#it’s cold enough that window glass fogs up from the inside— and when you breathe hot air onto it. and I immediately thought of him

[museofthepyre]

Occupation: freak (what is wrong with him) (/aff)

[girlrotterr]

✧ . ˚ Hot On The Tongue. ⁺˳

barista!ellie x reader summary: Ellie works the late-night shift at a 24-hour coffee shop, and you become a regular when insomnia keeps you up. a/n: this was inspired by a request!

The winter rain taps against the fogged-up glass of the coffee shop like a restless heartbeat. Outside, the world is a symphony of muted sounds: the soft swish of tires on wet pavement, the occasional hiss of steam from a passing bus, and the irregular patter of droplets slipping from street signs and awnings. 

Inside, the shop is a pocket of warmth, its dim lighting pooling like honey over scuffed wooden tables and mismatched chairs. The hiss of the espresso machine mixes with the faint crackle of the shop’s speakers, which are valiantly playing a jazz playlist long past its prime. The scent of coffee—dark, rich, and slightly burnt—mingles with the metallic tang of wet clothes, clinging to the few customers scattered around.

Ellie stands behind the counter, her elbows propped against it, her chin resting in one hand. She’s dressed in a faded hoodie layered beneath a coffee-stained apron, her sleeves pushed up just far enough to show faint ink smudges along her forearms, remnants of some half-finished doodle she probably forgot about. Her hair, damp from her earlier walk to work, falls messily around her face, catching the golden glow of the hanging light above her. Her green eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, flick toward the window every few minutes, as though drawn to the chaos of the storm outside.

The bell above the door jingles softly as you step inside, bringing with you a rush of cold air. You pause, shaking off your umbrella as the rainwater pools at your feet in tiny, glistening droplets. The heat of the shop wraps around you like a blanket, the warmth making you shiver as your fingers thaw.

Ellie looks up from her post, her gaze locking on yours. For a moment, her face shows a flicker of recognition, and then she smirks—just a slight curl of her lips, but enough to feel charming.

“You again,” she says, her voice low and gravelly from too many late nights. She leans her weight onto one arm, her posture casual yet somehow inviting. “Third night in a row. Either the insomnia’s kicking your ass, or you’ve got a weird thing for shitty coffee.”

You let out a soft chuckle, stepping closer to the counter as you fold your umbrella. “Maybe both. You gonna judge me, or recommend something better this time?”

Ellie raises a brow, pretending to consider your question as she gestures to the glowing menu board above her. “Depends. You looking to feel alive until sunrise, or just stay conscious long enough to finish whatever’s keeping you up?”

“Alive till sunrise sounds about right,” you reply, peeling off your damp coat and draping it over the back of your usual chair by the window—the one with the best view of the rain-drenched street. The wood creaks under you as you sit, and for a moment, you just breathe, letting the warmth of the shop seep into your chilled bones.

Ellie moves behind the counter, her hands quick as she works the espresso machine. The quiet hum of machinery and the faint clink of ceramic cups fill the space, blending with the subdued music. She works with a kind of unspoken rhythm, her movements swift and precise, though you notice the faint slump in her shoulders, the kind that speaks to a weariness more mental than physical.

When she brings your coffee to the table, it’s steaming, the scent of dark roast mingling with a hint of cinnamon. She sets it down with a practiced ease, her hands red from the constant burn of hot water and steam. Her green eyes meet yours for just a moment before she speaks.

“Rough night?” she asks, her voice casual but edged with a quiet curiosity.

“Something like that,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint, tired smile. “You?”

Ellie lets out a soft, breathy laugh, almost as if she’s surprised by the question. “Every night’s a rough night when you’re stuck here,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the counter. Her lips quirk into a smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But hey, at least it’s warm.”

She lingers for a second, one hand still resting on the edge of your table. You can’t help but notice the faint calluses on her fingers, the way her nails are short and uneven, like she chews them when she’s anxious. 

The rain outside grows heavier, the sound like an unrelenting tide against the glass.

“Let me know if you need a refill.” Ellie says and she steps back toward the counter, the soft squeak of her sneakers on the tiled floor blending with the murmur of the espresso machine.

The coffee sits heavy in your hands, bitter and dark as the night beyond the shop’s fogged windows. Its warmth wraps around you like a quiet, comforting weight, seeping into your bones slowly. Steam rises in soft, curling like smoke as you bring the mug to your lips, the taste almost harsh on your tongue. The soft rustle of paper and keys cuts through the shop’s silence as you dig into your bag, pulling out your laptop and setting it down with a muted thud. Next to it, your notes flutter slightly—a scattering of frantic thoughts, scribbled in bursts that have yet to take shape.

The screen flickers to life, casting a cold, pale light across your face as you settle in. Your fingers move across the keys with practiced ease, but your eyes linger on the fragments of your notes, the remnants of too many sleepless nights.

From behind the counter, Ellie notices everything. 

She tells herself to focus on the endless cups to be wiped, on the espresso machine that hums softly in the background, but her decision is weak, crumbling under the weight of her curiosity. Her gaze drifts to you again and again, each time lingering longer than the last. She props her chin against her palm, pretending to busy herself with the stir stick she spins between her fingers, but her eyes betray her, drawn to the way your lips press together when you’re lost in thought, the slight bite of your lower lip as you try to untangle whatever knot is in your mind.

She tries to look away, to find something—anything—else to focus on, but it’s like fighting gravity. There’s a quiet magnetism to the way you exist in this space, so absorbed in your thoughts, utterly unaware of the pull you have on her. She watches the rhythm of your fingers as they tap across the keys, the way your hand hovers over the mug before you lift it to your lips, your movements so simple, so ordinary, and yet, in this moment, they’re everything.

Ellie’s breath catches when you pause, your lips parting just slightly before you take another sip. Her chest tightens in a way she can’t explain. She feels ridiculous, like a teenager with a crush, but she can’t stop herself from committing every detail to memory, as if it’s something too fragile to let go of.

She forces her gaze elsewhere, focusing on the counter in front of her, but her eyes, like magnets, are pulled back to you once more. There’s a quiet warmth to the way you sit, wrapped in the soft glow of the shop’s dim lights, your figure bathed in shadows from the rain outside that flicker and dance across your face. Ellie wonders what you’re thinking, what’s drawing you so deeply into yourself, making time slip away unnoticed.

She shifts, pretending to be busy as she picks up a rag, wiping down the already clean counte. But the motion feels hollow, half-hearted, as her eyes flick back to you with each swipe. You stretch, arms reaching above your head, and Ellie notices the way your chest shifts under your shirt, the subtle curve of your neck as you exhale. 

Minutes—maybe hours—pass, time lost in the haze of caffeine and sleeplessness. When you glance up again, Ellie is perched on a stool, her eyes flick to yours, and this time, she doesn’t look away fast enough.

Her heart stumbles. She quickly diverts her gaze, cheeks flushing as she busies herself with restocking lids near the register. But it’s too late—you saw her, and a pink flush creeps up her neck. 

Ellie fumbles with the lids, her fingers moving just a little too quickly as if to distract herself. She glances up, a small, sheepish smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

“So,” she begins, her voice quieter than usual, like she’s testing the waters. “You, uh, need another one? Or you’re good for the night?”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, feeling the heat spread through your chest. The rich bitterness is oddly comforting now. “I think I’m good for now. But if you’re offering…” You let your words hang for a second, a playful glint in your eye.

Ellie smirks, though it’s soft, the tension between you still heavy. She hesitates, then leans against the counter, her hand brushing the surface absently. “What, you don’t like my coffee enough to go for round two?” Her eyes flicker down to your mug before meeting yours again.

“I mean, it's not bad coffee,” you say, your tone teasing but light. “But if I’m gonna be here all night... I need something that could keep me awake through the apocalypse.”

She laughs softly, the sound carrying just enough warmth to ease the air. “You know,” she starts, lowering her voice just a little, “if you want something that'll keep you up, I got a secret blend. Stronger than anything we serve here.” She pauses, watching for your reaction, a small challenge dancing in her gaze. “But I can’t promise it'll be… pretty.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’re telling me you’ve got a secret coffee? And it’s not on the menu?”

Ellie nods, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Yep. But if you want it, you gotta earn it.”

“Earn it, huh?” you reply, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “How’s that work, exactly?”

Ellie smirks, one side of her mouth quirking up. “Simple. I’ve been dying to know—what’s with all the scribbles in your notes? They look like a mess, but you’ve gotta be working on something. Show me one of them. Just one.” She leans back, crossing her arms, her gaze holding steady. “If you can give me a peek, I’ll make sure you get the good stuff next time you’re here.”

You blink, a little taken aback. It’s a small request, but there’s something about the way she’s watching you, that challenge in her voice, that makes the simple task feel loaded with something more.

“Show you what? My messy notes?” you ask, half-laughing at the thought. “You really want to see that?”

Ellie shrugs, her fingers tapping the counter. “I’m not gonna judge. You’ve got the look of someone who’s got something brewing. I want to see it.”

For a moment, you just stare at her, gauging whether she’s serious. The silence stretches between you, but there’s an honesty in her eyes that makes it feel easy to trust her with something so personal, even if it’s just a stray thought jotted down in the chaos of a sleepless night.

“Well…” you start, reaching for the notebook. You flick it open and bring it to the counter to her. It’s not the neatest—frantic notes, half-formed ideas, and a few words crossed out in haste. But there it is, laid bare.

Ellie’s eyes immediately flick to the page, scanning the scribbles with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. She leans in, running her finger over the messy words, then glances up at you. “Huh. You’re actually onto something here. This… this isn’t half bad.”

She smirks again, this time more genuinely. “Alright, deal’s a deal.” She picks up a small cup from behind the counter, gesturing to the steamy dark brew inside. “Next time you’re here, I’ll make you the strongest damn coffee I’ve got.”

You feel a small sense of accomplishment, but the tension between you lingers, the air crackling with unspoken understanding. Ellie’s smile softens as she slides the notebook back across the counter. “But you better keep that mess of yours in check. I want to see where it goes.”

You chuckle, taking back your notebook. “I’ll try to make it worth the secret coffee next time.”

Ellie leans back, that slight smile still tugging at her lips. “You better.”

The door jingles as another customer steps inside, the sound of the rain hitting the windows almost drowning out the rush of footsteps. He’s tall, with a leather jacket that looks like it’s seen better days, his hair tousled by the wet weather. He shakes off his umbrella, water splashing onto the floor, and his eyes sweep across the quiet café. They land on Ellie, and a smile creeps onto his face like he’s just found a hidden treasure.

“Well, hello there, gorgeous,” he says, voice dripping with an unmistakable confidence as he strides up to the counter. He leans in a little too close, but Ellie doesn’t flinch—yet. She straightens, her hands lingering on the espresso machine as if trying to focus on the task at hand, but there’s a slight tightness in her shoulders.

“Hey," she replies, her tone polite but clipped, as if she's already bracing herself. "What can I get you?”

The man grins, the kind of grin that makes you cringe. He places his arms on the counter, trying to make himself look casual, but it’s obvious he’s here for more than just coffee. “Rain’s a bitch out there, huh? Good thing I found this cozy spot.” He leans in just a bit too much, his gaze lingering on her like he's trying to inspect her, piece by piece. “What’s a cute girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Ellie barely keeps her eyes from rolling, her fingers stilling on the coffee machine as she forces a polite smile. "Just working." She doesn’t look at him, doesn't give him anything to latch onto, just keeps her movements slow and deliberate. Her voice drops an octave, thick with disinterest. "Can I get you something warm?"

The guy doesn’t seem to pick up on the coldness in her tone, though. He’s too busy studying her, leaning closer, too close, and Ellie feels a tight knot forming in her stomach. His eyes flicker down to her hands as she sets the milk pitcher on the counter, the tension growing thicker by the second.

“How about you make it extra special for me?” His voice has that sickly sweet undertone that’s supposed to be charming but just comes off as slimy. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes move down her figure.

Ellie visibly stiffens, her jaw tightening, but she doesn’t let the disgust show. Not yet. She forces herself to look up, finally meeting his gaze, but there’s nothing warm in her eyes. Just cold calculation. "How about I make you a regular coffee?" she says, voice even, though there’s a bite to it now.

