaxy you were starting the drinking night alone. Maker knows how that would end.

It had just been a few minutes of fidgeting with the table towel when you look up to the bar’s entrance and your eyes meet the last person you wanted to see. Poe. And damn, if it weren’t for the current situation he would’ve knocked the wind right out of you.

He looked good. Shinny curls and a fresh face with his good leather jacket. He looked really good. And you hated him for that.

He didn’t quite spot you until he was halfway across the bar in the direction you were sitting in, eyes coming into focus on your figure as you quickly stood up and took a small step back. Standing to your full height, Poe swears he’d never seen you look so perfect, which made the energy between the two of you all the more painful.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, hugging your arms close to your body.

“I’m here to meet Finn.” He replies, hands nervously spasming by his side, a habit you’d come to know and love.

“On this table?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m here to meet Rey.” You answer quietly, scoffing.

“It’s a two people table.” He says matter-of-factly.

“And they’re not here.”

“But we are.”

Realization struck the both of you and Poe runs a hand over his exasperated face as you throw your head back and close your eyes. He sighs deeply before bringing one hand up to his hip.

“Can we then at least talk?”

You scoff at him.

“No.” Is your simple one-word answer before you try and make your way to the door, which he blocks.

“Y/N –“

“No. Are you going to let me pass?” he doesn’t move.

“For fuck’s sake Y/N.”

You scowl and turn around striding to where you know to be an elevator – if you can’t get out, at least you can go up. At this point, being on a different floor was enough. You can hear him mumbling words behind you but you try to pay him no intention, beyond grateful that the elevator’s doors opened as soon as you clicked the button.

“Fuck you Dameron.”

Stepping in, your not quick enough to press the closing button before Poe is slithering between the almost-closed doors and stepping into the same space as you.

“Oh, now you’re okay with using my last name?”

“When addressing you? Yeah, totally.” You nudge him so you can reach the buttons and press R for rooftop. He does a double-take on you before running his fingers across all the floors. You look up at him incredulously. “Really mature.”

“Mature is talking. And we are going to talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about!”

“Will you talk to me?”

“I don’t want t---” you were about to scream when the elevator came to a halt and you stumbled into Poe’s arms, before standing right up, the lights above you flickering.

“Great! Just what we needed.” he throws his hands up in the air, and now you really thought you could slap him across his beautiful face.

“Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t pressed all the buttons like a kid!”

- Meanwhile, above the elevator -

“BB8.” Finn whisper yells from the open door, three floors above. “How long can you hold them?”

The poor droid, with his little tools stuck in the flashing wires, beeps in response.

“He said maybe 5 more minutes.” Rey translates, before flopping back on the floor and away from the open door and the empty elevator space. After a few moments in silence, she nudges Finn’s side.

“Don’t you think this is adding fuel to the fire?”

“They just need to talk. Plus they’ve been avoiding each other. We’re doing them a favour.”

- Back on the elevator –

Taking in a deep breath you lean back against one of the elevator’s golden mirror walls.

“Why did you get like that when I said I wanted to keep my name?”

“I… do you really hate the idea of being called a Dameron so much?” his voice is small as he stands in the middle of the floor, eyes searching yours.

“It’s not that! I just… I hate the idea that just because we’re getting married I need to give up being called by my last name. I never wanted that! It’s not because it’s you. I told myself that if I ever was to get married I’d never take another man’s name.” Tears are back at pooling at the corners of your eyes as you turn your head slightly to look into Poe’s sad face.

“Or maybe you just don’t want to be known as the ex-spice-runner’s-wife.” His statement is but a whisper as his voice gets caught in the back of his throat and you have never seen him this close to tears.

That’s what does it for you. That’s what makes you reach forward and grab his warm face in your hands, guiding him to look at you.

“Hey, hey… That is not true. Don’t you ever think that. I love you. I love you for who you were, who you are and who you’re yet to be… which I hope to be there to cherish.” The tears roll down both your cheeks as a breathy chuckle leaves you. “It’s not about your name. It’s about mine. And I… it really hurt me when you said those things. Acting as if me keeping my name was a sin or something.”

He averts your gaze, looking at the floor but you motion his face back to where it was.

“Hey. Here…” you guide one of his hands to where your heart beats “I’m already a Dameron. Have been for a long time. Just not on paper. And at the end of the day… what is more important?”

It’s his turn to cup your face and bring his forehead close to yours. “I’m so sorry. I was an idiot… thank you for…this.”

“No, thank you.”

His hands are the ones that pull your face up and wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, before stroking your cheekbones with a feather-light touch.

“You look beautiful-- ”

“I love you.”

It’s a short and exasperate sentence, but you’ve gone almost two weeks without saying it and Maker, how you missed the way it sounded and the way it felt rolling out of your lips. Poe could say the same, the deprivation of that sentence that he has suffered sending a bolt of warmth across his body as if this were your first date all those years ago.

For a moment your eyes cross, but before too long he is lunching forward and capturing your lips in his. The tears came again as he held onto the kiss as if that was the only thing keeping him alive.

You were reluctant to pull away from the sweet embrace, but you did. And you were met with the sweet smile you had missed.

“What do we say we go downstairs… I have a feeling there’s a table waiting just for us.” He jokes, running a quick hand over his watery eyes and you chuckle at the timely joke.

“Yeah, yeah… I’d like that.” You smile, grabbing his cheek and kissing it once again. And, as if on queue. The elevator starts working again, lights flickering for a few seconds, and the only button that was on was that of the Ground floor from which you were trying to get away from just a few minutes before.

Little did the two of you know that attached to the roof of the elevator was a happy BB8 as the compartment went down and, just a few floors above, two very content Resistance members, high-fiving.

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[bloodycassian]

FIRE AND ICE PART TWO - GRIEF

His lack of faith in you seemed to grow with each passing day that you ignored him. He tried bringing you food, tried making jokes. You had a sneaking suspicion he tried to send Mor in to try to talk to you too. But she just read beside you in bed, munching on the plate of cookies he had ordered to your room. 

"I'm not going to say dont be mad it him, but maybe just... hear him out." Mor said, shutting her book. You glared at her. "I know, I know.... but just maybe-"

"He hasn't bothered to apologize. Why would I hear him out when he doesn't even try to hear me out!?" You let her hear the kindling fire that had been building over the last few days. The words came out with precision and cut even her deep. 

"Cassian can be stupid-" 

"He's an idiot." You spat. 

She sighed, and sat up from the pillow stack that you shared. She could see the predator waiting to be released under your skin. And she didn’t want to be the one to let it free. So she went the gentle route. The one she knew would knock you free of the anger. "He wanted to keep you safe." the words hit your weak spot for the male. 

You shoved it away, disregarding the vulnerability. "By shaming me?" She was surprised. Cassian hadn't shown any sign of falseness when she had spoken to him. He had just seemed concerned. You laughed bitterly. "He forgot to mention the part where he guilted me into leaving. He thinks I'm a doll he needs to protect." You cringed away from the words that you knew he saw as being true. The shame filled you further. Like a sinking ship, it only brought you lower and lower. 

She stared at you, those piercing eyes so different from Rhys' bored into you. Her next words were carefully chosen. "Give him.. time." She concluded. You stared after her as she made her way to the door. 

Two days later you had cooled off after a sparring with Feyre and Rhys. As if he had been told of your more pleasant mood, Cassian appeared on your balcony with a bundle of wildflowers and a basket of bath supplies. Your favorites, of course. You didn't hesitate to take them. You gave him a once over - that stupid apologetic half smile he wore dug into your heart. You rolled your eyes at him and turned, heading for the bathroom. 

+

He made love to you that night. Long and slow. apologetic in every way. Sensual, caring and so good. When you woke the next morning, he was gone. Just a note left on your bedside table. 

"Back before lunch" it promised. You sighed and threw it on the floor. The same frustration as before returning to you. The unsatisfied feeling of needing to fight - to get the rage out. To have him just yell at you already. To let the words you knew he wanted to say finally come out. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

The nightmare of those words lingered throughout your slow morning. By lunch there was still no sign of Cassian.

So much for round two.

+

You picked at your dinner impatiently. The various fruits and meats on the table didn't appeal. Especially for such an early dinner. You were hoping to train but Rhys and Azriel weren’t back from their meeting yet, so you decided on a much too early feast for yourself. You couldnt bring yourself to have a bite though. You watched the snowdrifts billow outside the house of wind instead. They flurried down the mountains, shimmering like diamonds in the afternoon light. You could imagine how it sounded rushing down the steep peaks of the mountain. The soft tinkling sound they made when hitting your hair. Your wings flexed involuntarily. 

Mor strode in with a small box in her hands. "Good morning." She chittered, placing the box on the table in front of you. "Whats this?" You asked, skimming a finger over the lid. "A gift." She began walking away without a look back. 

"From?" the box seemed to hum with anticipation. 

"Open it and find out." She called from the doorway. Your stomach suddenly spiked with nerves. 

"For the one you lost. -Cas" 

The one you lost?! The ignorant note made your blood boil. He was the one that had caused you to lose it. You didnt even want the damned gift if he was going to be such an asshole about it. But you couldn't ignore the beauty of the blade that lay before you. Among dark satin lining lay a gorgeous handmade dagger. Black stained metal with a simple leather hilt. Curved at the tip with deadly sharpness. You picked an apple from the table, and tested the knife. 

It sliced through like butter, leaving no jagged edges over the skin of the fruit. You inspected the mark, noting the spot of red on the inside of the apple. Your heart dropped. "Shit." 

You hadn't even felt the cut, the blade was so sharp. You wrapped your loose shirt around the wound on your finger and set the knife back in the box. The blood dripped on the dark lining. Staining the perfection of it. 

+

You sparred with Azriel that evening, working off your frustration with Cassian. He went easy on you, noting the wrapping on your fingers. He didnt ask about it though. The session was more quiet than usual, even for Az. He stopped abruptly mid swing, letting you catch his torso with the training sword. Cassian landed behind you. He had his hands up in defense before you could even open your mouth.  

"You smell like blood." You accused. "And mud." 

"So do you." He gave Azriel a nod, and the shadowsinger excused himself. suspicion grated at your nerves. You set your jaw and put your sword away, ignoring the new blood spots blooming on the bandage. He squinted at it, you cut him off before he could say anything.

"Cassian..." You leveled a look at him. 

He kept his composure, ripping those hazel eyes from your injury. "Dont worry about it. I got it handled."

"You’re half a day late and - wait….Got what handled?!" You squeaked. You disregarded his tardiness all together. The sheepish look on his face said all you needed to know.

You wanted to hear him admit it. That he went and finished the job without you. You needed to hear him admit it. You realised you were tense, waiting to fight. Your wings were tucked in protectively behind you, and your fists clenched at your sides ached.

"Dont-"

"If you say dont worry about it again I am going to throw you off this house." You ground out through your teeth.

He did not laugh, like you would have expected. He just looked away. On the back of his neck you noticed the thin scratches and the dirt that marred his tunic. Your eyes stung with tears. The betrayal hitting you like a ton of bricks. "I did, alright?" He said, voice low. "I took care of it."

"What the fuck, Cassian?!" You exploded, "The bath, the flowers what - so I would be less suspicious?" You recalled the night before, the slow tenderness of him. The 

"What? No - I got that because I love-"

"Dont say its because you love me. You could have been killed. You lied to me." You could feel the blood pounding in your temples, fueling the rage that lashed out. Tears threatened to spill over. 

"I didnt lie!" His voice echoed against the far wall of the training ring. "And you were almost killed too. I couldn't risk that again."

"It wasn't even close to that bad!" You shouted back, not caring how the birds quieted. Your rage matched his, possibly exceeded it at times. You knew that on previous experiences. You'd done a lot more than make nature quiver at the tones you brought. 

"It was bad enough." He said with finality, his tone somber. He leaned against the weapons rack and tapped his toe against it anxiously. You stared him down, daring him to say more. Waiting to strike out against the next words you knew he wanted to say. What you knew he was thinking.

"You're not strong enough on your own."

You didn't need any more of his excuses. You didnt need to hear the words to know that he wanted to say them. You scoffed. It caught his attention. 

"Where are you going?" He asked. A request, not a demand. You didn't oblige him. You just leapt off the side of the the wide cliffside and let your wings pull you up, high into the air. You kept soaring, pushing and pushing until your lungs hurt with the stinging of the air. 

+

Az's cool shadows did not touch you when he landed. The rustling of the long grass around his pants was little more than a whisper. 

"He sent you didnt he?" You wiped your cold nose on your sleeve and attempted to piece yourself together. Things with Cas had gotten just so difficult lately. You didnt know why. He was constantly just... hovering. It made you claustrophobic. You hadn't been forgiving about it either. He wasn't the only one to blame. 

"He didn't..." Azriel stood beside you. You didnt feel his cold eyes that always seemed to pierce into you. You looked up at him to confirm your thoughts, and he was indeed looking over the grand lake you had parked yourself at. Among a valley of trees and violet flowers, the polished surface of the water seemed like a mirror. 

"Then why are you here?" Your words were laced with the venom Cas had left you with.

He was quiet for only a moment, before calmly speaking again. "To make sure you're alright."

"I dont need anyone looking after me. I'm not a child." You spat bitterly. The sunset overhead darkened, slowly making its way down behind the mountains. 

"I know. I came here for myself." His words held no double meaning. No doubt ringing through them. "I wanted to see you." He said simply. He didnt have the arrogant air of someone coming to the rescue. You appreciated that. It took a weight of your chest.

"Why?" You demanded more than asked. You really didnt care what your tone was like. He was the one offering to stay beside you.

He shrugged, and gestured to the large boulder you leaned against. "May I?" He asked. You shrugged back - weakly -, and he sat. You watched the sun disappear completely together. You through clouded, swollen eyes. 

He said nothing, didn't even look at you besides when you choked out a sob. Then his leg was there, subtle and warm. You didn't feel a sting of pride when you leaned against the welcome comfort. He didn't complain when your tears soaked through his pants, or when your cried rocked his body as well. 