The man laughs, completely oblivious. "Alright, alright, you're tough. I like that. But really, you sure you don’t want to give me something sweet?" His smile widens, like he’s got this all figured out, and she can’t help but feel the creeping frustration start to build in her chest.

Ellie doesn’t miss a beat, though. She picks up the mug, placing it down with quiet precision. Her fingers brush the counter, the movement smooth, but there’s a slight tremble in her hand, just enough to let you know she’s trying not to let her annoyance show too much.

"That’ll be $3.50," she says, her tone firm, like a wall’s gone up between them. She forces herself to look at the man’s face, keeping her eyes steady, but her mouth pulls into a tight, tight smile.

The man doesn’t pick up on any of it. He smirks, not deterred in the slightest, as he takes the coffee. “Thanks, babe. I’ll be back for more—promise.” His voice lingers, like he's savoring the moment, and Ellie doesn’t even bother to respond. She watches him walk out, the door jingling behind him, and then lets out a long, silent breath.

Ellie’s eyes flicking to you, only to catch you smiling—maybe even a little too amused by what just went down.

You can’t help it. There’s something about the whole exchange that makes you want to tease her, just a little. You tilt your head slightly, still watching her with that same mischievous grin. "So, tough crowd, huh?" you say, voice light but pointed, raising an eyebrow as you fold your arms on the counter. "I think he was trying really hard to get you to smile."

Ellie glances up at you, and for a brief moment, you catch that flicker of annoyance in her eyes. She’s trying to play it cool, but the corners of her lips twitch, like she’s holding something back. Her expression hardens as she sets down the rag a little too forcefully. “Yeah, well, some guys think they can talk their way into good graces just ‘cause they have a smile and a cheesy line.”

You stifle a laugh, not wanting to push her too far, but the way her jaw clenches, her hands still resting on the counter, is just too good. You can't resist teasing her a bit more. 

"Yeah, you know," you say, "I'm pretty sure he thought he was totally irresistible."

Ellie’s eyes narrow, and she���s trying to look serious, but the smile she’s trying to suppress isn’t helping. She lets out a breath, shaking her head like she’s done with this conversation, but you can still see the irritation behind her eyes, the way she shifts her weight as if to shake it off.

“That’ll be $3.50 for you, too, if you keep giggling,” she mutters, her voice a bit quieter now, but still sharp enough to be playful. Her hands reach for the register, and the edge of her annoyance seems to soften, her usual sharpness giving way to something a little more lighthearted.

You lean in just a little, that teasing smile still playing on your lips, your eyes twinkling with amusement. You don’t back down, just keep looking at her with that soft, teasing grin.

"Hey," Ellie says, her voice slicing through the quiet murmur of the café as she glances up from behind the counter. "Need a walk back or anything? I’m clocking out, so... figured I’d offer."

You freeze mid-motion, caught off guard by the suddenness of her question. Your hand hovers over the strap of your bag, and for a brief second, the noise of the café fades into the background, leaving only her voice echoing in your mind. You look up at her, and it feels like time slows just a beat. There’s something different in the way she’s standing—stiff, like she’s bracing herself for something. Her hands fidget with a napkin, twisting it nervously before letting it fall to the counter. Her eyes flicker to you, then quickly look away, as if she’s waiting for something to unfold.

Or maybe... waiting for you.

"Uh... sure," you say, blinking to shake off the surprise. You hadn’t expected this, not in the least. "You don’t have to. I’m fine on my own."

Ellie shrugs, her movements brisk as she grabs a cloth to wipe down the counter one last time. "No, I know. Just thought... well, I’d offer." She pauses, her gaze meeting yours for just a moment, before she looks away, suddenly absorbed in a stray cup.

"If you insist," you reply, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Your “friendship” with Ellie had always stayed within the safe confines of the café—casual small talk, playful jabs, nothing more. So this? This was a first.

Ellie grabs her coat from the back of the counter and slips it on, the fabric rustling as she pulls it over her shoulders. The sound feels louder than it should, like a small, tangible shift in the air. She adjusts the sleeves, scanning the nearly empty café as if the stillness is too much, like the space around her is closing in. "Alright," she mutters, her voice quiet as she glances around. "Let’s go."

You both head toward the door. The soft thud of your footsteps is the only sound against the polished wooden floors, and when you step outside, the night feels different. The rain has stopped, but the streets are slick, glistening under the streetlights like they’re still holding onto the memory of the storm. The air is cool, almost crisp, and the scent of wet asphalt mingles with the faint trace of earth, giving the city a strange, alive feeling.

Ellie reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out a lighter with a soft click, followed by the familiar struggle of trying to get the flame to catch. She pulls a cigarette from her pack, the motion fluid, like she’s done it a thousand times before. Tapping it gently against the box, she takes a long drag, her eyes flicking over to you, the glow of the streetlights catching her face in soft, golden hues.

“You smoke?” she asks casually, her voice low, the question almost a challenge.

You let out a small chuckle. “I’ve been known to.”

Ellie offers you the cigarette, her fingers brushing yours for just a brief second, but the contact lingers in your mind long after she’s let go. The warmth from her touch stays with you, and you take the cigarette from her, the sharp taste of tobacco hitting your lungs as you inhale deeply. It stings, but it feels grounding.  You glance over at her, and there’s something in her gaze—intense, focused—that makes you wonder if she’s studying you, trying to read something you’re not quite sure how to put into words.

You both walk in silence, the smoke curling up between you, mixing with the cool night air. The rhythm of your steps matches in an odd way, like you’re moving in sync, without even realizing it. 

When the cigarette burns down to the filter, you both pause at a corner.

Ellie looks over at you, her expression softer now. "So, uh... this is where we say goodnight, right?" 

You stop, your breath catching for just a moment. The cigarette’s only a smoldering stub now, the warmth fading into the cool night air. And then, without even thinking, the words slip out before you can stop them: “You wanna come over?”

Ellie's hands grip your hips tightly, her hips undulating against yours with increasing urgency. With each passing moment, her movements become more frenzied. Your fingers dig into her shoulders as you struggle to maintain your grip. The room is filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and Ellie's hungry moans. "Ellie... I need you," you gasp, your hips moving to meet hers with a desperation that mirrors her own.

Ellie pushes you back against the couch, her body coming down to press you firmly into the cushions. Her lips leave a trail of heat along your neck, her tongue tracing the curve of your shoulder as she grinds against you. "Fuck," she whispers in your ear, her breath hot against your skin, making your pulse race.

Her fingers slide up under your shirt, trailing over your skin with a gentleness that belies the urgency in her movements. You shiver as her touch becomes more insistent, your skin pebbling in response to the sensation. Your own hands move up to tangle in her hair, pulling her closer as you arch against her body, seeking more contact.

Her mouth moves down to your collarbone, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as she sucks and kisses her way across your chest. Her fingers trail down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake as she moves lower. Her hands slip under your waistband, her fingers tracing the contours of your abdomen before moving lower still, her touch sending shivers through you.

Ellie reaches the waistband of your pants, her fingers pausing to tease you as she looks up at you with a wicked smile. Her eyes are dark with desire, and the heat in them makes your stomach clench. "You’re so fucking good," she says, her voice low and sultry. “Nghh, fuck." Her hands slide lower, slipping under the waistband of your pants and slowly, slowly pushing them down.

Her eyes never leave yours as she undresses you, her hands roaming over your body as she takes you in. When you're finally naked beneath her, she pushes you further back onto the couch, straddling your thighs as she presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your breasts.

Ellie's mouth wraps around your nipple, her tongue flicking the sensitive bud in slow, torturous circles. You moan loudly, arching into her touch as pleasure shoots straight to your core. Her eyes are locked on yours, dark with lust and desire as she drinks in every whine and whimper that escapes you. "Mmmph... just like that," You gasp out between breaths, hips rolling desperately. 

Your hands fist in her hair, tugging lightly as you try to pull her closer still. "Suck harder... don't stop." Her lips leave a wet trail of kisses down your chest as she moves lower, following the path of goosebumps raised by her teasing fingers.

You can't help but grab at your own nipples, tugging on them with desperation. Your thumb and index finger pinch the sensitive buds as you twist them between your fingers. The anticipation is almost too much to bear - her tongue is so close now, skating along the swell of your belly before dipping lower.

"yeah... right there," you moan loudly, hips bucking up eagerly as she gets closer to where you need her most. Ellie's hot breath fans over your folds just for a moment before her tongue finally makes contact. She licks slowly along the outer folds, gathering up all that sweet slickness before probing gently at your hole.

"Oh god... yes!" you cry out, hands fisting in the pillows as waves of pleasure start rolling through you already. Your body responds instinctively, arching up towards her mouth. 

You spread your pussy lips wide with a trembling hand, exposing yourself fully to Ellie's eager tongue. "please... taste me," you moan, hips rolling up off the couch as her warm mouth makes contact with your hole. Ellie laps at you hungrily, her tongue delving deep to explore every inch of your wet cunt. 

Ellie fumbles with her pants in a frantic rush, yanking them down just enough to expose the wet spot darkening the front of her boxers. The sight itself makes your cunt twitch.

"Ellie" you groan, reaching out to run a finger through the damp fabric. 

But she grabs your hand mid-reach, stopping instantly. Instead, she rummages through her bag with a sense of urgency, pulling out a strap-on. She stares at your pussy as she begins to put it on, her eyes never leaving the sight of your wet, open folds.

"Look at that... your pretty cunt is practically begging for it," she rasps, her voice heavy with lust. "Let's give that greedy hole what it needs."

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 2

Summary: After your mother's death, your life wasn't the same anymore. Everything was changing so fast and you were just watching.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The air felt cool against her damp skin as she stood in front of the window, watching the distant glow of King's Landing beneath the night sky. Her body was still warm from the bath, the steam lingering in the room as it slowly dissipated, leaving behind the soft scent of lavender and rosewater.

She let her fingers trace the edges of the windowpane, feeling the cold, hard glass beneath her fingertips. It was quiet tonight—eerily so. The usual sounds of the city seemed muted, as if the world outside had gone still, holding its breath.

Her handmaid, Elira, stood behind her, gently brushing through her wet hair. The familiar rhythm of the bristles moving through her locks was soothing, almost meditative. Elira had always been there. Since the very beginning. They were the same age, but Elira had always known her place—quiet, loyal, obedient. Always there, always in the background, never faltering.

"It still hurts, you know... losing her." She spoke softly, her voice almost a whisper, more to herself than to Elira. She stared out into the dark horizon, her eyes distant. "Mother was... everything. The only person who truly knew me."

Elira didn't respond—she never did when it came to such things. She just kept brushing her hair, silent, attentive, like the shadow she had always been.

The ache in her chest intensified, a dull, ever-present throb that threatened to consume her. Who’s going to love me now? Her mother had been everything. The one person who had always been kind, always been gentle. And now, she was gone. The gods, if they even existed, had taken her away. Not just her mother, but her newborn brother as well.

Y/n blinked slowly, her eyes burning. Why did they take them? What kind of gods would do this? Why leave me behind with nothing? She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t process the emptiness that had swallowed her whole since that day. The pain was constant, gnawing at her insides like a beast that wouldn’t stop.

She hadn’t left this room since they told her. She hadn’t gone to the funeral. What would be the point? Rhaenyra had been the one to carry their mother’s body. She could have done that too. She could have honored her mother, but what was the point when she wasn’t even here? She was dead. Dead.

Y/n closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into the sensation of the brush moving through her hair. "I loved her. I always did... I was kind to her, wasn't I?" The words felt heavy on her tongue, as if she were asking herself more than Elira. She knew the answer already. She had been kind. She had been gentle.

She sighed softly, her breath fogging the glass in front of her as her thoughts drifted. It was supposed to be a boy. A brother. I would’ve been kind to him too. She had already chosen the Dreamfyre egg for him, already imagined what he would look like with his silver hair and violet eyes.

But now... there was no brother. No mother. Just silence.

Suddenly, a sharp tug at her scalp broke through her thoughts, jolting her back to the present. She flinched slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned her head just enough to glance at Elira.

"I'm so sorry, princess! Please forgive me!" Elira’s voice trembled, her hands shaking as she quickly let go of the brush, dropping it to the floor. She fell to her knees, her head bowed low, not daring to look up at Y/n. "Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t... please, please, forgive me..."

Y/n stared down at her, unblinking, her mind oddly blank. Elira had always been loyal. She had always done what she was told. And now here she was, groveling on the floor, begging for forgiveness over a simple tug of hair. It was... pathetic.

But she didn’t feel angry. She didn’t feel anything.

"It's alright," she said calmly, her voice soft but devoid of emotion. "You can continue."

Elira hesitated for a moment, her hands still trembling as she slowly picked up the brush again, standing on shaky legs. She resumed her task, this time more careful, her movements slower, more deliberate.

Y/n turned back to the window, her gaze distant once more, her mind drifting in and out of the haze that had settled over her ever since her mother’s death. She could still hear Elira sniffling softly behind her, no doubt still terrified of making another mistake.

It’s fine, she told herself. She’s always been like this. Always afraid. Always apologizing. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

She closed her eyes again, her fingers tracing the cool glass once more, feeling the chill seep into her skin.

“I made a decision,” Viserys looked between his daughters. “I have chosen to name Rhaenyra as my heir.”

The words hit her like a wave of ice-cold water, freezing her smile in place. Wait… what? Her mind stumbled, struggling to make sense of the words. Rhaenyra? She blinked, willing herself to understand, to hear something else, but the reality pressed on her, unyielding.

“That’s… great, Father!” she managed, her voice tight and bright. Her lips twitched, and somehow, she forced them into a smile. She clasped her hands in front of her, feeling them shake, the tremors threatening to give her away. Hold it together, she thought desperately, teeth gritted behind her smile. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see.

A cacophony of voices began to rise within her, whispering, hissing, each word cutting into her like a thousand small blades. Weak… pathetic… that’s what you are.

Her nails dug into her palms as she continued to hold her smile. No, I’m not weak… he just doesn’t see my worth yet. He doesn’t understand. But he will, he will…

That’s why Father chose her, isn’t it? Because you’re useless. Because you’re nothing.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, who was watching her with a mixture of pride and hesitance. Rhaenyra, the golden girl. Rhaenyra, the heir. Rhaenyra… the one Father loves. Her stomach twisted painfully, but she forced herself to keep smiling, her jaw aching from the strain.

Of course he doesn’t love you, they continued. Why would he? You’re not what he wanted. You’re just a mistake, a failure, a useless little girl who couldn’t be more than a shadow.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat like a drum in her ears. She felt hollow, as if she were disappearing from within, crumbling like ash. I’m not useless, I’m not… But they laughed, drowning her, making it impossible to think.

Look at him. Look at how he looks at her. Do you see that warmth in his eyes? He has never looked at you like that. He never will.

Her hands were trembling openly now, and she clasped them tighter, willing herself to stop, to silence the whirlwind inside her. I am more than this, she thought, but the words felt empty, like something fragile that could shatter with a single breath. She lifted her gaze to her father, but his expression was unchanged, his eyes full of pride—for Rhaenyra.

That’s all you are, isn’t it? A disappointment. A shadow, unwanted and unloved.

Her head swam, and she could barely hear anything beyond the mocking laughter echoing in her mind. But she kept smiling, the mask she wore cracking at the edges, her heart sinking with each passing second. You're wrong. You're wrong about me. Father does love me… he has to…

“Are you all right?” Viserys asked, frowning slightly.

The words jolted her back to the room, and she forced herself to nod, ignoring the way her throat tightened. “Yes, Father,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear down everything around her, but instead, she turned to leave, her face carefully blank.

As she walked away, the voices clawed at her, unrelenting, ruthless.

Useless. Unwanted. Weak. That’s why he chose her. That’s why he’ll always choose her. Because you will never be enough.

It's finally over. It had been a long day, a day that had dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Today Rhaenyra had been named heir to the Iron Throne and she had to bow before her.

As she walked, Elira, kept a respectful distance behind her, her soft footsteps barely audible. The quiet murmur of the castle, usually so comforting to Y/n, only seemed to intensify the ache in her chest. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor as the thoughts spiraled deeper. Why her? Why not me?

"Thanks the gods it's Princess Rhaenyra,"

Y/n froze, her entire body stiffening as she heard the words. Her mind raced, and her steps slowed, her breath catching. She looked around the corner, and saw a small group of servants standing near a doorway, talking among themselves. Her gaze narrowed as she caught the full statement.

"Ah, yes, I'm really thankful the King didn’t choose that mad cunt," one of them laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that made her skin crawl.

"What did you say?"

They immediately froze when they heard her, their faces draining of color. She could hear their frantic whispers, the way their voices faltered in fear. One of them, took a hesitant step backward.

The servants' eyes widened, and they all started stammering apologies, their words tangled together in a rush of panic.

"Please, my lady, we meant no harm, we were just—"

"We were just talking, milady. Please forgive us—"

"Please don’t—"

Her eyes locked onto the boy who had spoken the words. He looked terrified now, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. She took a step forward, the rage bubbling over, her movements fluid and quick as she closed the distance between them. The boy shrank back, but it was too late.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Y/n half-yelled, her voice a venomous hiss. Everything that had been building inside her—the anger, the hurt, the rejection—came flooding out in a violent, unstoppable wave.

The servants froze, some of them taking instinctive steps back, but they couldn’t escape.

Before the boy could even react, Y/n was on him, her hands grabbing his hair. With a sickening crack, she slammed his skull against the stone wall. She didn’t even register the impact at first, her vision turning red as the anger clouded her thoughts. She did it again. And again. And again.

The sound of his skull crashing against the stone echoed in her ears, drowning out everything else. She didn’t hear the cries, the pleading, the desperate sobs. She didn’t hear Elira begging her to stop, her voice barely cutting through the haze of fury.

"Stop! Please! Stop!" Elira cried, her voice high with fear, but Y/n was beyond reason now. She could feel the boy’s head break beneath her hands, could feel the blood running down her fingers. The sound of his sobs, his frantic begging, only drove her further into madness.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. She stood there, panting, her breath ragged as she stared down at the boy’s lifeless body. His head was a mangled mess, blood seeping out from the cracks in his skull. Her hands were slick with it, the red staining her fingers, her palms.

She blinked, coming back to herself slowly. The haze began to clear. She looked down at the body, her heart still racing, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Her chest heaved, and for a moment, she could barely comprehend what had just happened. She didn’t even remember how she’d gotten here, or how many times she’d struck him.

He’s dead.

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. Her heart sank, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface, still clawing at her insides. She turned to look around at the others—the servants were trembling, staring at her in horror, their faces pale and filled with fear.

Why... Why they are looking at me like this?

Y/n glanced down at her dress, now soaked in blood. It was one of her favorites. She frowned as she looked at the deep red stains, the fabric ruined. What a pity.

With a deep sigh, she straightened up, her anger beginning to ebb, leaving a hollow emptiness behind. Her voice was calm, too calm, as she turned to the servants. “Clean this mess up,” she ordered, her voice flat. “And make sure no one finds out about it.”

She didn’t care how they did it, just as long as it was done. She turned to Elira, her voice still controlled, though her emotions were a mess inside her. “Prepare the bath for me,” she said softly, almost pitiful. “I need to wash.”

As she walked away, Elira hesitated for a moment before following her. The others remained rooted to the spot, too afraid to move. Y/n walked through the hallways, the blood drying on her hands, her mind drifting in a haze of confusion and sadness.

I’m so tired. The thought came suddenly, washing over her like a wave. She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly.

But as she entered her chambers, she start thinking about the scene she left behind. The servants would clean it. They always did. But they would never forget. And neither would she.

With that, she closed the door behind her, her thoughts already shifting again, the sadness creeping back in.

"The realm will never accept a woman as their ruler," Rhaenys muttered, her voice laced with the bitterness that always seemed to cloud her words when the topic of succession arose.

Y/n tilted her head and nodded, the movement slow, almost sympathetic. Oh, how tragic, she thought, her lips curling into a faint smirk. All this whining and hand-wringing. Pathetic.

She softened her features, arranging her face into what she imagined looked like mild concern. "Tragic, isn’t it?" she said, her voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed sarcasm that neither of them seemed to catch.

"When I am queen I will create a new order," Rhaenyra said, her tone defiant, her chin lifted as though challenging the world to disagree.

Yes, yes, Rhaenyra, I’m sure you would be a shining example of wisdom and honor, Y/n thought, fighting back a laugh. Keep dreaming.

"Of course you would, dear sister," Y/n replied smoothly, giving a slight, dismissive nod. "The realm would be lucky to have you."

Rhaenys glanced at her, as if sizing her up, before letting out a low, sardonic chuckle. "Men would sooner burn the kingdom than let a woman sit on the throne," she said, a bitter truth in her words that, for some reason, still failed to resonate with Y/n. Power wasn’t something one was given—it was taken. And anyone too weak to seize it had no right to it in the first place.

She hid her thoughts behind a sip of wine, watching them both with a half-lidded gaze, letting their words drift over her like idle gossip. What a pair they are—one too proud to realize her limitations, the other too bitter to let go of her grievances.

"Oh, yes, a kingdom ablaze," Y/n murmured, feigning a wistful tone. "How poetic. Such a tragic tale, isn’t it?" She held out her glass, staring into the dark red liquid as if pondering something deeply moving, though in truth, she was only admiring the way the light caught the wine.

Rhaenyra sighed heavily. "They underestimate us. They see us as delicate things, fit only to be wives and mothers."

"Do they?" Y/n’s smile widened, an amused glint in her eyes. Oh, the endless suffering. Boo-hoo.

Rhaenys was watching her with an arched brow, clearly picking up on the subtle mockery in her tone. "You don’t seem very troubled by any of this, Y/n," she observed, almost as if accusing her.

Y/n shrugged, a slow, lazy movement that exuded indifference. "Oh, I am devastated, truly," she replied, the sarcasm practically dripping from her words. "What a tragic world we live in, where women like us must endure such indignities. Really, it’s heartbreaking."

Rhaenyra shot her a sharp look. "This isn’t a joke, Y/n."

"Of course not," Y/n replied, her voice smooth as silk, unfazed by her sister’s disapproval. "Nothing about any of this is funny." She took another sip, savoring the wine and the absurdity of it all. I should be the one that wear the crown, not you.

Then, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, she sighed and placed her empty goblet aside. "Ah, but I must take my leave, unfortunately." She glanced over at them, feigning a regretful expression. "I’ve a fitting to attend for my dress, you know, for Father’s wedding. It simply wouldn’t do to be unprepared for such an occasion."

The slight in her tone was subtle, but it was there, veiled in a pleasant smile. The wedding going to happen sooner or later. What a spectacle it would be. Their dear father, so desperate to secure his legacy that he’d wed a mere girl, and all to produce another heir—a boy, if the gods were willing, and if not… well, it hardly mattered to her.

"How dutiful of you," Rhaenys remarked, a hint of mockery in her voice. It was clear she saw through Y/n’s thin veneer of civility.

"Indeed." Y/n inclined her head, lips quirking in a smug smile. "After all, it’s so important to play our parts well, isn’t it?"

She glanced back at them one last time, giving them both a pointed look, her smile widening as she took in their earnest, troubled faces. "Farewell, then. Do enjoy your discussion. Such deep, meaningful words, truly," she said, voice dripping with false admiration as she turned on her heel, sauntering away without a second glance.

Y/n strode toward her father’s chambers, Ser Criston trailing like a shadow at her side. She had a perfectly charming smile painted on her lips until she came up short, blocked by two guards standing in front of the doors. Their hands gripped their spears, glancing at each other nervously before looking back at her.

“Step aside,” she said, voice a silky command.

The guards didn’t budge.

One of them, foolishly brave or utterly clueless, raised a hand. “I’m sorry, my lady, but the King has asked to not be disturbed.”

Her smile faltered, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re saying I can’t see my father?” Her voice was calm, almost amused. She tilted her head, letting her gaze drift over their faces with cold scrutiny. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

The guard stiffened, clearly feeling her gaze like a blade. “We have orders.”