[spencers-renaissance]

this heavy humanness

Summary: Spencer leaves the oven on overnight, and Derek - whose pent-up emotions get the best of him - loses it, exposing secrets neither of them expected to be spilled, for two very different reasons. They get there in the end.

or; Spencer's suffered far too much abuse in his life and Derek knew about none of it. He shouldn't have found out like this.

Tags: est. rel., past abuse, arguing & making up, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, hurt spencer TW: implied/referenced - child abuse, abuse & csa. trauma response that could be perceived as dissociation. misplaced frustration at neurodivergence. nothing graphic but message me for more info if needed.

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 3.9k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

This fills the "Domestic Violence" square of my Bad Things Happen Bingo. It's a heavy one folks so please heed the tags, but fear not, as always we have a happy ending ahead of us! <3 Title by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Spencer knows it’s ridiculous. Derek will not hurt him: this much he knows for certain. Derek is safe, he is home, he is his person. Derek would die before laying a hand on him.

This objective knowledge does not stop the fear from building in his chest, fizzling through his veins until his whole body is alight with it, simmering under the surface of his cold skin as Derek shouts, his face contorted in anger. Spencer might know that Derek won’t hurt him, but that doesn’t mean he can forget what’s happened in the past when he’s put that same expression on crueller people’s faces.

“How could you be so irresponsible, Spencer?”

He doesn’t know. The sinking feeling of failure, of disappointing someone he loves so much settles deep in his stomach as he watches Derek pace up and down the living room while he stays firmly planted on the sofa, pressed as far into the corner as he can.

He didn’t mean to leave the oven on overnight. Again. It’s just that sometimes he gets so lost in his head, in the studies he reads just before bed that getting ready for bed happens on auto-pilot, and small things like turning the oven off slip through the cracks. Derek’s never got this angry over it before, but that’s probably because he’s never said “yes” when Derek’s sleepily asked him if he remembered to turn it off, not when he actually didn’t.

He answered on auto-pilot. He didn’t mean to lie, but that doesn’t seem to matter that much to Derek as he wears down the living room carpet with his pacing, visibly seething. He tracks him with his eyes. He can’t afford to not see the blow coming.

The blow isn’t coming, he tries to tell himself. It’s not all that convincing when Derek stops mid-pace, turning to look at him dead in the eye.

“We could’ve died, Spencer! Does that mean nothing to you?”

Spencer doesn’t reply. He wants to, he really does, but the words are stuck in his throat, choked by fear and confusion and emotion and regret, God why didn’t I turn off the oven, I should’ve been better, it’s all my fault—

“Do you seriously not have anything to say?”

Spencer stares. He has so much to say. All of it is trapped in his throat, tangled in a mess of please don’t leave me and please god don’t hit me.

“You know, I can’t deal with this right now,” Derek mutters, throwing his hands up in the air, “this is unbelievable.” Spencer watches as he shrugs a coat over his shoulders, pulls on his shoes, pauses only to grab his wallet and keys, and walks out the door without looking back.

The door slams behind him and Spencer jumps at the loud noise, jolting out of his fear-ridden stupor, wincing as he’s forced out of his head and thrust back into reality. It’s only ten past ten in the morning; a nice, sunny Saturday in late Spring, and maybe in a different universe, Spencer and Derek are packing a wicker basket with a picnic, heading off to their favourite park to feed each other strawberries and enjoy jam-filled sandwiches.

In this universe, though, Spencer drags his heavy bones to the bathroom, and peels off his clothes. He feels weighed down, tied to some point of gravity far below his feet as he avoids the mirror at all costs and lets his pajamas lay where they fall instead of gathering them into a ball and throwing them into the hamper like he usually does. He turns the water on and steps under the spray, allowing himself to revel in the warm rivulets of water caressing his cold skin.

Shampoo bottles stand untouched in the caddy to his left. He’s not there to get clean, he’s there to forget and to think all at the same time. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, leaning against the wall as the water cascades down his front, but not before he turns the heat up. It’s a small comfort: the water just on the right side of too hot running down his face and his torso and his legs, pooling at his feet momentarily before sliding down the drain, never to be seen by him again.

Today shouldn’t have started like this, and it’s a hard pill to swallow that if he hadn’t left the oven on, it wouldn’t have. Derek would have smiled when Spencer stepped into the kitchen, pulled him into his arms and kissed him gently before making them pancakes while Spencer sat on the counter-top and told him everything running through his head. Derek would listen, enthralled, whether to the sound of Spencer’s voice or the words he’s saying, and he wouldn’t shut him up, not even when they sat down to eat.

They’d finally get ready for the day late in the morning, they’d decide what they would do that day, and they’d make a point to steal as many kisses as they could; making up for the affection lost during long cases.

Spencer knows this because it’s happened so many times before. They may have only been dating for just over six months, but they already live together, having fallen hard and fast; Emily teases them for it, calls them her favourite lesbian couple, and they don’t care because they’re in love.

Despite that, though, Spencer still hasn’t told Derek.

There are nights he lies awake pondering how unfair that is. He’s held Derek as he sobbed over memories of Buford, as he spilled every awful detail of the abuse he endured; he’s comforted him after he’d tried and failed to bottom, falling into a flashback every time, no matter how much he wanted to try it.

But Spencer stays silent. He doesn’t tell him about his dad beating him, or his mom getting confused off her meds and smacking him, shoving him, even punching him that one time. He doesn’t tell him about Matthew, his first real boyfriend, trapping him in an abusive relationship that took him months to get the courage to leave. About how when a third person hurt him, he began to wonder whether it really was his fault. Whether that was the only kind of love Spencer Reid deserved.

He stays silent now, staring at the shower wall. The fear has left him now the threat has too, and a cold type of numbness replaces it, and even once the water runs cold, he doesn’t leave. He traces the same four tiles with his eyes, drawing the same pattern with his gaze over and over again as his thoughts turn to an endless cycle of he’ll leave me, he’ll stay, he’ll hit me, he won’t, until he’s not really sure what he believes.

Derek is a good man, but Spencer knows how he can be. He messes up, he forgets things, he doesn’t read situations right, he doesn’t behave the way people think he should, he doesn’t think like a neuro-typical person does. And a good man can only put up with that for so long.

The proof is in the pudding, after all. Derek has always been understanding of things like this in the past. He’s given him a hug and told him not to worry about it, that mistakes happen, and no one can be expected to remember small things like this all the time. But this morning, he was furious. Spencer’s not sure he’s ever seen him so angry in all his years of knowing him, and it was directed at him. All because of an oven left on.

Eventually, a sound from the upstairs apartment drags him from his head again, and he’s suddenly aware of the cold water, of the way his body is trembling and his fingers are pruning. He pulls himself out of the shower, turning the water off, but he stands in the middle of the bathroom, aimlessly, for a long time. By the time he finally has the sense to wrap a towel around his body, he’s basically dripped dry. His hair is soaking wet and the dripping water is freezing, but he doesn’t have the energy to find a towel for his head, too, so he leaves it.

He walks towards the bedroom and climbs into bed, pulling the fluffy duvet over his damp skin and laying his wet hair on the pillow. It feels awful, being wet and damp under the dry bedding, but he doesn’t have the energy to move, so he stays there, towel still wrapped around his legs, hair still soaking the pillow, and he stares at the wall.

He doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t know when Derek will come back home. If he ever will.

⭐️

Derek slams the door behind him as he storms out of the apartment, rage consuming his every move, his every thought. The force of it rattles the door frame, echoing down the empty corridor, but he can’t find it in him to care as he marches towards the elevator. The buttons are pressed with perhaps a little more aggression than socially acceptable, but the woman already on board takes one look at his face and has the sense to stay quiet.

He gets in his car and steps on the gas, the squeal of his tyres against the floor of the garage as he speeds out satisfying him more than it probably should. His jaw is locked and tight as he drives through the streets of DC, his thoughts going a million miles an hour, quieted only when he turns the radio up loud, a blasting soundtrack to his ferocious getaway.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he speeds down the highway, heading out of the city towards Baltimore. He doesn’t have a destination in mind: he’s just driving straight. Straight away from the apartment. Away from Spencer.

It’s after more than an hour of driving that his jaw finally loosens and the anger that had simmered in his blood so fiercely fades into reluctant rationality. He’s somewhere in the middle of Baltimore, and the traffic — the tangled road system he actually has to focus on — drags him from the absent headspace the highway had allowed him to slip into.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and turns off the road he’s on, onto a quieter one. As soon as he’s able to pull over, he does, and he hits the steering wheel angrily. “Fuck!” He leans forward, pulling off his sunglasses and burying his head in his hands. It’s not the same kind of anger he’d felt earlier, no. This time it’s directed purely at himself, fuelled by dismal regret.

Before he can stop it, his brain replays the fight with Spencer over and over, the wall he’d put up to block it out crumbling down as images of his boyfriend flood his mind. He hadn’t registered it in the moment, but looking back, God. There was something on Spencer’s face, something so broken, so scared and he feels nauseous at the realisation that he put that there.

Over something as fucking stupid as an oven.

Truthfully, he wasn’t really angry at Spencer. Waking up to see the oven left on again, even after Spencer promised he’d turned it off, was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

He’d fought with both his mom and Penelope yesterday, and he went to bed feeling like an utter failure, made even worse when Spencer had declined to join him, deciding instead to keep reading the series of papers he’d started earlier that evening. He woke up in a foul mood, and not even the sight of his peacefully sleeping boyfriend could make him feel better.

It’s his own fault. He should have communicated with Spencer: he should’ve told him about letting his mom down and saying the worst thing he possibly could have in his conversation with Penelope, but he didn’t. He silently stewed, and felt irrationally angry that Spencer wasn’t reading his mind. He knows for an absolute fact that if he’d asked Spencer to join him in bed last night, he would’ve dropped his studies immediately, and cuddled him until he felt better.

But he didn’t. And then he’d screamed at Spencer, in a way he never has before, over something he simply forgot to do. Derek swore to himself that he would never shout at or put Spencer down for his neurodivergent traits. Not in the way he’s seen so many people — regrettably, far too many of them on their own team — do before.

He’s always been understanding in the past, kissed Spencer’s hair and promised that it wasn’t a big deal, and he has always meant it. Because as dramatic as he’d been this morning, leaving the oven on wasn’t really the end of the world. He remembers ranting about the electricity bill, about how they were going to afford the house they were going to buy if he kept this up, about lying to him — even though he knew that was clearly an auto-pilot thing — about how dangerous it was. It’s a fan oven. They were never really in any danger.

What a god-awful way to let off the steam he’d built up and chosen not to let go.

As if he’s not already feeling shitty enough, though, his mind won’t stop circling back to the fear on Spencer’s face. The way he shouted back, but instead crammed himself into the corner of the sofa, never taking his eyes off him as he paced angrily back and forth.

He feels sick.

He digs his phone from the pocket in his sweatpants. He’s still in the clothes he sleepily pulled on in the dark this morning, and he hadn’t thought to bring his phone out with him, but luckily he’d picked it up off the kitchen counter that morning.

He clicks on Spencer’s name, listens to it ringing out as he desperately begs him to pick up. “Come on, baby, please,” he whispers, ignoring the tears burning behind his eyes. “Pick up, please.” He tries three more times before throwing it angrily on the seat next to him, allowing one more second of feeling the blind panic and the fury at himself before forcing himself to calm down.

Reaching over to his phone with one hand to turn the ringer up, he turns the ignition on and pulls back onto the road, heading back towards DC.

The traffic infuriates him, cursing as it takes thirty minutes to get back on the highway, but finally he’s back on the open road. It takes everything in him not to speed past the other cars, knowing that getting pulled over would only slow him down in the long run. He doesn’t turn the radio on. He just replays the fight again and again, each time remembering something new: something he said or something Spencer did.

He doesn’t wipe the tears away as they fall, lets them slide uncomfortably down his neck, under his collar, lets them drip into his lap, lets his nose run. It’s the only punishment he can afford himself right now.

Finally, finally, he pulls into their apartment building’s garage, finding their spot and parking roughly, abandoning the car as quickly as possible in favour of sprinting towards the elevator. He curses at the slow moving carriage, but it eventually spits him out on his floor, and he’s walking down the very corridor he stormed down just a few hours prior.

He pushes open the door to their apartment, closing it behind him softly. Suddenly, the nausea swimming in his gut isn’t just borne from regret, now fuelled by nerves and dreaded anticipation.

“Spence?” he calls softly.

He doesn’t know what to expect: he doesn’t know whether Spencer will be sad or angry, whether he’ll be screaming or crying. The kitchen and living room are empty, and the bathroom door is wide open, so he ventures into their bedroom.

Whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this.

Spencer’s tucked up in bed, duvet pulled up to his neck, facing away from the door. He doesn’t move so Derek thinks he might be sleeping, but when he circles the bed to check, he finds his eyes wide open, staring vacantly at a fixed point on the wall. They don’t flicker or blink or move when he steps into his field of vision, and Derek’s heart sinks, panic beginning to grip his chest.

“Spencer? Baby?”

When he still doesn’t move, Derek crawls onto the bed, and the movement or the sound or something must finally catch his attention, because all of a sudden his eyes are widening — in shock, surprise, fear, Derek doesn’t know — and he’s shifting under the covers.

“You’re back,” he says, and it’s so uneasy that Derek wants to cry.

“Yeah, baby, I’m back,” he says gently, “and I’m so sorry about earlier, I—”

He cuts himself off, because when he reaches to tangle his fingers in Spencer’s damp hair, he flinches. His hand freezes, but his stomach twists, because this is the confirmation he was both expecting and dreading. This is the confirmation of everything he prayed he had wrong, everything he wished he’d misinterpreted the whole drive home.

“Spence,” he whispers brokenly, withdrawing his hand, “I would never— never do… I’d never hurt you, God, I—”

A choked sob cuts him off this time, and another follows when he sees a tear sliding down Spencer’s face. A previously blank, emotionless canvas, his face is now full of sadness, tinged with the fear and guilt Derek hates himself for even suggesting was warranted in the first place.