She chuckled, the sound smooth as honey but laced with venom. “And do you have any idea what I could do to you for disobeying me?” She leaned in, voice dropping low. “I could have your tongues ripped out, have you hanging from the city walls by your intestines, all while you beg for mercy.” She smiled, sickly sweet. “Or I could just tell my father you disrespected his daughter.”

The guards flinched, glancing at each other but standing firm.

She clicked her tongue, gaze sharpening. “Perhaps I should have Ser Criston here peel the skin from your faces, inch by inch? How does that sound?”

Criston’s hand drifted to his sword, his eyes darkening in anger at their defiance. Before he could make a move, Otto appeared around the corner, striding toward them with his usual calm authority.

“Ah, my lord Hand,” Y/n said, smile widening as she turned toward Otto. She cast the guards one last look before redirecting her attention.

Otto looked at her and then at the guards, clearly sensing the tension in the air. “Is there a problem here, princess?” His voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just walked into a potential bloodbath.

She tilted her head, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Oh, nothing major, Lord Hand,” she purred. “Just a minor misunderstanding. These men seem to think they have the right to keep me from my father’s chambers. Quite peculiar, don’t you think?” She cast a smug glance at the guards, watching as they shifted uncomfortably.

The guards started to speak up, but Y/n shot them a warning glare, silencing them immediately. “In fact, I’d say it was downright insulting.”

Otto nodded thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Well, princess, your father is about to attend the small council meeting. I’ve come to fetch him myself.”

She clenched her jaw, an annoyed sigh slipping from her lips as she finally gave a small nod. Fucking cock suckers. But she kept her expression calm, respectful even. Otto had always been fond of her—treated her like one of his own, in a way. No need to break that little bond just yet.

“Very well,” she murmured, stepping back as she allowed Otto to enter. She watched him disappear into the chamber, then turned her gaze back toward the guards, her expression a warning that needed no words. They quickly looked away, pretending to be more interested in the floor.

Moments later, Otto returned with her father. Viserys offered her a faint, apologetic smile, but his focus seemed elsewhere, a bit distracted. Odd. Otto, too, seemed unusually composed, almost as if there was something else on his mind.

As they walked away, Y/n glanced toward the chamber doors, half-distracted, until she caught a flash of red hair in the corner of her vision. A woman’s figure seated on the edge of the bed—her father’s bed.

Her heart skipped a beat, eyes widening. She had to suppress a sudden laugh, biting her nails as her excitement bubbled up. Oh, now that’s just… delicious.

There’s no way… Is that…? Did Otto really…? Oh, you sly, clever old fox. So that’s why Father’s been so preoccupied. And here I thought he was just mourning my poor Mother.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Criston’s voice brought her back to the present. He glanced at her with concern.

She smiled at him, a flash of brightness that was all teeth. “I’m perfectly fine, Ser Criston,” she murmured, her gaze still lingering on that red hair. Alicent. The Hand’s sweet little daughter, warming dear Father’s bed where Mother once lay. Oh, it was almost poetic.

Without another word, she wrapped her arm around Criston’s, a little too tight, leading him away, her smile widening as her mind danced with happiness. The thrill of it all simmered under her skin, making her eyes glint with a mad sort of glee.

Oh, Rhaenyra… if only you knew. Your dear friend is right here, warming our father’s bed. Such a pity you don’t see it yet. Poor, poor little sister.

Criston glanced at her, brow furrowed in confusion. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

“Nothing at all,” she purred, letting out a small laugh. “I’m just… happy, that’s all.”

As the small council convened, Viserys rose to his feet, his expression serious yet strained. She cast a brief glance at Rhaenyra beside her, who watched their father with rapt attention, completely unaware.

Don’t tell me Father’s actually going to—

“I have decided… I am to marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

The silence that followed was exquisite. Y/n’s smirk widened as she glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, whose face had turned from shock to disbelief. Rhaenyra’s eyes met Y/n’s, wide and wounded, and in that brief exchange, Y/n’s smirk told her everything. Yes, dear sister, I knew. I knew before you did. And now… so do you.

Y/n’s gaze turned cold as she looked across the room at Corlys. He sat motionless for a moment, disbelief and anger barely concealed in his face as he processed what the King had just announced. She barely held back her sneer of disgust.

This pathetic man… offering up his child to this decrepit old fool just to worm his way closer to the throne. What a spineless little weasel. Tried to sell sweet Leana to Father… You’re nothing but a cock-sucking snake, Corlys.

Corlys’ face hardened. Offended, he shot Viserys a withering look before standing abruptly and leaving the room in silence. Y/n’s eyes followed him, the smirk still tugging at her lips. Good riddance, you worm.

Next to her, Rhaenyra had gone pale. She shot a look of absolute betrayal at Alicent, whose face was touched with guilt, as if she’d known this moment was coming yet hadn’t prepared for the sight of her friend’s hurt. Then turning on her heel and storming out.

Poor, naive Rhaenyra… How perfect, to have this all crumble around you while you stood unaware.

But Y/n stayed, savoring the stunned silence that filled the room, and then, without missing a beat, she plastered on her most sincere smile.

“Congratulations, Father!” she chimed, her voice warm as she moved toward Viserys.

Viserys let out a sigh, though a relieved one, as she embraced him, patting her arm gently. “Thank you, my dear,” he replied, clearly grateful for her support.

She released him, turning to Alicent, who was still wide-eyed, not quite sure what to make of the sudden affection Y/n was showing. She shifted uncomfortably as Y/n opened her arms to her.

“Alicent,” Y/n murmured, drawing her in with a tight embrace, voice sweet as honey. She leaned close to her ear, her words just barely audible to anyone but Alicent.

“Oh, Alicent,” she murmured into her ear, “I always knew you were a little whore.” She felt Alicent’s body stiffen, but she continued, undeterred. “You shouldn’t be so pleased with yourself—you’ve married my rotting father, after all.” She let out a mocking laugh, barely a whisper. “I can only imagine… his ‘crown jewels’ are as decrepit as the rest of him. But lucky you, you’re the perfect breeding mare, aren’t you? A nice, wet hole to keep his cock warm,” she added, voice dripping with contempt, “Every night you’ll lay with him, his decaying hands on you, his disgusting, rotting body. I’ll bet even his—” she sneered, “—cock is rotting.”

Alicent’s face flushed, her breath catching as she stood, stunned and trembling in Y/n’s arms. Y/n only smiled, tilting her head to kiss her on the cheek.

“I’m so happy for you, Mother,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Alicent, visibly shaken, managed a faltering smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you… daughter.”

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[callme-holly]

I NEED I NEED a sweet soft domestic dallas. i need it. i crave it. idc if its out of character. i live, breathe, eat, sleep, a cute soft dallas winston. so if u will, please and thank you write dallas with fem reader where she needs picked up from her house bc her parents are kicking her our OR bc they are fighting and she doesn’t wanna be there (you choose!) and dallas is teeth rotting sweet and soft with her.

ilysm!!!❤️🙏🏼

𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧 : IM LOVING THIS PLEASE GIVE ME MORE SWEET REQUESTS LOVE Y'ALL

The familiar rumble of an engine pulls you from your thoughts, cutting through the muffled yelling coming from the house behind you as it rolls to a stop in front of your gate. It’s sleek red paintwork in scratch and dented in places, and one of the headlights is out, but you’re relieved to see it all the same. 

Before you can process what’s happening, you’re already on your feet, moving instinctively. You jog across the front yard, ignoring the way your heart pounds and the blood rushes in your ears, not stopping until you collide with Dallas, tucking yourself into his chest the second he steps out of the car. 

He grunts a little in surprise but wraps his arms around you anyway, holding you steady as you catch your breath.

“You called?” He mumbles, his voice husky and rough with sleep, and you’d almost feel bad for waking him if you didn’t need him as much as you do now. Almost. You pull away enough so that you can look up at him, searching his features for any sign of annoyance or irritation, but strangely, you find nothing but fondness and what looks like it could be concern. 

“Yeah… They’re fighting again. Didn’t want to be in the house.” 

Dallas nods in understanding, squeezing you a fraction tighter before letting go completely, exposing you to the biting chill of winter once more. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t question why your parents are fighting or how long you've been sitting out of the porch, just waiting. Instead, he bundles you into the car, closing the door for you and going around to climb into the driver's side. You watch as he adjusts his seatbelt, something he only ever seems to do when you're riding with him, then he turns the key and the car roars to life, pulling away from the curb and speeding down the street. 

The heater is broken again if the cold air inside the vehicle is anything to go by, and you’d almost go as far as saying it was warmer outside than in here. The windows are fogged over, making it near impossible to see anything outside, everything passing in a muted blur, and while you know the roads like the back of your hand, you feel strangely lost in that moment.

“They’ll be back to normal again tomorrow,” Dallas says suddenly, startling you and bringing you back to the chilling interior of the car. His eyes are focused steadily on the road, but the way he clenches the wheel tells you everything he needs to know: he’s angry for you, angry that all your parents seem to do is yell and scream and tear you down with words that aren't even meant for you but still hurt you in a way you wouldn’t think possible. 

“I know,” you tell him quietly, letting your head rest against the cool glass of the window, letting out a long breath. “I just… I don’t know.” 

There is silence for some time after that, and you watch the flicker of colour and lights streak by outside the misty window; the quiet hum of the engine and shifting gears are the only sounds besides the thud of your heart in your chest. Dallas’ hand comes to rest on your thigh, his thumb tracing back and forth in a gentle manner that nobody would think him capable of managing. It's soothing and calming, a reminder that he’s there, and you’re safe, that everything will sort itself out for better or for worse. 

“It’s gonna be alright.” His voice has softened considerably, and he almost doesn’t sound like himself—too tender and kind. It doesn’t suit him, not at all, but you find it nice all the same.

“How do you know?” You glance over at him, barely turning your head, your movements growing lazy as the exhaustion takes over, your limbs growing heavy, and your mind as hazy as the fog steaming the windshield. 

Dallas shrugs, swallowing heavily. “Because you got me. And I won't let anything’ happen to you. Not without a fight.” 

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, and butterflies stir in your stomach, fluttering wildly. He smiles at you, warm and genuine, and you can’t help but return it, watching the way his eyes crinkle slightly in the corners, his face lighting up in a way it very rarely does. 

A warmth settles around you, one that dashes away the freezing cold settling in your bones, and you don’t bother fighting it, content to let it engulf you, too mesmerized by the lingering calm expression on his face to care. 

He’s got you, and you’re safe as long as you’re with him.

[rustedhearts]

keepsakes (boxer!steve harrington x fem librarian!reader)

summary: the heat goes out during an autumnal cold front in your new hawkins home, so you make the most of a cozy day at home.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring (1995) ✶ the library ✶ ‘tis autumn

✶ roller girl’s pie stand!

tags: pure marshmallow fluff, allusion to smut at the end. akin to old boxer steve from ‘22

hawkins, indiana. october, 1995.

“They said they can’t get out until Tuesday,” Steve huffs, slamming the phone back into the receiver on the kitchen wall.

You groan into the steam furling from the ceramic pot on the stove. “Ugh, come onnnn.”

Steve shuffles into the room with a sigh, thermal-sleeved arms winding their way around your shoulders. They fold together over your chest, guiding you back against him. You let him tuck his mouth into your neck, lips warm, nose cold. You jolt a little when it brushes your skin, giggling when he huffs a harsh breath.

“Mm, I know, angel. But ‘m here to warm ya up,” he mumbles against your throat.

Each of you had enough layers on to keep decently toasty. What you could rummage out of boxes still taped up now sat in a messy pile on your bed upstairs. You hadn’t expected such a cold autumn and thought you had at least a few weeks before you had to break out the winter gear. But now a long sleeve turtleneck sits under a clove-scented 49ers sweatshirt, big and bulky and soft inside like you liked it. Your sweatpants are matching in black color, and you have your hair tied up just like Steve liked it.

He has a white t-shirt under a navy blue thermal that makes his hair seem more chestnut than usual. His sweatpants are grey, the Jimmy’s Gym logo on the top right thigh cracked and faded from wear. You have a pair of his white socks on, and you think it’s adorable that the pair of you have matching feet right now.

Steve presses a noisy kiss to the column of your throat. His hair tickles your chin and makes you laugh again.

“Whatcha got planned today, hmm?”

You stir the wooden spoon through your soup again. “Guess.”

Steve hums thoughtfully, lifting from your neck to squint at the tile. “Hmm, if I had t’ guess, I’d say…reading in that ‘lil window upstairs, pretending you aren’t freezin’ your ass off.”

You scoff, cheeks warming. “N-no…”

“No?” Steve tips his head and kisses your cheek this time. “Saw the book already out. Waitin’ for you. Can’t you hear it calling, baby? All those words you have to read.”

You giggle, squirming in his arms. “Stop, don’t make fun of me.”

You click the gas off and Steve coos, clutching you a little tighter. His cheek is lukewarm when it presses to your temple.

“Aww, my ‘lil nerd. ‘s okay, angel, you know your librarian glasses are so fuckin’ sexy.”

You clutch the handle of the ceramic pot and veer toward the counter, where two mismatched bowls are waiting. Steve gets the hint, matching your steps until you’re moving together. You tip the pot and pour equal amounts of the chicken soup into each bowl, splattering noodle and broth drippings as you go. The window above the sink beside you is beginning to fog with the warmth of the stove. Beyond it, your neighbor’s tree is a vibrant yellow. Shedding pointed leaves across the yard, stuck in the jagged edges of the wooden fence. They gather on Steve’s BMW window, suctioned to the glass with this morning’s rain. The sky’s still a muddled grey, and you have all the lamps and candles lit in the house.

Steve somehow always gets horny in candlelight.

“My librarian glasses? Grab some spoons, please, baby?”

Steve takes one arm from your chest to lean to the left and open the utensil drawer. He gathers two spoons in his hand and nudges it shut, immediately returning to ensure both arms are back in place.

“Yeah. ‘s a good thing, baby, I promise.”

You take the spoons dangling near your collarbone and plop one into each bowl.

“Stevie, can you take ‘em? They’re hot.”

Steve takes a bowl in each hand around your sides and reluctantly pulls away from you. The pair of you whirl around and head for the dining room, a bowl clunking onto a plaid placemat at each assigned seating. Yet as you pull your chair out and go to sit, a pout appears on Steve’s face. He hasn’t even touched his chair.

“What?” you giggle.

“I just…you’re so far away.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“Too far,” he huffs. He swings around and directs his gaze toward the living room. “Let’s go sit on the floor.”

A soft smile touches your face, that glowing warmth gathering in your cheeks again. Oh, something about the cold made Steve so sweet.

“You wanna have a carpet picnic?” You beam.

Steve tips his head back and rolls his eyes. “You and that damn movie—yes, angel, we can have a carpet picnic.”

“Yay, okay! Take the bowls, please.”

He hides his grin against the back of your head when you flounce your way into the living room, forgetting all about the goosebumps and shivers you endured when you woke up to a frozen house this morning. You peel the throw blankets off the back of the couch and lay them on the carpet, smoothing out any wrinkles you know Steve will replace in just a few moments.

The bowls are placed on the coffee table, a folded napkin under each. Steve waits patiently at the corner of the blanket, knowing you’ll let him know when he can join.

The lamplight above you catches and glows on your left hand. On the diamond glimmering on your second smallest finger, haloed with beams of orange. When you lift your hands and pass the flames of the fireplace, amber rays pierce through the crystalline gem.

Steve watches all the while. Watches you move your hands, knowing soon your diamond will rest above a wedding band. In a mere month, just a few short weeks—you’ll be his wife.

The thought alone has Steve sinking to his knees. You whip around to scold him for interrupting your process, but squeak in surprise when he catches your face and kisses you. He smells like cold air and leaves and vaguely of the Marlboro smoked a few hours ago. He smells like Steve.

When he pulls away, you sit back on the blanket and grin. “What on earth was that for?”

Steve assumes the spot across from you, kicking his legs out beside you. He reaches for the soup bowls and carefully places yours near your tucked-in knees.

“What was what for?”

You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip and laugh. “Never mind.”

You turn your attention to the chicken noodle soup and Steve turns back to you. Watches through his lashes as you lift your hands and wipe away wisps of hair on your forehead. Black sleeves curled over your knuckles to keep warm, your fingers appear beneath them in delicate form. He wishes to do nothing but kiss them and stare more at that ring.

“Is it not good?”

Steve blinks, lifting his spoon. Your lips are shiny with broth and oil, eyes rounded in his direction. They catch the fire like your ring and they make Steve swallow hard.

“N-no, baby, ‘s good.” He quickly shovels a spoonful of the soup in his mouth to prove it.

You do a little squirm and smile that makes Steve chuckle. He hunches over his lap to slurp the broth and you wrinkle up your nose.

“Ew, Steven.”

His spoon clinks against the bowl when he drops it.

“Heyyy,” he warns playfully. “Don’t start. There was no attitude at their carpet picnic.”

You giggle. “No, but there was a blowjob if I remember correctly.”

Steve lowers his bowl completely, eyes suddenly alert. “Well, that’s welcome any time.”

Broth bubbles with laughter in your bowl. Steve watches you take small, quiet spoonfuls. When he decides you were only joking and there won’t be an immediate gratification for his Pretty Woman joke, Steve goes back to his soup, too.

Soon the soup is gone and the bowls sit empty on the table. You stretch onto your stomach and place your head on Steve’s lap, allowing his fingers to work over your hair. He pulls it free from its confines and smooths it down. Massages your scalp until your eyes flutter. The flames of the fire rest in dancing orange shimmers on your face.

The rain begins again. It comes with a great howling wind, rushing through the trees and shaking colors loose. The house darkens to near nighttime degree. A grey darkness that turns all the candle flames and lamplight in the room warm.

“Will you read to me, Stevie?” you inquire softly.

Steve’s fingers lag in your hair. He shifts, resting back on his palm.

“Uh…I mean—you sure? Y’ know ‘m not very good at it.”

You let your eyes close and smile to yourself. “I’m sure. I love the sound of your voice.”

Steve smooths his palm over the crown of your head, cupping it. With your eyes closed, he’s free to grin down at you and know it’s just for him. Do you have any idea what you do to him?

“Gonna let me up then?”

You hum. “In a minute.”

“Okay,” he murmurs in agreement.

He holds you there a moment longer, watching the fire warm your face; your socked feet cricketing together at the edge of the blanket contentedly.

“Okay,” you say, pushing yourself up. “Now you can go.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he stands. “Spoiled. What am I getting?”

“You pick. I’m gonna bake some cookies.”

Steve watches you bounce back toward the kitchen with both soup bowls. “Well Jesus, have a little faith in me. I know my way around your shelves.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, setting the bowls in the sink. “You want chocolate or snickerdoo—“

Your words die on your tongue, slipping between Steve’s lips. He pinches your jaw in one hand and holds you still, mouth forced to pucker for his gift. He hums when he nips at your bottom lip, licking at his own when he releases you.

“Somethin’ t’ think about while ‘m gone,” he says, a heavy hand popping across the fat of your asscheek before he turns around.

Steve heads toward the stairs, ascending them while doing his best to crane over the railing and watch your flushed reaction until he no longer can. He immediately walks to your library–much smaller than the one back in California, but somehow it captured the girl he met in this very town better than anything in the sunshine state ever could—and directs his attention to your stuffed shelves.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for, and stands for a while just staring aimlessly at the spines with his hands on his hips. He hears you clink and clang around in the kitchen. The beep of the oven. The slam of the oven door. It’s much colder in the library, and Steve swears there’s a draft in your window seat.

He turns to inspect it, pressing one hand firmly on the cold, foggy glass. As he leans over the plaid fabric of your window seat, his thigh nudges the corner of a leather-bound journal. He recognizes it immediately as the same journal always kept on the bedside table and in the bottom of your purse. It's always next to you so long as you can help it.

When he spins it with his finger, the Polaroid used to keep your last page inches its way to the edge. Steve slowly and carefully pulls it from the pages.

He sinks into the window seat when he's met with his own face.

Six years old now, the photograph is still as perfectly intact as the day it was taken. The flash collects in a younger Steve's eyes, making them appear darker than they really are. The film softens the emerald and violet bruise kissing his left cheek that Steve vividly remembers taking weeks to disappear completely.

He knows immediately where he's standing, where the photograph was taken by the color of the wall alone. The soft ballerina pink, the edges of rosebuds from now-outdated wallpaper. The arched mirror of your vanity rests just behind his shoulders, stretched and puffed broadly with the flex of his arms. Though the muscles are concealed beneath a heavy black sweatshirt, embroidered with his recent champion title.

And in the glossy white border just below his stomach where the photograph completes, remains your handwriting.

My boyfriend husband ♡

"Steeeve? Did you find one?"

Steve quickly clambers to his feet, shoving the Polaroid back into its place in the journal. He grabs the book you had sitting on your rumpled blanket on the cushion.

"Yeah, coming!"

His footsteps clunk down the stairs, and he's met with the scent of warm cinnamon when he finds you in the kitchen, wiping down the counter.

You spin with the rag in hand and a small grin. “Hey, did you find one?”

Steve sets the book on the counter gently. Your eyes turn to inspect the cover, surprised to see one of your “stuffiest” options waiting. Steve hates Dracula, and he hates attempting to read anything written before 1950.

Before you can question his choice, Steve takes a slow step toward you.

“How long do the cookies have?” he asks.

You glance at the timer. “Um…ten minutes, why?”

His hands smooth over your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He grips you firmly, stepping until he can fit his head in your neck again. His response comes in the form of his mouth on your throat—latching on with his hot, wet suction. You gasp, hands flying to touch him: one gripping the front of his shirt and the other tangling in his hair.

He hums, releasing your skin to kiss it gently. He moves down, dragging his nose over your skin. His suction returns to the junction between your neck and shoulder, where the tendons are soft and waiting to be bitten. You jolt with a quiet squeak, grip tightening on his collar.

“St-Steve—“

“Shhh.” He moves one hand from your waist to your chin and tips it away to make room for his head on the other side of your throat. “‘s nine minutes now, angel. Come lay down f’ me so we can make the most of it.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the living room again, and you follow silently. Nearly hypnotized by his softness, tongue swollen dumbly in your mouth.

He takes both your hands to lower you down to the station of your carpet picnic. You thump to your knees, and he follows suit only to lay you on your back with his hand supporting the back of your head. When you’re flat, you blink up at him with bated breaths.

Steve smiles, fingers curling into the elastic band of your sweatpants. The house seems hotter than ever, a flaming warmth coating your body as his touch drags down your thighs with your clothing.

“Don’t worry. Your husband’s gonna take care o’ you, angel.”

[msriri030]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Depressed! Reader

cw: suicidal thought

You stared out your bedroom window, your gaze following a house sparrow as it flitted across the blue sky. Its wings cut through the crisp morning air with ease, yet all you felt was an aching emptiness. A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you peeled yourself away from the cocoon of your bed, the warmth fading the moment your feet met the cold, unyielding floor.

“Maybe a shower will help,” you murmured to no one in particular.

The bathroom felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as your depression gnawed at the edges of your protective shell. The air seemed heavier, thick like water pooling in your lungs. You turned the shower knob, listening to the rhythmic patter of water as you stripped off your pajamas, waiting for the steam to creep up the glass and warm the room.

When you stepped under the stream, the water kissed your cold skin with a burn that was almost too sharp but just gentle enough to be bearable. The heat wrapped around you, a temporary refuge from the storm raging inside.

You hoped—desperately—that the water would wash it all away. The weight, the melancholy, the intrusive whispers that never seemed to quiet. Even as your mind raced, you tried to anchor yourself. You repeated softly, almost like a mantra, “It’s okay. I… I love myself.”

The words felt hollow.

Or maybe they were a lie.

But it was a beautiful lie, and maybe that was enough. Maybe believing it, even for a moment, was worth it.

You scrubbed at your skin as if trying to care for yourself in the way you knew you deserved, but the tears betrayed you, slipping silently down your cheeks. They blended seamlessly with the water streaming over your face, hidden but not unnoticed by you. You paused, letting out a shaky breath as you leaned against the shower wall, eyes closed.