“Derek,” he says softly, and his voice is so mangled with emotions he couldn’t even begin to decipher, it breaks his heart a little. He doesn’t say anything more though, eyes sliding shut instead as tears continue to stream down his face.

“What do you need, baby?” he asks, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Anything, I— anything you need, you can have, Spence, I’d give you the world, you know that.”

Spencer’s quiet for a long time, and Derek sits there on the bed anxiously awaiting a response while trying to summon all the patience he doesn’t have as he stares at Spencer’s crying face.

“A hug,” he decides eventually, and Derek almost collapses in relief because, God, he can do that.

He crosses the small space between them, and carefully folds Spencer into a hug, sighing in relief as he melts into Derek’s side, placing his head on his chest and cuddling into him. Their legs tangle together and Derek holds him as gently and as closely as he can, carding his fingers through Spencer’s damp curls while his other hand rests on his waist, his thumb caressing the bare skin there.

He’s still in his towel, he thinks sadly. He didn’t have the energy to properly dry himself before crawling into bed. As if Derek could possibly feel shittier.

They lay like that quietly for a while before Spencer finally speaks. Derek wishes he hadn’t. The words “I’m sorry”, uttered so brokenly, so miserably, have no business leaving Spencer’s mouth.

“Baby, you have nothing to apologise for,” he says fiercely. “This is all on me. I’m sorry. Sorrier than I’ve ever been, Spencer, because this is completely my fault. I wasn’t actually angry at you, that’s the first thing you need to know, and I know that makes what I did so shitty, because you hadn’t even done anything wrong, but I was so pent up and frustrated with myself and I didn’t communicate that with you and— fuck, I’m doing such a bad job of explaining, I just. I need you to know, Spencer, that I’m not angry, okay? And I’m so sorry for losing it like I did, that never should have happened.”

He pauses and takes a breath in, burying his face in Spencer’s hair as he holds him even tighter, trying to keep his grip as gentle as possible.

“I never told you,” Spencer whispers after a couple beats pass.

Derek’s heart seizes tightly and he swallows. Prepares himself. “Never told me what, sweetheart?”

“My dad, he… he wasn’t a good man and he… you know, he hurt me a lot. And then my mom, when he left and she stopped taking her meds completely, she’d get so confused,” Spencer admits, voice so quiet as he murmurs into Derek’s chest that he has to strain to hear him. “She didn’t mean to, but she’d… And then my last boyfriend, he—”

He cuts himself off as a heaving sob that seems to come out of nowhere strangles his words and it’s all Derek can do to hold him tightly as Spencer cries, whispering every reassurance he can think of through his own tears. It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks. I shouldn’t know this just because of an argument we had; just because I lost control. Spencer should’ve been able to tell me on his own terms, in his own time.

He tries to cry as silently as possible, but it’s not easy when the grief of knowing the pain Spencer’s suffered in his life is weighing heavy on his chest, and the acidic taste of guilt abounds.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Spencer’s hair. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He’s sorry for so many things he’s not sure he could list them all out, neatly and coherently, if he tried.

Spencer fists his hands in the soft cotton of Derek’s t-shirt. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

Derek balks at the guilt in his tone, as if he actually believes he has anything to apologise for. “Baby, you could’ve waited until we were old and grey to tell me and I wouldn’t be mad, okay? Trauma like this… it comes out in it’s own way in it’s own time. I’m not sure how or when I would’ve told you about Buford if everyone hadn’t found out the way they did. And if I’d waited to tell you, you wouldn’t be mad at me, would you?”

Spencer shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry that I triggered you the way I did, Spencer,” Derek says seriously, gently twirling a loose curl around his fingers. “It was inexcusable, and it was a problem of my own making. I know you didn’t mean to leave the oven on and I know you were operating on auto-pilot when you told me you turned it off last night, and nothing I said was true. I was mad about stuff that happened yesterday and I failed to communicate that. It’s all on me. Nothing about this is your fault, you hear me?”

“Really?”

The way Spencer cranes his neck to look up at him, the trusting innocence in his eyes both breaking and warming Derek’s heart. “Really.”

“I want to tell you, Der, it’s just—” He sighs. “I’ve never talked about it with anyone, and it’s hard. I don’t… I don’t know where to start.”

“We have all the time in the world for you to tell me, baby. You can tell me everything all at once, or drop tiny pieces of information when you feel like it, or never tell me anything else ever again, and any of that is perfectly okay. I just need you to know that what happened this morning will never happen again, okay? I promise you.”

Spencer shifts, moving from his position curled around Derek to prop himself up with one arm, facing his boyfriend properly. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, before leaning down to kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby. More than anything.” He kisses him again before moving the duvet and making to get up. “Now, how about I order us some pizza for lunch and we spend the afternoon in bed. You can read or we can watch some documentaries or a movie, whatever you want.”

A small smile crosses Spencer’s face, and nothing’s ever felt more like a win.

“I think that sounds like a plan.”

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @moreidtrash @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @enbyspencer @im-autistic @thataveragenerd @anxious-enby

[mandoalorian]

Happiness [Maxwell Lorenzano x f!Reader]

Author’s note: Please heed warnings before you read. This is angst. There’s a little fluff and a few spicy moments, but at its core, this is a pretty angsty read. It’s a different interpretation of Maxwell, post WW84. Reblogs are so appreciated. I worked really hard on this and it’s not showing up in tags so if you could reblog it... it would literally mean the world to me :( <3

Summary: After the dreamstone debacle, Maxwell Lord loses custody of his son, his home, his job and all his wealth. He has nothing, and what was once the simple task of ‘living’, is suddenly proving to be extremely difficult. Until a beacon of light enters his life. He can only hope that you don’t find out who he really is.

Word count: 4000+

Rating: 18+

Warnings: depression/suicidal thoughts, PSTD/trauma implications, poverty, starvation, binge eating, allusions to sex, male masturbation, food and drink mention.

Masterlist

Max is usually pretty good at keeping himself to himself, but when he hears the commotion from outside his small shanty apartment, he cautiously stalks towards the front door and leans into the wood, gazing out the peephole. He spots you, struggling to unlock the door located on the far side of the hall. Your arms are filled with brown paper bags and an abundance of cardboard boxes circle around your feet. He hears you curse as you drop one of the paper bags. It rips, and groceries spill onto the floor with a clatter. He swallows thickly, feeling his tummy grumble at the sight of fresh fruit and colourful veg. Max hadn’t eaten a single meal this week.

He spends a few more seconds watching you struggle, before the guilt swarms over him and he feels like a creep. He does wonder if he should leave his apartment and help you out though, but eventually he decides on turning his heel and walks back to the torn leather sofa. He just knows he’ll be some kind of intrusion on you. If Max has learned one thing, it’s that he needs to stay away from other people. Otherwise, he’d just hurt them. Even if hurting them was the last thing he intended to do.

Still, he finds himself marvelling over you. He wants to go over and introduce himself. He thinks you’re absolutely stunning. Maybe it’s just because he hasn’t seen a woman (other than his ex-wife) in just short of a year, or maybe it’s something more genuine -- like the way you wear your hair or that glimmer in your eye. Once upon a time, Maxwell would’ve strolled on over to your apartment with the utmost confidence and charm, with the sole intention of winning you over and taking you back to his place. He wouldn’t dare do that now.

He stares at the wall clock, and watches as the minute leg ticks. It’s painfully slow. It’s 5:52pm, and Maxwell is just waiting until 6pm, because he knows at 6pm he can call his son, Alistair. If he tries calling a second earlier though, he is certain his ex-wife will throw a rage, claiming that he’s breaking court order. Maxwell had never been one to follow rules, but now, he didn’t have much of a choice. As he waits for the leg to strike 6, all he can really do is think about you. Truth be told, he hates that he’s thinking about you this much. He doesn't even know you.

But you’re so pretty. Your features are soft and delicate. Your clothes fit you perfectly and hug your body in all the right places. He can’t help but think what you sound like. He wonders if you’re from around here. He wonders why you moved into this particular neighbourhood, out of all the other neighbourhoods in rural D.C. He should go over and say hello at least. It would be the polite thing to do. He considers bringing over a bottle of wine to make a peace offering, but then he remembers all he has in his refrigerator is a stick of butter and a bottle of milk that has grown old and fermented. He assumes that you probably wouldn’t care for such housewarming gifts.

Maxwell calls Alistair as soon as the clock turns six. As always, Alistair is more than excited to speak to his dad, beaming brightly down the line. Alistair tells Maxwell about his step-father, and how he’d built a pool in their back garden for Ali and his mom. Max’s lips curl into a frown when he realises that his ex’s new husband is giving Alistair everything Max couldn’t. And once again, Maxwell feels like he has failed as a father.

For a short while, Alistair babbles about his day at school and how he got full marks on a pop quiz. Maxwell is as proud as punch. He has no doubt that success will one day find Alistair, he just hopes Alistair has an easier time handling it. Max can hear a faint yelling in the background of the phone call and eventually Alistair is interrupted.

“Oh-- mommy is calling me to eat dinner.” Alistair says softly, his voice suddenly growing oddly timid. Max’s stomach grumbles again at the mention of dinner.

“But we still have ten minutes left of our phone call.” Max replies matter-of-factly. He hopes Alistair can’t hear the disappointment in his voice. This isn’t his fault. He hears his ex yell again and Max can’t help but feel his face harden with disdain.

“I know, I’m sorry daddy, but I have to go.” The croak in Alistair’s voice is enough to break Maxwell’s heart. He wishes this could’ve been different. It should’ve been different.

Max knows he can’t argue though. It’s only futile. So he accepts the fact that Alistair has to leave the phone call early -- at least he was getting something to eat. Maxwell remembers when he was Alistair’s age. His mom always struggled to put food on the table because his dad would spend all the money on drinks at the local bar. Maxwell is just grateful his son isn’t starving.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Maxwell reassures before taking a shaky exhale. “I love y--”

But then, the line went dead. Max assumes that Alistair’s mom has ripped the phone from his hand and hung up. Sighing, Maxwell forces himself to stand up and walk on over to his bedroom. The bed is unmade and there are several piles of dirty laundry all over the floor. He jams open the sticky window and climbs onto the balcony, inhaling the cool evening air and lighting a cigarette. Smoking was a habit he’d gotten himself into when he was much younger, but he’d grown out of it when he’d hit limelight. Now though, it was growing back in to be a shameful addiction that he just couldn’t shake. It helped him stop feeling hunger, though.

As he flicks the orange lit ash over the edge of the balcony, his eyes catch on you again. You are standing on the street, talking to some guy. You’re laughing, and it looks like this mystery man’s hand is caressing your arm. It’s probably your boyfriend; Maxwell assumes, and the pang of jealousy in his chest turns into unadulterated sadness as he realises he was probably never going to find love again. He peers over the edge of the balcony once more as he takes a final drag of the cigarette, and he wonders if the jump would kill him.

Maxwell’s eyes begin to sting, and he climbs back into his bedroom, knocking his head on the window pane in the process.

He can’t sleep that night, and he tosses and turns in his three quarter sized bed. He could feel every spring in his mattress. What he would give to just sleep one more night in the soft, plush king sized bed he used to take for granted. He switched on his amber tinged bedside lamp and swatted away a moth that flew towards it. Maxwell stared at the ceiling and wondered if the damp had gotten worse. Even if it had, it wasn’t like Max had the courage to bring it up with the landlord.

He finds himself thinking about you again. He lived to see the way you smiled when you spoke to that guy, or the way your hair blew ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Max wraps his hand around his semi-hard cock and begins to jerk himself off. To nobody’s surprise though, he doesn’t finish -- the overwhelming feeling of revolt consuming him. He thinks he’s disgusting, and that nobody would ever want to touch him. He can’t even stand touching himself.

He falls asleep not long after that.

Max once had a pretty decent sleep schedule, going to bed at 10 and waking up at 6. But now he was up until the early hours of the morning, overthinking and hating himself. He wakes up three or four times a night from the same recurring nightmare. It’s a replay from the clear night of July ‘84, when he took over everyone’s TV screens. His doctor prescribed him therapy for it, which would probably help, but Maxwell just can’t afford it.

He wakes up to the sound of a bang on his front door. Max scrambles to his feet in a panic, checking the time on his alarm clock. It’s 2pm. And the person at the door could easily be his landlord, finally having enough and kicking him out. Max’s rent is two months overdue.

But it’s not his unforgiving landlord. It’s you. And you’re holding a fruit basket.

“Hey neighbour!” you smile pleasantly before introducing yourself to him. “I just moved in across the hall. I wasn’t sure what you’d like… but I figured everyone likes fruit!”

Maxwell stays quiet, standing there in complete disbelief. No one has shown him this amount of kindness in so long…

The prolonged silence makes you feel a little strange. He still hasn’t accepted the fruit basket, nor had he said anything. He was just… staring at you. It wasn’t a slimy gawk. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what his dark eyes were trying to tell you.

“—I’m sorry,” you continue eventually when he doesn’t speak, dropping the fruit basket by your side and turning away. “I uh— would you like me to get you something else?”

Maxwell’s eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “No!” he exclaims, opening his front door wider and taking the fruit basket from you. “I’m sorry,” he apologises. “I uh— I love fruit.”

You smile at his fluster, and you swear you notice a rosy pink blush cross his cheeks. It’s adorable.

“Oh okay, that’s good then.”

Maxwell prays you can’t hear his stomach grumble at the sight of the fresh fruit. He’s so excited to eat it all. “How can I repay you?”

You raise your eyebrows at his proposition and chuckle awkwardly. “Repay me? No no,” you laugh. “It’s just a fruit basket,”

It wasn’t just a fruit basket though. It was the only food Max had.

“I mean, you could tell me your name.”

Maxwell curses, realising he hasn’t even introduced himself. Gods— he wonders when exactly he’d lost his charm.

“Right, I’m sorry. I’m Max.” He extends his arm and offers you a handshake. You giggle, but accept.

He feels a bolt of electricity run up his arm when your fingers interlink with his, and he wonders if you can feel it too.

“Very formal Max,” you acknowledge with a smile.

Maxwell genuinely hasn’t communicated with anyone since July 1984. It’s probably about time he ditches the businessman persona, although he doesn’t realise he still uses it from time to time. Old habits die hard.

“I must say, I feel like I recognise you from somewhere.”

“No. You don’t.” Maxwell quickly snaps back and you’re afraid you struck a nerve.

There’s a longer silence and you find yourself wondering about your neighbour. He’s right in front of you and yet you can’t help but feel as though he’s some kind of enigma. Maybe it’s the crinkles in the corner of his eyes or his wry smile.

“Um…” you mumble, your gaze trailing behind him as you try and peer into his apartment. You can’t see much though. From where you stand it looks very empty… and brown. “If you weren’t busy tonight maybe you could come over and we could get to know each other. I uh-- don’t have many friends yet.” you explain shyly, nervously biting your lip.

You didn’t usually get nervous talking to new people, but there was just something about Maxwell that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His presence made butterflies flutter in your tummy and your hands feel clammy with excitement… or maybe anticipation. He stares at you blankly before clearing his throat.

“I uh-- yeah I mean-- maybe,” Maxwell shrugs cooly. “If I’m not busy.”

Pft, busy. Max hasn’t been busy since the dreamstone debacle.

“Of course,” you nod your head and smile. “Well, you’re welcome to come on over anytime.”

And then, without thinking, Maxwell replies. “And you’re welcome to come over here anytime too.”

You feel your smile grow into a grin and you reach out, placing your hand on Max’s arm. “Okay, well, it was nice meeting you.” you bite your lip.

Max’s heart stops when you touch him, and for the first time, he doesn’t flinch away. You’re holding his bicep and… he likes it. It’s not sending him into a spur of anxiety, in fact, he feels better just for finally plucking the courage to talk to you. And now you’re touching him. You’re not repulsed or disgusted… in fact, you’re smiling. You look happy, and maybe Max is happy too. Maybe. Max doesn’t even realise the small smile that’s crept upon his lips.

“Nice meeting you too.” He swallows and you wave goodbye.

He watches you walk back into your apartment, drinking in your appearance. You were wearing jeans and a sweatshirt today. It was casual… but he liked it.

Even when he finally gets back into his apartment and slumps against his front door, he’s still smiling. This feeling is so unfamiliar.

Maxwell finds himself pondering whether or not he should visit you tonight. He so desperately wanted to see you again-- see your pretty face and sparkling eyes and that perfect smile. Maybe Max could have a friend. That would be nice.

But he quickly gets scared again. He knows immediately that you’re too good for him, and that he’ll only end up hurting you. And then he’ll be left alone again. Max doesn’t know if he can survive another heartbreak.

Once again, he lights a cigarette and sits on the balcony, and wonders if the jump will kill him.

Then he realises he suddenly doesn’t want to die. At least, not yet. He wants to see you again first.

Max doesn’t even bother finishing the cigarette. He taps away the ash and climbs back inside, stripping himself of his clothes and turning on the shower. If he was going to see you tonight, he’d at least make the effort.

The soap he uses is from Dollar Tree, and it doesn’t really have a scent. It made a change from his favourite Jo Malone pomegranate fragranced soap, that’s for sure. He gets annoyed trying to squirt out the very little remenints of his shampoo bottle. Although he doesn’t have much, he’s satisfied when he comes out of the shower. He feels clean and fresh.

Maxwell rakes through his tiny collapsing wardrobe, trying to find an outfit that will make him appear somewhat presentable. He’s probably overthinking this whole thing -- after all, it isn’t exactly a date. But he still feels the strong inclination to impress you. He so desperately wants to be liked by you.

Most of his everyday wear is stained or ripped or very aged. But then he spots the small duffel bag at the bottom of his closet and he remembers he packed some of his old business wear when he moved out of his manor and into this apartment. He hadn’t looked in the duffel bag once since moving though, afraid that seeing the clothes would unleash some kind of trauma on him.

Max crosses his legs and hesitantly unzips the black bag. Inside, he finds a few fitted shirts, a few tailored pants, and one suit jacket. He even spots a belt and two patterned ties. He’s a little upset though when he can’t find the suspenders he used to wear. They were always his favourite part of his outfit.

Maxwell can’t bring himself to dress in the whole get up, but he does pick out a white button down shirt and grey pants. He tucks the shirt in, and wraps the belt through the loops in his pants, clicking it into place. Opting to look slightly more casual, Max leaves the first two buttons of his shirt undone and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows.

And for the first time in a long time, Max likes the way he looks. He wishes he had some cologne to spray, and he could definitely do with a haircut, but this is good enough.

He doesn’t want to seem desperate, so he does wait (albeit impatiently) until 8:30pm to see you. In the meantime, he eats over half of the fruit basket. He tells himself he’ll stop after an apple and an orange, but strangely enough. He can’t. He can’t stop. It just tastes so good and he’s so hungry -- so he eats until he feels sick. He wants to lie down because he really doesn’t feel too good at all, but he’s not going to pass up this opportunity to see you for anything. He feels a little cold, so he throws on his suit jacket which is grey in colour and matches the tailored pants. Max chokes down a glass of water, straightens up his posture, and knocks on your door.

He’s not waiting for long, and he’s delighted when he sees you answer the door. Your lips are painted a ruby red colour and you’re wearing your hair differently. Not only that, but you’d changed out of your sweater and jeans, and now you’re doting a knee length flowy dress. Your feet are slipped into some fuzzy looking slippers though, and Max admires the small diamond stud earrings that you don. They really bring out the colour of your eyes.

“I was hoping you’d come.” you reveal nervously, opening the door wider and looking your neighbour up and down. He looks so incredibly handsome in his change of outfit. Max feels himself blush under your gaze and he smiles.

“I just couldn’t pass this up.” he laughs nervously.

You move out the way and gesture for him to enter your apartment. Max notes that it’s roughly the same size as his, but it’s already filled with more furniture. Judging from the plentiful cardboard boxes in every corner, you hadn’t finished unpacking either. You find yourself watching Max as he takes in your front room. You take his jacket and hang it on your coat peg which stands by your front door. You definitely do recognise him from somewhere, especially seeing him in that shirt and those pants…

You shrug off your curiosity temporarily though, and take his hand, pulling him into your kitchen. Max loves the way your hand fits so perfectly into his. He doesn’t want you to pull away. And you don’t, until you reach the refrigerator.

“I have cranberry juice, tea, coffee-- no milk though, uh…” you trail off and check the cupboards. You beam when you see the bottle of champagne that your friend had gifted you. It was to celebrate moving out. You present him with it and grin. “Would you care to have a glass with me?”

Max remembers the distinct taste of the bubbles on his lips and he nods in agreement. You don’t have any fancy glasses, let alone flutes, so you pour the pale yellow liquid into two plastic tumblers. You hand one to Max and cradle your own in both of your hands.

“You should propose a toast.” you laugh jokingly.

Luckily, Maxwell has always been able to handle being put on the spot. He only takes a few seconds to come up with something.

“To new friends.” he announces with a charming smile, and clinks his cup against yours.

Max hasn’t had a drink in a long time, so it doesn’t take long for it to reside in his system and he begins to feel a bit tipsy. It’s not bad though. Maxwell is relaxed, and he’s comfortable. You bounce off each other and make each other laugh right up until the early hours of the morning. You bring out Monopoly and you’re surprised at how good he is at it. He gives you advice on buying properties and investments and it truly sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. You wonder what he does for a living.

“I didn’t say this earlier,” Max says as you pour out the last of the champagne. The alcohol has him buzzing with confidence. “But you look breathtaking, really. That dress and those earrings and your lips…”

And you don’t know what it is, but Max just makes you feel so good. “My lips?” you repeat breathlessly, gazing into his honeyed brown eyes.

Max nods wordlessly when you climb into his lap and straddle his hips. You place the palms of your hands flat against his chest and nudge your nose against his, giggling playfully. Max feels scared -- he’d never been this close to anyone in so long, let alone a beautiful woman like yourself.

Gods, he’s so handsome too. A small piece of his hair has fallen out of place and it crosses his forehead. You’re quick to brush it out of his face with your finger, and one of your hands cup his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into the warmth of your touch, humming in contentment. When he opens his eyes again, they’re noticeably shades darker.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice low like it had dropped a few octaves.

You nod desperately and your lips crash against his.

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the adrenaline but he’s an amazing kisser -- perhaps the best you’ve ever had. You roll your hips over his lap and he moans, but doesn’t break the kiss once. His large hands roam around your back and squeeze at the soft flesh of your thighs. The Monopoly game has been long discarded now, leaving only you and Max revelling in each other’s touch.

You want more. You want him. You dip your hand in between your bodies and find his belt, trying your best to undo the buckle so you can get him out of his pants. You’re certain you can feel his erection pressing against the inside of your thigh, and you’d be right in thinking he wants this too.

But what he wants the most, is to not ruin things between you both, and Max feels like that maybe this is all happening a bit too fast. He doesn’t want to reject you, and he’s afraid of hurting you, but he’s also afraid of you getting so close to him -- that you find out who he truly is, and the things he does. He doesn’t want to lose you because you make him feel so happy. For the first time in potentially years, Maxwell feels genuine happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up, not when he’s been doing so well.

So he pulls away from you breathlessly and moves your hands away from him. He holds them though, brushing his thumbs in comforting circles against your soft skin.

“I really like you,” he smiles. “And tonight has been… great. You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed myself. But I-- I really want to see you again. And do this again. And have a good time with you. I just don’t think we should-- you know--” Maxwell tries to explain. He feels bad for rejecting you. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Because trust me,” he sighs, closing his brown eyes. “I really really do. But--”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” you smile, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “I understand, and honestly, I think you’re probably right. I’ve had a good time too though.”

Maxwell can’t help but beam knowing that there’s no hard feelings between you both.

“So we can do this again?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes.” you reply, pressing a chaste yet sweet kiss to his lips.

You wiggle off his lap and Maxwell stands up. “I should head back home then,” he says. “It’s late. But maybe we can do something tomorrow?”

“I’d like that a lot.” you agree.

Max gives you one final kiss and part of you wants to ask him if he’d be willing to stay the night. You shake away the temptation and tell yourself there’d be plenty more opportunities for him to stay over. Before he leaves, you see him abruptly spin around on his heel and point his index finger towards you.

And your heart drops.

You freeze.

You think you can feel your blood run cold and the colour drain out of your face.

Because in that moment, when he points his finger at you, you recognise him.

You remember him.

You know who he is.

“I almost forgot my jacket.” Max laughs, sliding past you.

You feel like you can’t move though.

This was the man who single handedly almost destroyed the entire planet.

But how -- how could it be Maxwell Lord? He was so sweet and kind and funny. How could the man you just made out with, the man you shared a bottle of champagne with -- your own neighbour…

How could it be Maxwell Lord?

How hadn’t you noticed sooner. Hell, his name was literally Max Lorenzano.

“Goodnight.” Max tells you.

You try and force yourself to say it back but no words come out. Your throat feels dry and you’re panicking.

Max doesn’t even notice though. He’s too busy beaming with happiness when he leaves.

You aren’t sure if you’re going to see him again.

When Maxwell gets back home, he can’t rid himself of the grin that’s plastered across his lips. He sits out on the balcony and lights a cigarette, but this time, when he looks at the ground beneath you, he doesn’t wonder if the jump will kill him.

His eyebrows furrow together when he notices the florist across the road, and he wonders how much a bouquet of flowers will cost him. He wants to get you something; as a thank you for giving him a good time.

He simply can’t wait to see you again.

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[kingandfireheart]

YOUR MATING BOND IS SHOWING: Some underrated Nessian scenes pre-ACOFAS

alternatively titled: how did no one in the Inner Circle accidentally tell Nesta?

I didn't include the big moments (the Cauldron, the Bone Carver, Next Time, Emissary, I'll Come Say Hello, CASSIAN, and Hybern) because they are longer scenes, but these are some small and medium sized moments.

When Cassian can't stop staring at Human Nesta:

Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

...

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely.

Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.

...

Rhys gave me a warning look. I gripped Nesta’s arm, drawing her attention to me. “Can we just … start over?”

I could almost taste her pride roiling in her veins, barking to not back down.

Cassian, damn him, gave her a taunting grin.

But Nesta merely hissed, “Fine.” And went back to eating.

Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.

...

“That’s very beautiful,” she said. “Is it not—frightening, though? To fly so high?”

“It is sometimes,” Azriel said. Cassian tore his relentless attention from Nesta long enough to nod his agreement.

When Nesta gives Cassian the finger:

He’d given Nesta a mocking bow, and she’d given him a vulgar gesture I hadn’t realized she knew how to make.

Cassian had merely laughed, his eyes snaking over Nesta’s ice-blue gown with a predatory intent that, given her hiss of rage, he knew would set her spitting. Then he was gone, leaving my sister on the broad doorstep, her brown-gold hair ruffled by the chill wind stirred by his mighty wings.

When Cassian comes back from Wings & Embers:

I assumed seeing Nesta went about as poorly as could be imagined, because my lesson the following morning was longer and harder than it’d been in previous days. I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans (ACOMAF version)

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.

When Feyre notices the mating bond:

When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well.

I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister.

The sorrow. And the longing.

When Cassian tells Nesta exactly what is going to happen to Briallyn:

“You come between a male and his mate, Nesta Archeron, and you’re going to learn about the consequences the hard way.”

When Cassian speaks of his own intentions:

I blew out a breath. “Who else thinks it’s a terrible idea to leave the three of them up at the House of Wind?”

Cassian raised his hand as Rhys and Mor chuckled. The High Lord’s general said, “I give him an hour before he tries to see her.”

...

Cassian’s hazel eyes shuttered as he crossed a booted ankle over another, stretching his muscled legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Those wings shifted in emphasis. Not a scratch marred them.

When Cassian wants revenge:

Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

His Siphons flickered in answer.

Rhys said casually, “I’m sure the king will thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

Cassian glowered. “I mean it.”