When you finally turned off the water, the bathroom was heavy with steam, the air damp against your skin. As you reached for a towel, your gaze landed on the neatly folded clothes on the counter—clothes you hadn’t left there.

Your breath hitched, a flicker of warmth breaking through the fog.

Your husband.

He’d left them for you, anticipating the small comforts you might need. As you picked them up, you noticed they were warm, the heat still lingering as if he’d just taken them out of the dryer. A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the tightness in your chest.

He always noticed, didn’t he? You could never truly hide your feelings from him.

You held the clothes to your face, inhaling their warmth and faint scent. The gesture felt almost instinctive, a small attempt to ground yourself. But the tenderness of his act overwhelmed you, and tears welled up again, threatening to spill over.

You sniffed, swallowing hard to push them back. You didn’t want to cry. Not now.

You scolded yourself silently. I shouldn’t cry. There’s no reason to cry. I need to suck it up. The words echoed from years of conditioning, the lessons drilled into you by your parents. But the tears didn’t care. They hovered there, a testament to the feelings you tried so hard to suppress.

Taking a deep, centering breath, you blinked them away, the threat of breaking down receding slightly. Once you felt steady, you dressed slowly, letting the warmth of the clothes wrap around you like an embrace.

Once you were dressed, you shuffled your way to the kitchen, the faint smell of breakfast guiding you. There it was, laid out neatly on the counter—a plate of fluffy pancakes, golden eggs, and homemade hash browns. The meal was carefully wrapped in plastic, a thoughtful touch to keep the food fresh and free from any pests.

You approached it slowly, almost hesitant. You weren’t hungry, not really, but you knew better than to skip a meal. It wasn’t about hunger—it was about taking care of yourself, even if you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

Sliding into the chair, you unwrapped the plate and began eating in quiet bites. The food was good, warm and comforting in a way you didn’t quite expect. Still, the act of eating felt mechanical, your movements slow and deliberate.

The familiar lump in your throat threatened to rise again, and you sniffed, willing yourself not to break down. You closed your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself. One step at a time, you thought, echoing the mantra that had carried you this far.

When you opened your eyes again, you noticed the small card tucked to the side of the plate. It hadn’t been there before—or maybe you’d been too caught up in your thoughts to notice. Picking it up, you read the simple, scrawled phrase:

You got this, Doll!

A soft smile tugged at your lips, fragile but genuine. Simon. Even when he wasn’t there, he had a way of finding the cracks in your armor and mending them, piece by piece.

You sighed, setting the card aside and finishing your meal. Once you were done, you stood and set about tidying up the house. It wasn’t much, but it felt like progress. Small victories against the weight pressing down on you.

You turned on some music, letting the sound fill the spaces in your mind that the dark thoughts so often claimed. The steady rhythm of the songs became a lifeline as you moved from room to room.

By the time you started washing the dishes, your chest felt a little lighter. But then, without warning, that heaviness crept back in. Like a sudden wave, the weight in your chest pushed down, stealing the air from your lungs. Your breaths grew shallow, rapid, the world closing in around you.

Not now. Please, not now.

You gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady yourself, but the panic clawed at your mind, refusing to relent. The thoughts came flooding in—your failures, the unresolved problems that loomed over you, the insecurities that whispered lies in your ears.

You tried to focus on the running water, the feel of it splashing over your hands, anything to anchor yourself. But it wasn’t working. The pressure was too much, and the voices in your head grew louder, urging you to succumb.

And then your eyes landed on the knife you were washing.

It was so simple, so easy, the voices whispered. It could all stop. The pressure, the pain, the endless fight—it could all fade away.

Your hand trembled as you held the blade. Tears blurred your vision as you fought against the pull of those dark thoughts. The voices were deafening, the weight suffocating.

“Doll?”

The voice cut through the noise like a beacon, grounding you. Your head snapped toward the doorway, where Simon stood. His broad frame filled the space, his face shadowed with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but firm, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the trembling in your hands, the knife clattering as you dropped it into the sink, and the way you stumbled back like you needed to put distance between yourself and the thoughts that had almost consumed you.

You couldn’t find the words to answer him, your throat constricted with the weight of everything. Tears threatened to spill.

Simon didn’t press you. He crossed the kitchen in a few long strides, his movements deliberate but gentle. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. Instead, he reached out, his warm hands steadying you as he guided you to sit at the kitchen table.

“Breathe, Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he crouched beside you. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You nodded shakily, focusing on his voice, his presence. Slowly, the storm inside began to settle, the waves receding enough for you to catch your breath.

Simon stayed by your side, his hand never leaving yours, as though anchoring you to reality. His thumb traced small circles against your skin, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone in this fight.

Finally, when your breathing evened out, he tilted his head to meet your gaze. His eyes were soft, filled with a quiet understanding that made fresh tears spring to your eyes. But this time, they weren’t tears of despair.

“I’m here,” he said simply, his voice a promise.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the tears began to fall again. “I tried to hold it together, but I couldn’t. I feel… angry, and hurt. And I don’t even know why.”

The words tumbled out between sobs, raw and unfiltered, like a dam breaking under the weight of everything you’d tried so hard to suppress. You wiped at your face with trembling hands, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was futile.

Simon sighed softly, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned in, wrapping his strong arms around you. His embrace was warm and steady, grounding you as you crumbled in his hold.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Let it out, Doll. You don’t have to hold it all in.”

His words were a balm, allowing you to fully release the emotions that had been suffocating you. You buried your face against his chest, your sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he held you tighter, one hand gently running up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

Simon didn’t rush you, didn’t say anything more. He just listened, his steady presence a reminder that you weren’t alone in this, even if it felt like it.

You cried until there was nothing left, the tension in your body slowly melting away as the storm inside you quieted. Your breaths were uneven, but the tightness in your chest had eased.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice hoarse as you pulled back slightly, though Simon’s arms stayed firmly around you.

He shook his head, his thumb brushing away a tear that lingered on your cheek. “Stop that,” he said gently. “You don’t need to apologize for feeling. It’s not weakness to let it out.”

“But I—”

“No ‘buts,’” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “You’ve been trying to carry too much on your own. You don’t have to do that anymore. You’ve got me, Doll.”

His words struck something deep within you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe them.

“Thank you,” you said softly, leaning into his chest again.

Simon rested his chin atop your head, his arms still holding you securely. “Always.”

And in that moment, as his steady heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you felt a fragile sense of peace beginning to take root—a small but vital reminder that you didn’t have to face this alone.

Simon guided you to the couch, his hand resting gently on your back as he steered you. When he sat down, he pulled you onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a fortress. You protested at first, mumbling something about being fine, but he wasn’t having it.

“Lay down, Doll,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sniffled, giving him a pout that you knew usually worked in your favor, but not this time. His lips twitched into a rare smile, and a soft chuckle rumbled through his chest.

“It’s not funny,” you grumbled, crossing your arms in mock defiance.

“Sure thing, Doll,” he teased, clearly unfazed by your attempt to sound serious.

Before you could fire back, Simon grabbed the remote and put on your comfort show—the one he always claimed was "mind-numbing" and “rotten for your brain.”

Your eyes widened, and you looked up at him, surprised. “You’re really putting this on?”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You like it. That’s all that matters.”

Warmth spread through your chest at his unexpected gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who did things halfway—if it made you feel better, he’d endure just about anything, even a show he despised.

Before you could thank him, Simon laid down with you, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. It was unhurried yet intense, a silent promise wrapped in affection. When he finally pulled back, your cheeks were burning, and you quickly buried your face in his shirt to hide the blush.

His arms tightened around you, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making you nuzzle into him further.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt the weight on your chest ease. As the show played in the background and Simon’s steady breathing mixed with the sound of his heartbeat, you found yourself slowly relaxing.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly against his chest.

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Anything for you, Doll.”

And as his warmth surrounded you, you realized that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay—because with Simon by your side, you knew you wouldn’t have to face your struggles alone.

[winxanity-ii]

Had a dream where Nanami has cold hands and Reader has warm hands. So Nanami likes to hold Reader’s hands a lot.

“Your hands are warm...” he said softly, he had a really soft look on his face, maybe longing?

“You’re hands are so cold!” I say in shock as I try to warm up one of his hands.

hehehe, hope you enjoy it.. ❤️

ICE TO THE TOUCH

ship: nanami x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 2.6k A/N: just a cute lil one-shot that was requested...

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sky outside your apartment was a canvas of dark greys, heavy clouds rolling lazily across the city skyline.

The rain had been relentless since the early hours of the morning, painting the world in a muted palette of blues and silvers. You sat perched on the windowsill, fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea, your breath fogging up the glass as you watched the storm rage on.

The city seemed quieter like this, blanketed under the weight of the downpour. The sound of rain pattering against the window was comforting—a rhythmic lullaby that made the world beyond the glass feel distant, almost unreal.

You shifted slightly, the oversized sweater draped over your frame shifting with you; it was so large that it nearly swallowed you whole.

The sleeves slipped past your hands, the hem brushing against your knees as you absentmindedly pushed the fabric up for the umpteenth time, your fingertips peeking out just enough to cradle the warm mug.

It was late, the kind of late where the day still clung stubbornly to the edges of dusk, refusing to let go. The city lights were muted under the grey veil of clouds, and for a moment, everything felt still.

Peaceful.

You took another sip of your tea, the warmth spreading through you as your gaze drifted to the dark clouds above.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't hear the keys jingling until the front door creaked open. A familiar hulking figure shuffled inside, letting out a tired groan that made your lips curve into a smile.

You turned slightly, glancing over your shoulder.

"Rough day at work?" you teased softly, the corners of your mouth lifting as you watched your fiancé struggle to kick off his shoes without collapsing from exhaustion.

Nanami Kento, still in his slightly rumpled suit, grumbled something incoherent under his breath, his voice low and gravelly from hours of strain. He tossed his jacket over the back of the couch and set his briefcase down with a heavy sigh. "Dumbass Gojo," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear... He's going to be the death of me."

You chuckled softly, turning back to look out at the rain as Kento shuffled over to the couch, slumping down with another groan. His usual sharp demeanor was completely undone, replaced by a rare vulnerability as he rubbed a hand over his face.

The sight made your heart ache a little.

You knew how much he cared and how seriously he took his work. But sometimes, it took a toll on him.

Setting your mug down on the windowsill, you slipped off your perch and padded over to him, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor.

The sweater hung loosely around your frame, the sleeves slipping past your hands again as you reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"Want me to make you some tea?" you offered, your voice soft, the smile on your lips gentle as you looked down at him.

Kento cracked one eye open, his gaze softening when he saw you standing there, the light from the window casting a soft halo around you. "That would be nice," he murmured, his hand reaching out to take yours, his fingers cold against your warm skin. He squeezed your hand gently, the touch lingering.

You nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in return before slipping away to the kitchen. You could feel his eyes on you, the warmth of his gaze lingering long after you'd turned away.

As you busied yourself with the kettle, you could hear him shifting on the couch, the soft rustle of fabric, and the quiet sigh that followed as he stretched out. You glanced over your shoulder, watching as he finally relaxed, the tension melting away from his broad shoulders as he let his head fall back against the cushions.

It wasn't long before you returned, a steaming cup of tea in your hands. Kento's eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, but he stirred as you approached, his fingers reaching out instinctively for yours.

You set the tea down on the coffee table, leaning down to give him a small kiss before padding back over to your little spot.

It wasn't long before Kento joined you by the windowsill, his large frame blocking out the wanning light as he leaned down. Without warning, he slid his arms under your knees and back, scooping you up effortlessly as he maneuvered himself into your spot.

You let out a surprised shriek, dissolving into giggles as he shifted you around like you were nothing more than a cozy blanket.

His movements were deliberate, making sure you were positioned just right on his lap, your legs draped over his thighs and your back nestled against his broad chest.

"Kenni!" you squealed, your laughter filling the room as he settled in with a satisfied sigh. His large hands splayed across your thighs, pulling you closer against him, and you could feel the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

"Much better," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before resting his chin on top of your head, his arms wrapping around you securely.