When Cassian realizes how beautiful his mate is:

Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

When Cassian got out of an uncomfortable situation:

Mor blinked, but confided to me with a wince, “I think we’re going to need a lot more wine.”

Nesta’s spine stiffened. But she said nothing.

“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered, disappearing through the inner hall doors too quickly to be casual.

Nesta stiffened a bit more.

When Nesta wants revenge

“Were they made immortal?” This question went to Azriel.

Azriel’s Siphons smoldered. “Reports have been murky and inconsistent. Some say yes, others say no.”

Nesta examined her wineglass.

Cassian braced his forearms on the table. “Why?”

Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room. “By the end of this war, I want them dead. The king, the queens—all of them. Promise me you’ll kill them all, and I’ll help you patch up the wall. I’ll train with her”—a jerk of her chin to Amren—“I’ll go to the Hewn City or whatever it is … I’ll do it. But only if you promise me that.”

When Cassian is mad at Feyre and lies:

I studied him, the wings tucked in tight, the shoulder-length dark hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring.

“Is it Nesta?”

“Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

I kept my mouth shut on that front.

When Nesta shows up to training:

Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes.

I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there.

“Care to join?” Cassian purred.

Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

I looked over my shoulder. My sister was in a dress of pale blue that turned her skin golden, her hair swept up, her back a stiff column. I scrambled to say something, to apologize, but … not in front of him. She wouldn’t want this conversation in front of Cassian.

Cassian extended a wrapped hand, his fingers curling in a come-hither motion. “Scared?”

I wisely kept my mouth shut as Nesta stepped from the open doorway into the blinding light of the courtyard. “Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

...

Cassian was saying to Nesta, “Seems like you’re a little on edge, Nesta. And you left so abruptly last night … Any way I can help ease that tension?”

When Cassian has manners: (and realizes his mate may never fly)

Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”

“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”

Nesta vomited again—then silence.

Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”

The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.

When Cassian helps her calm down:

There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.

Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.

She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.

Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.

“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”

Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.

He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”

She blinked slowly.

But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.

When he calls her "Nes" for the first time:

Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

---

Cassian finished the muffin, licking his fingers. I could have sworn Nesta watched the entire thing with a sidelong glance. He grinned at her as if he knew it, too. “Ready for some flying, Nes?”

“Don’t call me that.”

The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.

When she flies with him for the first time:

My sister’s face was wind-flushed as Cassian gently set her down. Then she strode for the glass doors without a single look back.

“You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.

When he rescues her and can't hide his disappointment the she didn't hug him:

He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching— She gripped his leathers instead.

...

Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.

When Nesta is recovering from the library attack and he's an attentive mate:

Nesta looked like she was going to be sick. Cassian wordlessly refilled her glass.

When he's protective and we find out about their height difference

Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order.

Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

...

Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.

When Cassian still isn't back from Adriata:

Nesta was waiting at the breakfast table the next morning. Not for me, I realized as her gaze slipped over me as if I were no more than a servant. But for someone else. I kept my mouth shut, not bothering to tell her Cassian was still up at the war-camps. If she wouldn’t ask … I wasn’t getting in the middle of it.

When Cassian is proud of Nesta:

“I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. “It was some distant thing,” she said. “War. Battle. It … it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means … telling them what happened.”

When Nesta defends Cassian for the first time:

Beron only sneered. “I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.”

...

“That bastard,” Nesta said with utter coolness, though her eyes began to burn, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.”

She didn’t so much as look at Cassian as she said it. But he stared at her—as if he’d never seen her before.

When Feyre dismissed Nesta but Cassian doesn't:

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.”

He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.

But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.”

I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

When the Cauldron made Nesta barf and Cassian is an attentive mate

“What’s wrong?” Mor demanded, holding my sister upright as her face contorted in what looked to be—pain. Confusion and pain.

Sweat beaded on Nesta’s brow, though her face went deathly pale. “Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.

“Nesta,” I said, reaching for her.

Nesta seized—then twisted past Cassian to empty her stomach into the reflection pool.

When he touches her forehead:

Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

He wouldn’t be coming—no, he’d be mustering the full might of the Illyrian legions. Azriel would be joining us, though.

Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …” My sister said nothing as Cassian showed her the sensitive areas on a man. Not just the groin, but the inside of the foot, pinching the thigh, using her elbow like a weapon. When he finished, he stepped back, his hazel eyes churning with some emotion I couldn’t place.

When Nesta watches Cassian in Battle:

Only Nesta strode toward the edge of the tents to watch the battle on the valley floor below. Mor joined her, then me.

Nesta did not flinch at the clash and din of battle. She only stared toward one black-armored figure, leading the lines, his occasional order to push or to hold that flank barking across the battle

...

Cassian was trying. Azriel had lunged into the fray, nothing more than shadows edged in blue light, battling his way toward where Cassian fought, utterly surrounded.

“Mother above,” Nesta said softly. Not in awe. No—no, that was dread in her voice.

...

By the time I strode away, Nesta had already faced the battle once more, rain plastering her hair to her head. Resuming her unending vigil of the general battling on the valley floor below.

When she wraps up his wrist (and when he's an idiot and focuses on Mor)

But Nesta had jolted to her feet, staring at Cassian....But she surveyed his seven Siphons, the dim red stones. And then she said, “You’re hurt.”

Cassian’s face was grim—his eyes glassy. “It’s fine.” Even the words were laced with exhaustion.

But she reached for his arm—his shield arm.

Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing—

“You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely.

“I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance.

I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.

“And it’ll be fixed by morning,” Cassian added, daring Rhys to say otherwise.

But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin, and he hissed through his teeth.

“How do I fix it?” she asked ...

Cassian slowly sat on the log where she’d been perched a moment before, groaning softly—as if even that movement taxed him. “Icing it usually helps, but wrapping it will just lock it in place long enough for the sprain to repair itself—”

She reached for the basket of bandages she’d been preparing, then for the pitcher at her feet.

I was too tired to do anything other than watch as she washed his wrist, his hand, her own fingers gentle... Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.

She only stared and stared at him, at the breadth of his shoulders, even more powerful in that beautiful black armor, at the strong column of his tan neck above it, his wings. And then at his hazel eyes, still riveted to her face.

Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. Nesta opened her mouth at last, and I braced myself—

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead.

Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.

When Cassian almost dies, and she's worried sick, and then she looks him over to make sure he's okay:

Nesta stood by the nearest tent, an empty water bucket between her feet. Her hair a damp mess atop her mud-flecked head. Watching us emerge, grim-faced—

“He’s fine. Healed and awake,” I said quickly.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged a bit.

...

Still coated in mud up to her shins, my sister paused on the other side—away from where Cassian now sat. Looked him over. Her face revealed nothing, yet her hands … I could have sworn a faint tremor rippled through her fingers before she balled them into fists and faced Amren. Cassian watched her for a moment longer before turning his head toward Amren as well.

...

Your sister came immediately when I explained what we needed, Rhys said. I think seeing Cassian hurt convinced her not to pick a fight today.

Or convinced my sister to pick a fight with someone else entirely.

When Nesta Scries: No harm no harm no harm

Nesta still didn’t move. She could not use the bathtub, she’d told me. Because the memories it dragged up—

Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated.

Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before.

Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back.

...

With a gasp, Nesta’s fingers splayed wide, scattering stones and bones over the map. Cassian caught her with an arm around the waist as she swayed. He hissed in pain at the movement. “What the hell—”

When Cassian makes an offer most women would not refuse:

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.

When Elain is taken:

“We’ll get her back,” Cassian rasped from where he perched on the rolled arm of the chaise longue across the small sitting area, watching her carefully...

Nesta lowered her hands, lifting her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lips thin. “No, you will not.” She pointed to the map on the table. “I saw that army. Its size, who is in it. I saw it, and there is no chance of any of you getting into its heart. Even you,” she added when Cassian opened his mouth again. “Especially not when you’re injured.”

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans, pt. 2 (ACOWAR)

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.

When Cassian was going to say something before the last battle:

Rhys only asked, “How long do you think we have?”

Cassian clenched his jaw, glancing at my sisters. Nesta was watching him keenly; Elain monitored the army from our minor elevation, face white with dread....

Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say. My sister said nothing as Cassian shot into the sky with a powerful thrust of his wings. Yet she tracked his flight until he was hardly more than a dark speck.

When they decide to lure away Hybern:

Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”

I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.”

...

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled.

Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

To guard her. Protect her. To lay a trap for the king.

...

Cassian said steadily, “It’s the only shot we have of a diversion. Luring him away from that Cauldron.” His hands tightened on Nesta.

...

But Cassian asked Nesta, “Do you have what you need?”

Nesta nodded. “Amren showed me enough. What to do to rally the power to me.”

And if Amren and I could control the Cauldron between us … That distraction they’d offer …

Nesta looked down to Elain—our sister monitoring the bloodbath ahead. Then to me. She said quietly, “Tell Father—thank you.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around Cassian, those gray-blue eyes bright, then they were gone.

[luvdsc]

i dare you.

truth: do you like me? dare: prove it.

pairing :: lee donghyuck x reader genre :: angst, fluff / best friend + college au word count :: 3,176 words warnings :: none playlist :: cover up (taeyeon) ⋆ wish you were sober (conan gray) ⋆ fever dream (mxmtoon) ⋆ candy so good (the rose) ⋆ bubble gum (clairo) ⋆ can i call you tonight (dayglow) author’s note :: this is a bff2lovers support blog

The game of truth or dare has been going on for several rounds already, and Donghyuck comfortably lounges on the couch tucked in the corner, leaning against an armrest. He lightly shakes the cup in his hand, swirling the last remnants of jungle juice around, before nimbly tossing back the rest of it. It’s a circle of sixteen or so people, and as he looks around, he can somewhat make out the faces of his closest friends. Except he’s missing one: you, his best friend ever since you handed him your red crayon after he broke his in preschool.

But now, for a little over a year, he’s been wishing that being your BF stands for more than just your designated Best Friend. Maybe, it can also include BoyFriend. But that’s just wishful thinking.

Hazy eyes flitting around the entire expanse, Donghyuck looks for the reason of his heartache and finally finds you standing on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall and accepting a red cup from Hyunjin with a pretty smile. Who invited him? He definitely wasn’t a part of Nu Chi Theta.

The familiar green eyed monster rears its ugly head again when he notices how the distance between you and that pretty boy decreases. Grimacing slightly, he reaches forward and grabs a shot from the table, quickly swallowing all its contents.

Renjun lazily spins the bottle in the center after answering his truth from Tzuyu, and it lands on the unsuspecting Donghyuck. He notices the distracted look in his friend’s eyes, following his gaze until he sees you, and a mischievous glint appears in his eyes.

“Hyuck, it’s your turn,” Renjun announces, and Donghyuck is startled, turning to face his grinning friend. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he replies confidently, and Renjun’s grin only widens. His friend’s gaze darts towards you and then back at him knowingly, and Donghyuck starts to feel his hands growing clammy. It seems that he was a little too obvious.

“I dare you to kiss the prettiest girl in the room.”

The dare that comes out of Renjun’s mouth has Donghyuck tensing up in his spot, sobering him up for a split second. His friend merely raises his eyebrows, challenging him, and he swallows hard before putting on an air of nonchalance. He wipes the sweat on his palms against the fabric of his jeans and grabs another one of the shots from the center of the circle, downing it before standing up. He’s not one to be nervous, especially with the amount of confidence he possesses and the amount of alcohol currently swimming through his veins, yet he is.

Jaemin and Jeno lift their heads up in interest as they watch him make his way towards you: you, who is unsuspecting and laughing at something that Hyunjin just said.

Have you always looked this gorgeous?

You are so damn stunning, throwing your head back and letting the prettiest sound Donghyuck ever heard escape from between your lips. The bright strobe lights don’t do enough justice for you, but he can see the way your eyes glimmer and the flashing of your teeth as your lips upturn into the loveliest of smiles. Yet, the blood in his veins boils because he should be the only one who makes you laugh like that, and not some other pretty boy.

He marches his way over there, swaying slightly from the beers he downed earlier, before looping his arm around your waist and pulling you towards him, placing the most delicate, softest kiss onto your lips.

Startled, you nearly drop your red cup and take a step back as you stare your best friend with wide eyes, your heart now beating faster than ever. And perhaps, it was more because of the boy in question, rather than the unexpected show of affection. “What the heck, Hyuck?”

He tugs you close again and merely nuzzles his face in your neck, wrapping himself around you even more. You turn to face him, and he lifts his head up, clouded eyes and flushed skin in full view now. His face is close, too close, and his lips are painted in the prettiest shade of rosy pink. If you move just a few millimeters forward, your lips would brush his again. Hurriedly, you toss away that silly idea as your cheeks warm up at that thought.

When did these feelings start to show up and skirt around your heart? Was it when you noticed he always added a pack of Haribo sour gummy bears for you to the shopping basket during those late night convenience store runs without you asking? Or was it when you texted him at 3 a.m. about a Pokémon you don’t have that’s nearby outside and he tells you to go to bed, but five minutes later, he’s standing outside of your dorm, knocking on your door with mussed hair and a haphazardly thrown on sweater, telling you to hurry up, so he can go back to sleep? Or maybe it’s when you realized just how happy he makes you when he laughs at your lame jokes that he would’ve made fun of Jeno for saying?

Or perhaps, it’s a culmination of all those things plus all the other tiny moments and endearing, although sometimes infuriating, attributes of his that made you fall in love with your best friend.

“You’re really pretty, y’know?” He mumbles, and your cheeks burn even more before you shake your head, noting bitterly to yourself that your best friend is completely intoxicated. Of course. He doesn’t like you in that way at all, so there’s no use in getting your hopes up. Drunken kisses are sober mistakes.

“Hyuck, you’re drunk.” You let out a sigh before wrapping an arm around his waist and throwing an apologetic glance towards Hyunjin. “Let’s get you home.”

“Let me help you,” Hyunjin offers, reaching out to take some of Donghyuck’s weight off of you. Your best friend swats his hand away from you. “Get your own Y/N. This one is taken.”

“He’s just trying to help,” you scold him, blood rushing to your cheeks at the sound of Donghyuck calling you his. He simply ignores the other boy, clinging onto you even tighter. You say good bye to Hyunjin, who kindly takes your empty cup, before tugging your best friend towards the stairs and to his bedroom upstairs.

On your way there, you catch Renjun’s attention. He smirks at you, eyes twinkling, as he glances towards Donghyuck and then back at you. Face burning, you roll your eyes before giving him the universal middle finger salute, his laughter subsequently echoing behind you.

You’re just best friends. Friends take care of each other. And so what if he kissed you? He’s naturally affectionate. And add on the fact that he’s drunk, so his affection just came out tenfold. It meant nothing.

Right?

Something’s been bothering you for the past few days, and Donghyuck can tell as he sits across from you for lunch. You’re doing that thing where you fiddle with the small Winnie the Pooh charm on your iPhone, wrapping the string part around your finger before letting go and repeating your earlier actions. He reaches over and untangles the charm from your hand before putting your phone in front of you, his hand grazing yours for a millisecond, and your heart nearly stops at the sudden contact.

“Something’s been on your mind. Spill it.” He studies your reaction, and you know you can’t lie to your best friend. He’ll know even before the words are out of your mouth.

“Do you remember the Theta party last Friday?”

“Yeah, I kinda have to,” he snorts, resting his chin on his hand. “I had to help clean up the next day with a raging hangover.”

“Why’d you kiss me?” you ask abruptly, twisting the hair tie around your wrist a bit nervously. It’s better to just rip off the bandaid and let it out in the open after all.

Donghyuck freezes, brain short circuiting. He had hoped that you’d just chalk it up to his drunken state that night, and he could continue to ignore his feelings like he’s done for the past thirteen months, six hours, and twenty seven minutes. But he can’t. He shouldn’t. So maybe he should just say it. Tell you the reason why. After all, drunken actions are sober thoughts.

Yet, although he prides himself for being brave, for being outspoken, when it comes to his feelings, when it comes to you, he feels like a coward. At the thought of rejection, the fickle feelings of love, and all the what if’s, he thinks it’s better to remain your best friend than lose you altogether. So he racks his brain for an excuse, but all he can come up with is the half truth. 

“It was a dare.”

Your face falls before you can hide the disappointment, and it yanks at his heartstrings, leaving him to stammer out a poorly executed follow up, back tracking as fast as he can. “It wasn’t a bad dare! Renjun made me do it, and I just...”

“A dare?” you say softly before giving him a half hearted, teasing smile, desperately trying to conceal your true feelings. “Like what? To kiss your best friend? So I beat out Mark, huh?”

Your response has him pausing from blurting out the rest of the truth. You seem so calm and nonchalant about it, like the kiss has no effect on you whatsoever, an unspoken rejection. The mere thought of that almost cracks his heart in two, and he crumples the napkin in front of him, lowering his eyes.

“Uh, well... something like that.”

The two of you lapse into silence after that, a stifled awkwardness plaguing the table, before it becomes unbearable for you, and you stand up, picking up your empty plate to drop off at the cleaning station.

“I gotta go. I have class soon.”

Donghyuck murmurs a quiet good bye to you and helplessly watches as you walk away. He knows you’re lying. He memorized your schedule by heart the second you sent it to him at the beginning of the semester, and you finished all your classes for the day in the morning already.

He flattens out the balled up napkin, staring at the confession he had carefully penned down earlier before you sat down. The black scribbles stare back at him, almost as if they’re mocking him. He rips up the paper into shreds.

He wishes he was braver earlier.

Friday night brings you back into the all too familiar atmosphere of the Nu Chi Theta house. You entered the scene later than usual, caught up earlier with a paper on sustainable technology due at midnight. You were more than content with staying in your dorm for the night, curling up in a blanket for a Brooklyn 99 marathon, but your roommate, Lia, insisted you go out with her.

When you had told her about the conflicting matter regarding a certain dark haired boy swirling around in your mind, she had frowned, calling Donghyuck a complete idiot, and her next words still echo in your head.

“That’s what the idiot said? That wasn’t the dare. Renjun dared him to kiss the prettiest girl in the room.”

So why did he lie?

The butterflies in your stomach refuse to settle, whether it was from knowing you’ll see him tonight or the implications behind that kiss or possibly a combination of both. Renjun easily spots you in the crowd, and refusing to take no for an answer, he pulls you over to sit next to him and to partake in the game that started this all. Lia had simply laughed and waved you good bye before nimbly making her way into the dancing crowd.

Your eyes easily finds Donghyuck’s across from you, and his eyes widen in surprise. You haven’t seen him since the lunch incident, and you should’ve known that you’d see him tonight. He’s a member of this fraternity after all. You give him a small smile, and maybe it’s the alcohol running through his veins, but you could have sworn his cheeks turned a darker shade of red under the harsh neon lights. He looks away, and it stings a lot more than it should. Biting your bottom lip, you focus your gaze on the bottle in the center.

Jaemin reaches for the glass and gives it a twirl. The bottle neck ends up pointing just left of Donghyuck towards Yerim, and you notice Jeno not so subtly kick the table. The bottle rolls slightly before facing your best friend.

“Oh, would you look at that! Hyuck, truth or dare?” Jaemin exclaims, grinning a little too brightly.

“Jeno did that on purpose,” Donghyuck grumbles, throwing a stink eye at the aforementioned boy who merely offers him an innocent smile. “Dare.”

Renjun leans over towards Jaemin, whispering something to him, and he only brightens up even more. There’s that sinking feeling in your stomach, and you know they’re up to no good. Looking around the room, you catch the eyes of Hyunjin, who waves at you happily with a broad smile. Maybe you’ll feel better if you hang out with someone else for a change and take your mind and heart off of the boy in front of you.

Donghyuck’s eyes darken when he notices your attention directed at Hyunjin. He almost scoffs. Again, who invited him? And what’s Hyunjin got that he doesn’t? Okay, so maybe that pretty boy is a few centimeters taller than him, but Donghyuck is still prettier, wittier, funnier, and smarter, right?

Does Hyunjin know the exact number of miniature marshmallows that you like in your hot chocolate? Does he know that you have a tiny star shaped scar on your knee because you fell off your bike in first grade, and Donghyuck was the one who put a dinosaur patterned bandage on it? Does he know that when you’re happy, you like to play Avril Lavigne’s Sk8er Boi on blast and belt out the lyrics? Does he know when you think a joke is really funny, you let out the smallest snort at the end of your laugh which you try to cover up, but Donghyuck thinks it’s the cutest noise ever?

Does Hyunjin know how much he loves you?

“Hyuck,” Jaemin pokes him. “Are you listening?”

“No,” he deadpans, and Jaemin sighs. Your attention is on Donghyuck now, head tilted slightly as you softly smile at him, raising your eyebrow. Your expression is guarded, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know why. But Jaemin nudges him again, and he lets out a huff before turning toward his friend, who smiles impishly before saying:

“I dare you to call your crush and confess.”

You and Donghyuck both inhale sharply at that.

Thousands of thoughts rush into your mind, yet the most prominent one is: your best friend has a crush, and he never told you. The two of you have shared your previous crushes in the past, yet he’s never mentioned this one? A shock of betrayal runs through your body as you wrack your brain to think back to any previous hints or mentioning that he liked someone. Never mind the fact that you didn’t tell him about your current crush because that would mean confessing, but if you were in love with someone else, he would definitely be the first to know.

But maybe it’s for the better, you think bitterly to yourself. It would be near impossible for you to hide your feelings any longer. Perhaps, this is the reason why he didn’t tell you about the dare. It would make everything so much more complicated.

But your stomach twists and turns at the thought of him asking someone out, kissing someone else, loving someone who isn’t you, and suddenly, you don’t want to play anymore. You mumble something about getting a drink from the kitchen to Renjun before standing up, easily brushing away his hand when he protests.

Donghyuck watches as you begin to get up, panic rising in his chest, and before he knows it, he’s scrambling to pull out his phone. All it takes is five seconds. Five seconds for you to walk away. Five seconds to lose you. Five seconds to type in that familiar string of numbers and hit send. Five seconds of courage. Five seconds to take that leap from friendship to something more.

It’s now or never, and he’s never been so sure of one thing in his life until this very moment. Heart thudding erratically in his chest, he hurriedly types in the number he’s memorized by heart—the one he secretly saved as My Sunflower 🌻—and finally presses the green button.

You pause when you hear the familiar blaring ringtone and feel the vibration in your back pocket. Immediately, your eyes land on Donghyuck, and he’s already looking at you with the softest, most endearing, most vulnerable expression on his features that wrenches your heart. Eyes glimmering, he smiles at you a little bit uncertainly before speaking up, voice wavering at the end.

“Someone’s calling you, and I think he has something really important to say, so will you please pick it up?”

With shaky hands, you take out your phone, heart nearly leaping out of your chest, as you stare at the screen, lips curving into a delighted smile that you cannot suppress.

Full Sun ☀️💘 is calling.

“Hello?”

Phone pressed to your ear, you slightly tilt your head to the side, shyly smiling, and relief is written all over his face for a split second before Donghyuck positively beams. He continues to gaze at you, pretty little stars dancing in his eyes that crinkle in the corners and the rosiest hue of red blooming on his cheeks.

“Hi. I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me. Because I kinda, sorta, maybe am completely in love with you.”

This is the boy who made fun of you for wearing glittery Mary Janes on the first day of kindergarten, but also threw sand at the other boys who decided to poke fun at you. This is the boy who saved all the blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers he got on Halloween to give to you. This is the boy who brought you tubs of New York Super Fudge Chunk when you experienced your first heartbreak and refrained from saying “I told you so” until after you finally got over that douchebag. This is the boy who made you stay up all night before a final to help him put rainbow streaks in his hair, but also helped you ace the exam. This is the boy who has the biggest heart out of everyone you know, and he’s wearing it on his sleeve for you.

This is the boy whom you love.

And he loves you back.

“I’d love that. Because I kinda, sorta, maybe am completely in love with you, too.”

[mamabearcatfanart]

Inuyasha had completed his weekly check of the village perimeter, much further out than his quick daily run, and was now looking for his wife, eager to see her after being apart all day. He stuck his head inside Kaede’s hut, ready to see her bright smile, ready to take her home, but the hut was empty. The older woman was nowhere to be found, probably out tending to one of the villagers, and Kagome too was absent. But a quick sniff informed him that although she hadn’t been inside Kaede’s hut for some time, she was definitely nearby.

He wandered behind Kaede’s little hut. The warm afternoon sunshine spilled out over the meadow and garden, casting long shadows in the taller green grass down towards the willow trees. He found Kagome on her knees in a sunny patch, using a little spade to dig up the gobō roots she and Kaede had planted earlier in the Summer. Inuyasha could hear her huffing a little at the effort needed to pull them out of the ground, the long tap roots seemingly reluctant to give up their home in the dark earth. He watched her for a moment, smiling fondly as she blew upwards to try and dislodge a stray strand of hair that was hanging in her face.

“Ya know, you’ve got someone right here you could ask to yank those up for you with no problem”, he said, startling her a little as she turned at the sound of his voice. He plonked himself down behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder to drop a quick kiss to her cheek. “You’re getting’ too big to be doing that now, koiishi.”

Kagome’s lower lip pushed out into a pout, even as she nuzzled her cheek against his. “You don’t need to remind me Inuyasha”, she said a little grumpily, wriggling the leafy plant stem from side to side in an effort to loosen the dark soil around it. “I know I’m as big as a house.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far”, he teased. “But definitely as big as a cradle maybe.” His arms reached around to hug her, his palms gently caressing her rounded abdomen, grinning as he felt a soft tap against his hand from within. “Hey pup. Were you bein’ good for your Mama today?”

“At least they’ve stopped kicking me so hard in the ribs”, she sighed, leaning back against Inuyasha’s strong chest. Inuyasha could tell she was still tired. She’d been finding it hard to get comfortable enough to sleep over the last few nights, and then as soon as she did, the baby would protest the fast diminishing amount of space available by attempting to push out with its wee little feet. Inuyasha could remember his feeling of combined amazement and consternation at seeing an actual footprint tenting the skin of his wife’s stomach.

“Do you have to do this now?” he asked, worried at how exhausted she seemed. Kagome nodded.

“If I don’t get these now, the roots will be too fibrous to use. They’re important. Kaede needs these to make some more balm for arthritis before the cold weather arrives.”

“Alright. You point to what needs to be pulled, and I’ll pull it. Then you need to rest, okay?”

“Alright”, she said with a sigh, putting her little spade into the half filled basket containing the roots she’d already managed to dig up. “There’s only a few left to go, anyway. And if you help me do this, then I’ll have time to get them washed and chopped, ready to steep them in oil so we can make the balm in a few days.”

Privately, Inuyasha thought that they should just drop the roots off at Kaede’s and go home, but he held his tongue, pulling up the long roots easily as Kagome pointed them out. She was strangely stubborn about keeping up with her duties, as if she were worried that Kaede would think less of her if she took time to rest, even though it was Kaede who had told her that rest was important and that she should listen to what her body was telling her.

With the last root pulled and safely in the basket, Inuyasha helped Kagome to her feet, and she leaned heavily against him for a moment.

“Sorry”, she hissed, her eyes squeezing shut in pain, “my feet have gone to sleep. Ow.”

Rolling his eyes a little at his wife’s stubborness, he picked up both her and the basket, ignoring her protests, and sat down under a nearby tree, the red and orange leaves above them filtering the soft afternoon light.

“Just sit here with me for a minute”, he soothed, rubbing her shoulder gently as she pouted. “The world’s not gonna end if you sit still and relax Kagome.”

Kagome snorted as she leaned against him.

“How times have changed. Five years ago, I used to beg you to let me sit still and study, and you would rage about how lazy I was.”

Inuyasha cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well, I was a loudmouthed dick who didn’t know any better. But even though I wasn’t brave enough to say it, I worried about you then too.” He stretched his legs out, and encouraged her to lay down on her side, making space for her head on his thigh. “You were always fallin’ asleep at your desk, especially when you had those tests at your school.” He scratched his claws gently against her scalp, and she made a small sound of contentment, pushing her head against his fingers. “I didn’t enjoy pushin’ you so hard, you know”, he said softly.