You snuggled into him, your head tucked under his chin as your fingers traced idle patterns on his chest. His hands rubbed soothingly along your spine, the pads of his fingers tapping rhythmically against your lower back.

It was a simple gesture, but it made your heart flutter all the same.

A peaceful silence settled over you both, the only sound being the soft patter of rain against the window and the distant hum of city life settling down outside.

You closed your eyes, content to simply bask in his presence, your earlier thoughts and worries slipping away like the rainwater trailing down the glass.

Kento was the first to break the silence, his voice a gentle murmur in your ear. "How was your day, love?"

You sighed softly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you shifted slightly in his lap, your cheek resting against his chest. "Well, the weather canceled half of my classes, so I had a lot more free time than I expected."

Kento hummed in acknowledgment, his hands stilling for a moment before resuming their gentle caress along your spine. "Did you use it to catch up on anything?"

You nodded, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt as you continued. "Yeah, actually. I finally had the chance to catch up on all that internet drama and conspiracy theories I’ve been neglecting." You chuckled, your voice light with amusement as you recalled the absurdity of it all. "You wouldn't believe some of the things people were talking about back in 2017-2019. It’s like a treasure trove of weird, forgotten nonsense."

Kento's chest rumbled with a soft laugh, his fingers tapping idly against your thigh. "Oh really? Like what?"

"Well," you began, shifting slightly to look up at him, "there was this whole thing about a supposed secret Hollywood cult that's been manipulating the media for decades." You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it, your smile widening as Kento raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"Hollywood cult?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "People actually believe that?"

"Oh, it gets better," you said, your voice brimming with enthusiasm as you launched into the details, recounting the bizarre theories that people had pieced together from cryptic tweets and red carpet photos.

You told him about the strange coincidences, the rumored secret meetings, and the internet sleuths who had dedicated countless hours to unraveling the supposed conspiracy.

Kento listened with a soft smile, occasionally humming in response or asking for clarification when you mentioned some obscure celebrity or internet figure he wasn't familiar with. You couldn't help but giggle at his confusion whenever you brought up a particularly ridiculous theory.

Halfway through your mini-ramble, your words died in your throat, replaced by a sudden shriek as Kento's hands slid up under the hem of your sweater. His fingers, ice-cold against your warm skin, brushed teasingly across your upper thighs and stomach.

You squirmed in his lap, your breath hitching as you tried to twist out of his hold. "K-Kenni!" you whined, your voice a breathless plea as you wriggled against him, only managing to press yourself closer. "Your hands are cold!"

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest as he tightened his hold on you, his hands stubbornly remaining beneath your sweater.

You finally managed to twist around enough to face him, your eyes locking with his as you pouted up at him, a mix of exasperation and affection dancing in your gaze.

Up close, you could see the weariness etched across his features.

The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, a testament to the sleepless nights and long hours he'd been putting in at work. His usually neat blond hair was in disarray, a few strands falling messily across his forehead, giving him a boyish charm that tugged at your heart.

Kento's lips twitched into a soft smile as he looked down at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that familiar way that made your heart flutter. "Can't help it when you're so warm," he muttered, his voice low and slightly hoarse as he squeezed your waist, his thumbs brushing against your skin.

You let out another burst of giggles, your head falling back against his shoulder as you tried to squirm away from his ticklish touch. "Stop!" you protested weakly, your laughter filling the small apartment as you managed to free your hands, reaching up to cradle his face.

He immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he hummed softly, the tension in his shoulders melting away. Your fingers traced the lines of his face gently, brushing over the small stubble on his jaw and the tired lines beneath his eyes. "You really should rest, you know," you murmured, your voice soft with concern as your thumb swept across his cheekbone.

Kento sighed, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, the warmth in his gaze making your heart skip a beat. "I know... I've been working non-stop all day in the cold rain," he replied, his voice still tinged with exhaustion. "But coming home to you has to be my favorite part of it all..." He took your hands in his, raising them to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're always so warm."

Heat spread across your cheeks at his words, your heart swelling with affection as you smiled up at him. "That's because I stay inside like a normal person," you teased lightly, earning a soft chuckle from him as his hands squeezed yours gently.

"Maybe I should start staying inside more often," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips.

"Fine, I guess I'll be your personal heater then," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper as you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, watching as his eyes darkened slightly, the warmth in his gaze making your stomach flutter.

Kento's lips curved into a small smile as he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a soft hum of contentment. "I'd like that," he murmured, his voice low and intimate as he nuzzled his nose against your palm, his breath ghosting over your skin.

You felt your heart melt at the sight of him so relaxed, his usually stern features softened by the tender affection in his eyes. "You're too sweet, you know that?" you whispered as you cupped his face, your fingers threading through his hair.

He let out a soft laugh, his hands slipping back under your sweater to rest against your hips, his thumbs tracing gentle circles against your skin. "Only for you..." he muttered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that made your heart skip a beat.

You sighed softly against his mouth, your hands slipping down to his shoulders as you melted into the kiss, the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

Just as Kento's hands began to trail up your back, his touch sending sparks of warmth through your veins, a sudden blaring sound shattered the peaceful silence.

You both froze, your lips still inches apart as his phone continued to ring obnoxiously from the pocket of his discarded jacket.

Kento groaned, his head falling back against the couch with a heavy sigh. "I swear, if it's Gojo..." he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching slightly as he reached over to grab his phone.

You bit back a smile, your fingers brushing against his as he pulled the device out of his pocket, his expression a mix of annoyance and resignation. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly before he answered the call with a curt, "Hello, Nanami speaking."

You barely had time to cover your mouth to stifle your laughter as a loud, exaggerated whine echoed from the other end of the line.

"Nami~ I can't believe you really stood me up to go home to your fiancée!" Gojo's voice was a dramatic drawl, and you could practically see the pout on his face through the phone. "I thought we were besties!"

Kento's brow twitched in irritation, his jaw tightening as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gojo, it's seven in the evening," he said slowly, his voice laced with barely concealed frustration. "And I just got home from a thirteen-hour shift."

"But Nami! You promised we'd get ramen together after work! You even said you'd pay!"

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped, your eyes sparkling with amusement as Kento shot you a look, his lips twitching as he tried to suppress a smile.

"I never promised a damn thing," he replied flatly, his fingers rubbing small circles against your waist as he spoke. "And I'm not going to pay for your ridiculous eating habits."

"But Nami—"

"Goodbye, Gojo." Kento hung up mid-sentence, his thumb tapping the screen with a finality that made you burst into laughter, your head falling against his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

Kento sighed, his eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the couch. "I don't know how you put up with me," he muttered, his lips twitching into a small, tired smile as he looked down at you, his eyes soft with affection.

You grinned, reaching up to cup his cheek as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw. "It's not that hard when you're this cute," you teased, your voice light and playful as you nuzzled against his neck.

Kento chuckled softly, his hands slipping up to cradle your face as he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that made your heart flutter.

"Thank you," he murmured against your lips, his voice barely a whisper as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "For being here. For putting up with me."

Your heart swelled at his words, your fingers tracing the lines of his face as you smiled up at him, your eyes shining with love. "Always, Kento," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned up to capture his lips in another kiss. "Always."

A/N: y'all ignore anything that doesn't make sense, tbh i'm just like kento with icy hands so it was hard asf to imagine what it feels like to be the heater 😔what started out as a small 1k fic turned to 2.5k 😩 sorry just was lost in the delusions of having a man...also, whoever sent this ask, thank you 😭 this was so theraputic/beautiful to write i just had take some time to fully write out this daydream your ask sparked. ❤️

[throneofsmut]

Kinktober Day 13: In Public

Ruhn Danaan x Reader || WC: 611

The bite of the cold glass window on your peaked nipples sends shivers down your spine. “Ruhn,” you mutter anxiously, “what if someone sees us?”

One of his tattooed hands snakes up the back of your neck, up into your hair as he threads his fingers in the strands. “I want them too, my love.” The other splays against your tummy, applying pressure as he thrusts into you. 

“Ru!” Your hands slam against the glass window giving you enough leverage to push back into him. Meeting him stroke for stroke. “That’s why we’re fucking in the living room, at night with the lights on? So everyone can see me?”

He slides in and holds you to him, grinding himself against you. He places kisses on your back, shoulder, and up your neck. “So everyone can see us.” He whispers into your ear. His lips tickling the soft skin. 

Something in your tummy flutters at his words and you rock your hips gently, making him groan. “Don’t you want them to see how beautiful you look taking my cock?”

Your heartbeat quickens. Your breathy moan makes the glass fog for a couple seconds. 

He tilts your hips, pulling out and pushing backing. “Or how you look like a goddess when  I make you cum?” 

“Yeah-h,” you breathe. 

He picks up the pace. Plunging in and out. “The way your perfect tits bounce when you pant.” You take in a deep breath, your chest straining against the glass window. 

He licks your pulse point on your neck. “The way your pretty little pussy quivers around my cock.” His hand that was gripping your hip moves to stroke your clit. 

You drop a hand from the window and place it atop his, urging his fingers to swirl over your clit faster. A content sigh leaves you and you close your eyes. Basking in his touch. 

You fuck back onto him, skin prickling from the budding pleasure, the muscles in your tummy and thighs tensing. “Love,” he rasps.

“Ruhn.”

“Open your eyes,” he instructs. You do, exhaling sharply at the sight in front of you. Shuddering as goosebumps bloom all over your body. 

Fae, angels, shifters, and other crescent city inhabitants all watch you and Ruhn. Some are on the street below, others in the building across from you. Their chests rising and falling with shallow breaths, their pupils blown wide, making their eyes look almost entirely black. 

Some of them touch themselves discreetly over their clothes. Others, touch themselves under their clothes. The bolder males have their cocks out, stroking themselves. While the bolder females tweak their nipples, rubbing tight little circles on their clits. 

You can’t help the smirk settling over your lips. “All their eyes are on you,” Ruhn groans. “They’re captivated by you.” You nod, before turning your head to look at him. He’s smirking too, the perfect picture of pure male satisfaction. 

“Keep your eyes on them as you cum.” 

“Okay,” you hum. Struggling to keep your eyes open as his fingers glide over your clit while he slams into you. “Cum with me?”

“Whatever you want, love.” 

You see some of the males spill their loads while some of the females gush on their hands. 

“Ruhn,” you whimper.

“Let go, I’m right behind you.”

Your hands fall to his thighs pulling him deep into you as your legs tremble. Everyone’s eyes on you setting your body alight with pleasure as you cum on Ruhn’s cock with a shattered cry. His cock twitching inside of you as his cum floods your quivering cunt. 

Both of you satisfied and spent just like the males and females who came from watching you.

****

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Main Masterlist

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

[zackprincebooks]

🥘Feast Day 🥘

As a kitchen serf in the fortress-monastery, you love feeding your lord angels. If your meager work is one of the few pleasures they can enjoy in their endless war, then you are happy to serve. But your decadent meals are not the only pleasure they seek, and you will come to serve in a different way. (Gadriel x Reader, explicit. 2nd person PoV, Reader is not addressed with a name or gendered pronouns.)

Want to read this on Ao3? Click here!

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

Fragrant steam rises from the kitchen, fogging up the glasses of the head chef as you open the oven to remove your roasting pan. Some juices dribble off the saber bear roast and splash into the oven, making a sizzling sound and producing even more steam.

“Careful! We still need to braise the grand chestnuts in the sauce, so don’t lose too much jus.” The Master of the Refectorium cleans his glasses on his apron and puts them on, groaning as they immediately fog up again. You take a knee to remove the roasting pan, huffing as your sweaty, mitted hands struggle to lift it onto the counter. 

“I need an extra pair of hands here!” Immediately three people rush to your side as the roasting pan threatens to tip over, pushing it back with their hands wrapped in dish towels. Together, you hoist the roasting pan onto some trivets waiting on the counter. Your fellows clap you on the back and one of them offers you a towel. 

“Many thanks.” You wipe your glistening brow with the proffered towel before throwing it over your shoulder. “If I dropped this and wasted eight hours of roasting, I couldn’t show my face around the monastery.” The thought of explaining to the Lord Angels that they would go without dinner was enough to make your knees weak. 