“I know that now”, she smiled, her eyes drifting closed as he continued to stroke her hair. “And really, the world was kind of ending, with Naraku and the shards. We had a big job to do. But we got there in the end.” She yawned, and snuggled in against him, one hand reaching up to pillow under her cheek, the other reaching down to hug their unborn child still nestled safely within her. Within moments, she was asleep, a soft smile of contentment on her face.

Inuyasha gazed down at her, his heart swelling as he took her in. Her hair didn’t have the same aroma as it had when he’d first met her, now that she no longer had access to the products she’d used then to wash her hair, but it still shone in the setting sun, and he’d come to prefer the faint smell of camelia oil she used to give it a healthy gleam. Her face had lost the baby roundness it had when she was younger; now her cheekbones accentuated her beauty, and her long lashes were as dark as ever. Her familiar scent now had an added complexity, the sweetness of the thick sticky droplets of milk her breasts were already producing. He could hear the slow steady beat of her heart as she finally slept, accompanied by the much faster beat of their child’s. Their child.

The plum trees had just begun to bloom when they had realised that Kagome was pregnant, and their baby would probably arrive before the first snow fell. It was still something he couldn’t quite get his head around. He couldn’t deny he was anxious about the birth and all the possible things that might go wrong.

Even though he was living proof that a human and a youkai could produce a healthy child, he still fretted that the birth might be more difficult for Kagome, or there might be something medically wrong with the baby because of their mixed heritage. He was anxious that he would not be able to handle not being able to help Kagome when she was in pain – he’d never been able to stomach that. And he didn’t even know how to hold a baby, let alone know the right things to do when he had never had the example of his own father to follow. But there was one thing he was definitely sure of.

This child of theirs would know that it was wanted from the moment it was born, would know the surety of having a safe roof over their head and a full belly every night. This child would know that it was loved.

Whenever he felt his anxiety reach up to strangle him, all he had to do was listen to their combined heart beats, and he knew he would find the strength to protect them, come what may. His family.

A soft rumbling sound began, complementing the double heart beats, and he grinned. Despite Kagome swearing that he must be hearing things, because there was no way that she snored, it had happened every night for the last ten day once she finally made it into a deep sleep. Kaede had said that it was nothing to be concerned about, despite Kagome’s embarrassment. He couldn’t wait to tease her a little when she woke up.

Kaede arrived soon after, and silently took the basket of gobō roots with a nod and a smile. The sun would be setting soon, bringing the chill of the evening air, but with Kagome finally getting the rest she needed, he was in no hurry to move. He would watch over them, and keep his little family warm.

[midnightwhispers12]

So, I have this idea in my head, and I’ll never write it out into a coherent fic, but the basic outline is:

The story starts with a montage of Stiles doing his caretaker-shtick - grocery shopping, cooking healthy meals, washing dishes, cleaning up the pack’s shared spaces, planning ahead for who needs to be where at what time, making sure everyone has everything they need, doing laundry, reminding the ‘wolves to schedule themselves off when they inevitably forget what day the full moon is again, etc, etc.

But.

The thing is? Stiles hates it. He HATES it. He started doing this stuff for his dad after his mom died and his dad disappeared into the office and a bottle of Jack, but it was always an obligation of the “if I’m more useful and less trouble, maybe he’ll want to spend time with me more often” variety. Their relationship eventually got better again (mostly), but if Stiles stopped doing the household chores, they just didn’t ever seem to get done. And eventually, they’d be out of food for the second week in a row, or he’d run out of clean clothes, or bathtub would be growing the mold that aggravated Scott’s asthma again, and Stiles would give in and just take care of it. And after enough times of trying to subtly shift some of the responsibility back onto his dad, and it failing every time, he just quit trying. It was less infuriating to do just do it himself.

When he moved in with Derek, some small, unspoken part of him was hoping that things would change. And, in Derek’s defense, it’s not like he just immediately refused to do anything around the apartment. But Stiles had a long habit at that point of just doing what needed done, and not waiting for someone else to do it. So he’d pick up groceries on his way home from work or class, and it wasn’t like he was going to intentionally not get the bananas for Derek’s nasty protein shakes while he was there anyway. He’d do his own laundry, and throw Derek’s laundry in too, because there’s no need to waste water on two half-full loads.

And slowly but surely, almost without even realizing it, he was back to being responsible for ALL the household chores. It only got worse once the pack filtered back in to living in Beacon Hills full time as they finished their degrees. A pack meeting needed to happen, so who was responsible for planning it? Stiles. Who was in charge of knowing when everyone was available? Stiles. Who had to clean up when the pack showed up uninvited and left their living room and kitchen in shambles? Stiles.

It’s not like he got to just stop taking care of his dad’s house either. He didn’t do as much anymore, but he and Derek had dinner at his dad’s at least every Sunday evening. They used to bring take-out over, but after the Sheriff gained 20lbs and got chewed out by his doctor for his cholesterol levels, Stiles went back to cooking for all of them every Sunday. Which turned into bringing groceries over for the meal he intended to make, because John didn’t have what he needed in the house. Which turned into bringing over a week’s worth of groceries, because the pantry and fridge were completely bare. Which turned into meal-prepping for the next week after dinner, while his dad and Derek watched whatever ESPN was showing, because seriously, eating fast food six days a week was just beyond unhealthy. And if he wanted space to cook, he had to do the week’s worth of dishes piled up in the sink. Plus, he always wound up cleaning whatever bathroom he used if he needed the toilet while they were visiting, because... gross. At least his dad seemed to be doing his own laundry now?

It doesn’t happen all at once, of course. Things build up over time, so slowly he doesn’t notice taking on one more task, and one more, and one more. No one likes doing chores, right? But someone’s got to do them. Someone has to plan ahead for the pack. If he sees that something needs done, it’s best to just go ahead and do it and get it over with, right?

Until one day, he’s just exhausted. It doesn’t make any sense, because he slept a full 7 hours last night, work is no more stressful than normal, there’s not a murderous monster of the week trying to kill everyone, nothing is wrong - everything’s actually been going surprisingly well for a while now. But Stiles is still completely and utterly wiped. Maybe he’s coming down with a bug or something? Since it’s Saturday, he decides to just take it easy and hopefully he’ll feel better tomorrow.

Derek comes over and scratches his scalp, taking a beyond obvious sniff of him (weirdo werewolves) when he sees there’s no breakfast happening, but just kisses his head and gets himself a bowl of cereal when he doesn’t smell anything amiss. The pack comes over and someone throws together sandwiches for lunch, and then they order takeout for supper. His dad shows up after his shift is over, and really, it’s a pretty typical Saturday, other than Stiles staying on the couch most of the day, instead of being up and moving around constantly. By midnight, he still doesn’t feel sick, which is good, and his mind and body both feel a little more rested. But he’s still somehow... existentially exhausted, maybe? Or something like that anyway, he doesn’t really know. It doesn’t make any sense!

But then he gets up to go to the bathroom and refill his water bottle. He looks around, and sees the clutter around the living room - the scattered pillows and blankets, magazines and books, cups and popcorn bowls, crumbs everywhere, water rings and greasy fingerprints on every flat surface. He walks into the kitchen and sees the sink completely full of dishes, the countertops piled with empty takeout boxes and trash. His foot actually sticks to the floor when he takes another step, where apparently someone spilled something and didn’t clean it up. The half-bath off the kitchen is occupied, so he shuffles toward the bedroom, and sees the laundry basket piled high; he usually does laundry on Saturday mornings, but he didn’t get to it this morning, and clearly Derek didn’t either. He finally makes it into the master bathroom, and sees Derek’s wet towels from this morning thrown on the floor.

As Stiles takes care of business on auto-pilot, he thinks about needing to go to his dad’s house tomorrow - planning what to make for the week, picking up groceries on the way there, cleaning the kitchen, cooking supper, cleaning up, making meals for the rest of the week to put in the fridge, cleaning up again, probably cleaning the bathroom.

He thinks about all the other things he’ll need to do tomorrow here at home - laundry he didn’t get done today, cleaning the living room and kitchen where it was left a mess, which means dishes, trash, sweeping, mopping, and picking up all the clutter, at least. Then MORE meal planning and grocery shopping because he didn’t get that done today either. The pack decided earlier that they wanted to go to the beach next weekend, so that’ll need planned - who’s driving, where they’re going, food and drinks to buy and pack, sunscreen, towels, after-sun gel (because werewolves always say they can’t burn, but then they do, and they WHINE, it’s so ridiculous), extra clothes because someone always forgets, talc powder and wet wipes to get all the sand off before they get back in the car, umbrellas, toys to make sandcastles (and enough shovels that the giant children won’t fight over them), a volleyball for the net... so many things. And if he doesn’t plan ahead for it all, and gather everything they need, then no one will, and it’ll be a miserable trip full of grouchy ‘wolves.

The more Stiles thinks about everything that needs done, the heavier the invisible weight on him feels, and he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling more tired than he did when he woke up this morning. Derek walks into the bedroom, apparently to change out of his tight jeans and into sweatpants for the last movie of the night, but he throws his jeans down on the floor NEXT to the laundry basket, which is RIGHT THERE.....

And something snaps in Stiles. The proverbial straw has officially broken the camel’s back, and he’s just DONE. He can’t remember the last time anyone else did a chore, or cleaned up their own mess. He’s not entirely sure how everything got to this point, but he’s abruptly furious enough to make sure it doesn’t continue on this way.

Derek trails off from his last sentence, looking over at Stiles when he smells the boiling rage coming off of him, and follows after Stiles as Stiles stalks back out into the living room to glare at all the people gathered there, werewolf and human alike. One by one, the pack notices the steam coming out of Stiles’ ears, and fall silent in apprehension. Stiles is irritated and annoyed pretty frequently, but this level of anger is rare. What’s the deal?

The deal is - Stiles is on strike. They are a bunch of full grown adults, and as of right now, they’re going to have to pull on their big wolf undies and start acting like it. He is DONE acting like their parent, and he’s not going to do it anymore. If they want to eat, they’ll have to cook. If they want to eat nothing but fast food and die of a heart attack, that’s their choice to make. If they want to live in filth, so be it. If they have a miserable trip to the beach because no one planned ahead and packed the necessities, well, it sucks to be them. If they schedule themselves to work on the full moon, that’s their own problem, he’s not warning them or fixing it for them anymore. He’ll be getting a separate laundry basket for himself, and if Derek wants clean clothes, he can wash them himself.

They want to know what happened to family/pack taking care of each other? You know what, what DID happen to that? When’s the last time anyone attempted to take care of something for HIM? When’s the last time someone else saw something that needed done, and just did it? Or do they even SEE the things that need done anymore? No, because they’re too used to Stiles just taking care of it, and they don’t have to think about it. But this system has turned them all into spoiled, ungrateful brats, and he’s not enabling that anymore. He’s just not.

At first, the pack thinks Stiles is just being overly dramatic, Derek had warned them he wasn’t feeling well, after all. But over the next few weeks, they start to notice. Things just aren’t getting done. Who was responsible for this before? Oh yeah, Stiles. Why don’t they have want they need? Oh right, Stiles stopped packing for anyone but himself. It’s just little things here and there at first, but they add up quickly.

Meanwhile, Stiles has given himself permission to quit carrying the mental load for everyone, and he’s stopped trying to take care of every single little thing for a giant group of people, and he’s feeling so much more relaxed than even he expected. Yeah, it’s a little strange not cooking for Derek, but they had a long talk about it the day after Stiles exploded rage all over everyone, and Derek sees where he hasn’t held up his end. Stiles staunchly refused to do any household caretaking for the next month, and Derek agreed; they’re going to talk about it when the month is up, and decide then how they can fairly divide their responsibilities. No one else in the pack has even tried to talk to him about it, not even his dad. They did show up for Sunday dinner like usual, but when Stiles refused to cook or clean the kitchen so someone else could cook, they wound up just ordering from the local pizza place. Stiles felt a little guilty as he watched his dad eat greasy pizza, but he reminded himself over and over that his dad was a grown man who could make his own decisions.

It takes time for the pack to feel normal again, and Stiles sometimes feels a little guilty about that too, but Derek is on his side, so it’s bearable. Derek is the one that had to clean up the mess the pack left when they all stormed out the night Stiles went on strike, after all. Slowly though, one by one, the pack members come to Stiles and each one quietly apologizes for taking Stiles for granted, for not appreciating everything he did for them. Over time, they all begin to take up more responsibility for the pack, and as a result, they feel more invested in the pack too. They become less a group of people thrown together, and more a cohesive unit. Stiles does start contributing again, but he’s careful to only take on his share. And he has to take some deep breaths to not burst into tears the first time a pack member comes over with a haul of junk food for movie night, and they actually thought to bring him Reese’s cups and Twizzlers, his two favorites.

He thought life was good before, and it was. But this? This is better.

[babbushka]

Open Heaven’s Gates

Ancient Emperor!Kylo Ren x Goddess!Reader x KOR

3.2k - Content Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy/pregnant!reader; Graphic descriptions of violence and gore against a minor character (mutilation, torture, human sacrifice); NSFW (gangbang, double penetration, blow jobs, hand jobs) 

Dedicated to the very patient @safarigirlsp​, thank you for inspiring this oneshot! 

Available on AO3 

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

It is the darkest hour of night, in your temple.

The window to the heavens has been opened wide, and as Kylo looks up through the marble pillars, as he casts his gaze towards the stars and sees how brightly they shine, he feels a shudder of divinity rush through his body.

Clothed in nothing but jewelry made of gold and precious stones, he opens his blood-slicked palms to the pitch-black sky. It is the darkest hour, and yet the Empire is wide awake, has filled this temple to the brim. The lamps are all lit, flickering flares of warm yellow light cast stark shadows across the walls of your temple, across a thousand faces. Citizens are quiet as they watch, as they bare witness to the events which are about to take place, the sacrifice which must be made.  

They too are watching, they are listening, the Goddesses.

They watch, and they wait. 

Kylo will not disappoint them.

Kylo kneels before the statue made of marble which he has come to worship. As crimson drips down his back from lashes he’s carved himself, he prays – until the touch of your soft fingers brushes across his shoulders, and his eyes snap open.

“I can feel it.” You hum, your hands fully cupping his shoulders, massaging the muscles there. He is so tense, a low hiss of air puffs out of his lungs while you tip his head back to rest against your pregnant stomach. He regards you, beautiful as ever even though you are upside down, as you ask, “Are you ready?”

For a moment, Kylo is lost in your eyes. There is a knowing depth there, something ancient and new all at once, a millennia of knowledge behind fresh irises. Through you and you alone, the Goddesses speak, and through you and you alone, may they be appeased.

“I’m always ready for you.” Kylo bites at his bottom lip, before coming to his full height and facing you. He relishes in the way you have to crane your neck to look up at him, he loves how you love to look at him. Kylo does not break eye contact with you as he raises his blooded fingers to your cheek and shouts loudly so that all may hear, “Bring him in!”

A dozen of the high guard rush the temple, carrying high above their heads a bound and gagged man. They throw him to the floor with little elegance or grace, not that he is deserving of any. This man is one that Kylo recognizes as one of the lower guards. He is of middle age, his eyes an unnerving shade of blue. They are bloodshot red, a sign that he has been crying. Let him cry, Kylo scoffs to himself, a thought that you seem to echo as you appraise him.

“Stand tall, pig.” Kylo’s voice is booming, commanding, deep as it rings through the temple. “Stand before your fellow citizens of my kingdom and hold your chin high, let them see who is to be sacrificed tonight.”

“I – please, your majesty – please -- !” The ex-guard scrambles to his feet to the best of his ability, and though he is tied by ropes and chains, he manages to his feet.

The empire casts judgement down onto him, for they have been told of his crimes, they have been told of his violence and cruelty against the innocent women in this village. They shout and spit from their seats, jeers and boos and hisses, rage restrained only by Kylo’s hand.

They have no sympathy for this man.

Neither do you.

“Begging will do nothing for you now.” You give him your most stone-faced glare, and before the ex-guard can even reply, Kylo has his teeth bared.

“Look upon the scum which walks among us.” He bellows, back bleeding steadily from where he has given himself the ceremonial lashes. The Empire is in a trance at his words, they are bloodthirsty, they seek violence. “Cast your eyes down to him, so that he may be filled with shame for the actions he has committed.”

The shoutsjeersbooshisses only increase in volume, as the citizens play their part for this ritual.

“Kneel!” Kylo procures a long blade from a small table which has been set up for the evening’s events. He slices the back of this sacrifice’s kneecaps, and down he goes with a guttural scream as blood streams from the wounds. “Kneel before the glory of the Goddess who stands before you.”

You are shocked and offended, when the sacrifice turns his gaze towards you. Those eyes are too blue, blue but blank. This is not a man who is sorry for his actions, but rather a man who is fearful of the punishment which comes with getting caught.

“How dare you look at her as if you are worthy of her visage.” Kylo catches him once again, for Kylo did not say he may look at you.

With the very same blade, Kylo carves deep gashes into the man’s skull. His strong thighs hold the man steady as those blue eyes are ripped torn sheared away from the writhing thrashing screaming body below him. The citizens cheer, they applaud and clap their hands, stamp their feet, whistle.

Chest heaving, naked body stained deep red with blood, Kylo holds the eyes out to you for your inspection.

Blue, too blue. You hate them.

“It is time.” You nod.

You kneel underneath the portal to the heavens, that window which has been carved from the roof of your temple. Kylo is slightly behind you, for he never dares to be ahead of you in any way, he is far too reverent, he adores you, worships you too strongly to put himself ahead.

“O heavenly bodies above us, hear our plea,” Your voice is loud and clear, and all silence themselves to hear you. “Take this man as a sign of our devotion, may the blood that spills echo that of our enemies. We offer him to you, one of our own for one of theirs.”

“An eye for an eye.” Kylo gets up then, places the eyes in a small basket on the altar, the statue of you which stretches far up into the air, nearly touches the Goddesses themselves.

He turns back to the blinded man, stabs the blade through his chest and plunges his hand inside the wound, tears out the man’s still beating heart as he screams and screams and screams. You wonder when the shock will kill him, when he will be silenced forever more.

“Pulse for pulse.” Kylo shakes with rage, blood splattered in beautiful arcs across his cheek, spattering up the scar which bisects his face. The heart in his hand stills, and he places the organ in another small basket next to the eyes.

Kylo passes you the blade, and you slit the sacrifice’s throat and wrists. He bleeds out onto the marble tile flooring, hemorrhaging, voids where his eyes should be black and red. It brings you great satisfaction to see him suffer this way, after he put the women of your care, of your Empire through so much suffering himself.

“I invite the people to rip this man limb from limb, a display of our power and a vision of victory! Show the Goddesses what we intend to inflict upon our enemies.” Kylo finally allows the citizens to pour onto the temple floor from their seats. “Come down and steal the last breaths of life from he who I may not give the dignity of calling a man.”

You grin, and with a small golden bowl which has been set on that very same small table, you pool up some of the blood that gushes from the wounds on the sacrifice. Handing the bowl to Kylo, your fingers brush against one another, and you can only smile wider.  

“Follow me.” You whisper.

As if he were in a trance, Kylo walks behind you, hot on your heels, never wanting to be so far from you. You lead him through a back door behind the statue, his hands soaked with crimson, trickling and streaming down his arms, dripping in little spots on the floor. The citizens behind you are in a frenzy, the sound of cracking snapping bones and happy cheers masquerading that of the door closing.

It is like another world in here, in this back room.

Kylo performs many rituals with you here, bloody and clean alike. A thousand candles are lit against the circular wall, the ceremonial bed is freshly made with clean linen sheets. With the door closed this way, the noises from beyond the walls are muffled. You release a deep breath, and Kylo trains his eyes on you, on your magnificence.

Standing in place are the Knights of Ren. Five large men, naked aside from the helmets they wear and jewelry which adorns their body. You do not acknowledge them, though you know they are there, your thighs already clenching because you know why they are there.

And oh, you cannot wait.

“Undress her.” Kylo orders, and softly, slowly, they do as they are told.

You do not wear much, a single layer of fabric draped beautifully, intricately across your shoulders. A belt made of braided gold is unclasped from your waist, and the Knights are reverent, their heads bowed, as they lift the rich purple silk away from you. Their hands are like ghosts, barely there and yet your skin turns to flame in their wake.

Kylo walks around and around you, keeps close to the curved walls. He appraises you, takes your pregnant body in. The harvest ritual had been a success, the Goddesses had blessed you with a child – that had been a success, and Kylo was determined for this to be a success as well.

The Knights caress you, worship you the way Kylo worships you. You smile at him, at Kylo, where you know he is hiding in the shadows of the candles.

“Lie down, beloved.” Kylo instructs, and before you can take so much as one step, the Knights are there with their arms around you.

Lifting you off the floor, they carry your naked body to the bed. Though this is a sacred space, a blessed space, your feet are too precious to touch the floor. You allow yourself to be laid down, the bed soft and comfortable, sheets cool to your overheated skin.

Kylo steps forward then, the golden bowl in his hands. He has a paintbrush, and your thighs quiver, legs falling open for him as he comes closer to the bed.

Even strokes decorate your flesh with the blood, as he writes across your skin.

Kylo is methodical, careful, as he dips the end of the brush into the bowl and soaks the fibers through, smearing it in intricate letters and sigils.

It is a prayer for victory, one that he hopes by adorning your body with, it’ll be even louder heard up in the heavens above.

“My body is their body,” Your eyes slip closed, remaining as still as possible while Kylo decorates you with the calligraphy. Your voice is not barely above a whisper, but it sounds so loud in this small room. “Revere me as you revere them, pleasure me so they may be pleased.”

The brush tickles your arms, the secret parts of your sides, your large round stomach, your soft thighs, the arch of your foot. He spells it out in the languages of old, the ones only you and he and the stars know. You are divine, you are sacred, and he takes his time to get these words right, these sigils must be drawn perfectly, or else this will have been for naught.

“Pleasure me, and be pleased.” You say again, this permission being given to them all, to the Knights.

They are hesitant for just a moment, because they know Kylo will kill them with one wrong move. They may be the most elite warriors and his most trusted guards, but they are replaceable, expendable. Everyone was, everyone aside from you.

With their helmets on, you do not know who is who. One of the men climbs onto the bed, you sit up to make room for him on the narrow mattress. He lifts you so that you straddle his hips, sinking down onto his cock with ease. You had spent the day getting prepared by your husband, he who had made sweet and passionate love to you to warm you up, stretch you pleasantly so that you might take these men with ease.

“Ohh, yes,” You sigh, settling down onto it.

Leaning against the chest of the knight underneath you, a second one climbs onto the bed and moves forward, hooks his arms underneath your knees and bends them up so that he can sink his cock into your pussy alongside his partner.

“Yes – more, I want more.” You moan, your head tipping back and eyes closing. The stretch is unbelievable, and your ribcage expands as he shallowly thrusts himself inside, his cock working alongside that of the knight underneath you.

A third kneels over your chest rubs the head of his cock against your tongue. You take a deep breath through your nose and he pushes his dick down your throat in slow little thrusts that have your throat stretching around him. Kylo’s much bigger, and you’ve swallowed him with ease, you are not so concerned about this man’s.

“Be careful with her.” Kylo demands of the knight down your throat, and you hum around the length which is stuffed in your mouth, hum in thanks.

The final two men each claim one of your breasts into their mouths, guiding your hands to their hard erections to jerk them off as they crowd against you on either side of the mattress.

“Good.” Kylo says, as he watches these men take you.

You know he’ll have his turn with you, he’ll have the final turn, the only turn that matters. But you need to be properly fucked out, blissed out of your mind, overstimulated, and this is the fastest way to accomplish that goal.

It very quickly becomes overwhelming, the pleasure from all sides, all avenues. You drool all over yourself as the cock in your mouth fucks your skull, hard hard hard and fast, tears hot and stinging the corners of your eyes. Your pussy is stretched and hot, wet and slick, so slick that the sound of their dicks rubbing against one another inside of you fills the room loudly.

“Feel this, Goddesses above.” Kylo whispers as he comes to the top of the bed, his hands warm and wet with blood cupping your cheeks where you rest on the shoulder of the knight below you, that shoulder acting as a pillow for your beautiful head. “Feel how full she is, all for you, everything for you.”

Hands are all over you, they’re all over, bending you and moving you in ways that give you more pleasure, give them a deeper better angle so that you might cry out for the Goddesses to hear. Your stomach is rubbed, caressed, the bump which juts out beautifully is lavished with attention. They rub the blood into your skin, smear the sigils and the letters which Kylo so carefully painted – but this is the point, the purpose, and they do their job well.

As do you, your hips widening for the pounding they give you, the muscles under your breasts flexing as your nipples are sucked and pinched and licked, your throat relaxing and tightening as need be. The grunts and groans and sighs and moans above you make your clit throb, and you don’t know how many fingers there are, pressing and rubbing and smacking at it for your body to shake and tremble the way it does.

“Good girl,” Kylo whispers still, hands cupping caressing stroking your cheeks, your jaw, as your mouth is stretched wide to be fucked, “Beautiful girl, bring us to victory.”

Like this you are reduced to nothing more than the sensations of pleasure. Your body sings, chants, begs and pleads for more more more, and they give it to you. Hands and dicks and tongues and teeth are all over you, marking you, giving you what you desire. Your limbs shake and shudder violently as your nerves grow alight, as sparks fly behind your eyelids.

Your back arches and you come with a shattering orgasm, you come so hard that your jaw moves to snap shut, and the knight in your throat must pull out quickly so he isn’t severely injured.

“Ohhh!” You shout, your vocal cords free, gasping in breaths quickly and harshly, your back arched and your toes curled, your entire body trembling as you shout, “Kylo! I want you Kylo.”

At once, the bodies which have surrounded you are pulled away. They are all still hard, no one but you has come yet, just as is intended. They leave the room to give you both privacy, and to take care of themselves alone.

No one is dared allowed to come inside you, no one but Kylo – and even he feels unworthy as he rests you softly, sweetly on your back, pushes his cock inside your aching throbbing drenched pussy.

“I want you to come in me.” You wail, hiccup around his lips as he kisses you, as his tongue wriggles hot and wet against yours.

He holds you steady as he thrusts evenly into you, your legs wracked with tremors as he smears the last of the blood. You are gorgeous, divine, glowing from the inside out, your eyes rolled back into your head, all knowing, all seeing.

And then, just then, as his hand is placed on your stomach, he feels something move inside you. A kick, he thinks, the gentle nudge of life that he himself has helped you to conceive, and before he even knows what’s happening he is doubled over you, collapsing as he comes hard.  

“Thank you,” He whispers, as his cock throbs and tears stream down from his eyes. He does not know to whom he sends his thanks, all he knows is that he hopes they hear him, so he says it again and again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your breathing is beginning to even out, even as your body shivers and jolts from pleasure. Kylo’s hand drops to your clit and he swirls little zig-zags and circles, pinches and presses at it, wanting to keep you in bliss, wanting to keep you warm and wet and filled with come.

“Win this war for me.” You say, words slurred from how drunk off the pleasure you are. “Win for me, for our Empire. For our son.”

“It’s a boy?” Kylo wrenches his salt-stung eyes open to stare at you imploringly, pleadingly.

Your eyes are lidded heavily, but you grin wide and that grin is dazzling in the light of the candles. Kylo has not cared one way or the other, he will love this child just the same no matter how they come, but the knowledge of a prince fills him with such joy he cannot help but weep.

“Win, and return to me to find out.” You tuck his sweaty hair behind his ears with a pleasure weak hand, and Kylo hopes beyond hope that what you have done together tonight will be more than enough, to secure such a victory, to open heaven’s gates.