You didn’t fear them; you loved them with every inch of your weak, mortal heart. Feeding the Emperor’s Angels was a holy duty in and of itself, and you could not meet their disappointed gaze if you had to tell them you ruined one of their few pleasures in life. 

The saucier takes the pan of drippings over to the stove with a bottle of wine and a sack of chestnuts, and you are forced to wash the pan’s rack as you let the roast rest on the counter. It’s watching you, teasingly, begging you to cut into it to check if the inside is done. For such a powerful animal, saber bear meat was notoriously finicky. One minute over its extensive roasting time, and those delicate proteins would start breaking down into gray, unpalatable mush.

“Are you trying to kill it again?” Your saucier teases, giving the chestnuts a little flip. Drops of wine sauce glitter in the air like precious garnets, but your focus is directed towards your precious roast. Every time someone walks by, your breath hitches for fear that they would accidentally knock it to the floor—despite the roast being too big and heavy for anyone but a Space Marine to nudge it off the counter.

Finally—fucking finally—you can cut into it. It’s a thing of beauty; adorned with spices and herbs and the carving knife cuts through it like butter. Each plump slice is a beautiful ruby red, adorned with glittering pearls of fat. More juice spills from each cut, flowing over your knife like reams of crimson silk. You swallow the desire to fawn over the individual slices; it will be almost dinner time, and serving the lords cold, flaccid meat would be a bigger disappointment than serving nothing at all! 

You’re halfway through slicing the roast when you hear the distant sound of a bell ringing, heralding the approach of the Lord Angels. Despite that, you hold off on cutting faster; the roast needs to rest for a second time before you can serve it, and you will have plenty of time during the first course. Nothing but the best for your angels.

The metal window opens up to the dining hall, and you briefly look up from your work to admire the gathered angels.  Many of them have come from the baths with hair still damp and cheeks flushed red from steam. Sometimes you envy the bath serfs, who tend to the lords at their most vulnerable, but you would never relinquish the joy you feel from filling their bellies.

Their first course is an array of broiled root vegetables, many of them slathered in cheese, erdripper bacon, or both. While you bemoan the sheer amount of grease and fat, reaching the ten-thousand calories required to keep a Space Marine fed and running was no easy feat. At least they were getting their vegetables, and not fully subsisting on nutrigruel and amino-porridge. You shudder to think of what your angels eat on the battlefield without your spoon and pan!

Lord Gadriel glimpses you cutting your roast, and his blue eyes light up. “I hope that’s for me later,” he says with a smile, nodding towards you. His blond hair is damp from the baths and the light glances off it, giving him a true halo. You blush and look down, continuing to cut.

From behind him, Lord Chairon lets out a deep throated chuckle that rattles your ribcage. “Don’t be greedy, brother! Leave some for us! That’s a prize of a roast.” He thwaps Gadriel on his bare bicep with a powerful fist and you watch it bounce.

When Gadriel takes his first course, he levels his gaze at you and the warmth in your lower belly tells you he’s not thinking about the roast. -------------------------------

If your fellow cooks knew you wanted to stay late to get a slice of the saber bear roast to yourself, they didn’t show it. The master bids you goodnight, tossing his soiled apron into the hamper as he leaves.

To your credit, you do wash, chop, and wrap the chimera fruit and cobblemoss in preparation for breakfast tomorrow, and you’re in the middle of cleaning your workstation when you hear footsteps down the hall leading to the kitchen doors. The bulky shadow on the opposite wall makes your heart throb in your chest and you abandon the washrag on the counter to approach the double doors.

“Lord Gadriel, may I assist you? Was tonight’s dinner not enough to satisfy you?” While mealtime was over, the kitchen was open to anyone who needed food.

He smiles at you, his head tilting to one side. “I am quite satisfied by tonight’s meal; it was delicious. Thank you for your hard work. I have never gone hungry, so long as you are in the kitchen. But I feel as though you have gone unsatisfied…”

Your breath stutters as your gaze drifts down to the bulge in Gadriel’s sweatpants. It felt too obscene to see that part of an angel; to know that they lusted and wanted just as a fragile mortal. It feels even worse to stare at it, but when you drag your gaze up to Gadriel’s face, you find his expression is as hungry as his body. Your legs clench as though you can feel his tongue against the apex of your thighs as he licks his lips.

“I would never demand you to feed me, my lord,” you protest weakly.

“Nor would answer your demand,” Gadriel counters. You try to hold your ground as he advances, but Gadriel's oppressive weight eventually pushes you against the steel wall behind you. It cools your sizzling skin but doesn't temper the flame of your arousal.

One of Gadriel's hands reaches out to touch the meat of your bottom lip, skimming the bite marks in the soft flesh. You can smell the nourishing oils from his bath earlier, making his skin soft and tender. You resist the urge to lick it, even though your mouth is watering.

“I want you to beg for it.” His growling voice makes your belly clench. Suddenly you feel horrifically empty; starving to feel Gadriel inside of you even if he would shred you alive.

“Please feed me, my lord. Fill me with your need and allow me to sate you.” Your lips brush against Gadriel’s thumb with each word, and you punctuate your pleas with a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb.

“Open wide,” is his only warning before Gadriel pushes you to the floor. He's gentle about it, but for an angel, it means you're lucky that your knees don't break when they impact with the floor. He winces when you do, and whispers “sorry,” as he runs his fingers through your hair as penance. With his opposite hand, Gadriel slowly pulls down his sweatpants until his cock manages to pop out. He's not as long as you expected him to be, but he is deliciously thick and veiny, with a large, red head. The dusting of golden hair on his crotch is well-groomed…had he been expecting you? 

Waiting for you?

Wanting you?

This is a delicacy to be savored. Opening your mouth, you press a sucking kiss to the head of his cock before sticking out your tongue to wet his slit. He's still too long for you to take him wholly into your mouth, so you use one hand to stroke what you cannot reach as your mouth slowly engulfs him.

Gadriel's primal groan is sweet on your ears, as is his hand pushing your face further into his groin. The head of his cock bumps the back of your throat and your futile attempts to relax your throat to take more only make you gag sloppily. A dribble of saliva is forced out from the corner of your mouth with his next thrust.

If looking at Gadriel's bulging cock was obscene, this is a blessing. Your only lament is that you cannot take the whole of his cock into your mouth so that he could properly fuck your throat. But you take some sadistic pleasure in watching the tremble of his hips as he valiantly holds himself back.

The hallway behind the kitchen is soon filled with the wet noises of your sucking and Gadriel's deep moans. Your muffled whimpering joins in as your free hand dives under your apron and into your pants to touch yourself. It feels wrong to take your pleasure when Gadriel hasn't finished, but the burning between your legs is only heightened by his noises.

Your sounds do not go unnoticed by his sensitive hearing, and his chuckle sends shivers down your spine. “Does this make you feel good? I can make you feel even better than your mere fingers. Would you like that?”

With your eyes watery, your lips puffy, and your face red with exertion, you're sure you look like a mess. But Gadriel's blue gaze is soft as he watches your mouth contract around his cock.

“Would you like that?” He repeats, gentler this time, and you nod, unintentionally bobbing around his cock so his breath stutters. “G-good.”

Your whine of pleasure turns to one of disappointment as Gadriel pulls his cock from your mouth, glistening with your saliva. You don't even have time to wipe your lips before Gadriel tugs you to your feet with one hand on your shoulder.

Lifting you against the wall until you're at eye-level with him, Gadriel pulls you in for a kiss. It muffles your initial “mmph!” on impact, but Gadriel's lips coax softer sounds out of you. You can taste the slight sweetness of cream on his mouth from tonight's dessert. Pressed between the bulk of his chest and the unforgiving wall, you just barely fit your arms around Gadriel's shoulders to run up and down his back. Under your hands, his broad shoulders flex and bulge.

Your kiss breaks with a quiet smacking sound and Gadriel steps back for a moment. He takes the time to step out of his pants, though he doesn't remove his shirt. There's a thin sheen of sweat gathering at his collar that you want to lick, but it dawns on you that you’re in the middle of a hallway behind the kitchen.

“My l-lord, should w-we really b-be doing this?” Gadriel’s hand pauses as he reaches for the strings of your apron.

“Do you want to? If you are afraid of the consequences, then I will cover for you. It is no trouble,” he says quickly as you open your mouth. “I want this.”

“I want this, too. I just feel a little…” You gesture to the hallway. “Exposed. And we are not fucking in the kitchen.”

Gadriel chuckles, pressing his powerful arms against the wall. His head tilts downwards until you are fully boxed in, sheltered by his body. Occasionally, you can feel his breath feathering the top of your hair. “Still feeling exposed?”

“Not anymore, my lord.” You smile at him, which he returns.

You meet again for another kiss; gentler this time. Gadriel's jaw rubs yours and you can feel the stubble under his chin where he missed shaving in the bath. His hands slide down your body, spanning the entire length of your ribcage before dipping down to cup your ass and lift once more against the wall. He breaks the kiss and tilts down to kiss your neck before nibbling. It's almost ticklish, and you giggle for a second until he bites.

“Oh, oh,” one of your legs attempts to kick out but Gadriel holds you firmly against the wall. Almost as if he's showing off, he holds you with one hand while his other unties the strings of your apron.

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. You manage a trembling no, and he nips underneath your right ear. Gadriel lets go of your legs again and backs up by a half step.

“Turn around for me and put your hands against the wall for me...yes, just like that.” Gadriel presses a fleeting kiss you the back of your neck before his weight leaves you. You feel his bulk settling somewhere behind you, under you, and his hands reach around to your front in order to unbuckle your belt and pull down your pants. The cool air hits your bare skin, but even as Gadriel pulls down your underwear, you still don't feel chilled. Not when his warm hands are caressing your ass and spreading your cheeks to reveal your tight hole.

“Now this is a treat,” he murmurs under his breath before leaning in and licking a stripe up your crack. The warmth and wetness of his tongue on your most intimate and vulnerable place makes you melt and moan. Your breath fogs up the steel wall as you pant from his questing tongue.

Not only is he skilled, but he is also relentless. Gadriel assaults your tight pucker with licks and sucks; if anyone dared to walk down this hallway, they wouldn't need to round the corner to hear the lewd noises that bounce off the walls. You hide your burning red face in your folded arms against the wall, but it does nothing to quiet your moaning and whimpering.

Once your hole is properly wetted, Gadriel sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. You dare to look over your shoulder down at him. His expression is so fucking smug that it would be almost insulting, if it weren't for the fact that you were both naked from the waist down.

“You're being very good,” he murmurs, giving your ass a squeeze, “just a little longer, all right? I don't want to hurt you.”

“All right.” You turn your face back into your arms, but not before you watch Gadriel insert three fingers into his mouth. There's a soft sucking noise, akin to the sound he made while he ate your ass. He wets them thoroughly and pulls them out of his mouth with a pop.

Though your previous experiences with anal were few and far between, you know enough that you don't flinch when the first of Gadriel's thick fingers breaches your asshole. He's loosened you enough so there's nothing more than a brief pinching sensation before he's able to start pushing in and out.

“You're very tight in here,” Gadriel muses, “has it been a long time?” When you hesitate, he kisses the swell of your ass cheek. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“It's been a while,” you hedge, “with, ah, work and everything.”

“You work so hard,” and Gadriel thrusts more forcefully on the word hard, making you gasp, “let me help you relax.” He adds a second finger, and you moan at the stretch.

You attempt to raise a counterpoint, “I-I serve...the angels...”

“Then let me serve you, for a chance.” Gadriel spreads his fingers apart to scissor you open. “I wasn't lying when I said I'm always satisfied with your meals. You feed me so well.”

When he adds the third finger, your vision goes white. Your moaning has turned into sobbing, tears of pleasure running down your cheeks. You could cum like this if not for the larger prize awaiting you.

Gadriel seems to notice, and he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, making a lewd, squelching sound. You don't know whether you're more turned on by the sound or by what it means when Gadriel stands up. You attempt to brace yourself against the wall for the punishing pounding you're about to receive, but Gadriel grasps you by the waist and turns you around one final time.

“I want to see you when I take you.” You lean on him to untie your shoes and take your pants off all the way, and when he lifts you in his arms one final time, his blue eyes fill you with warmth.

“Thank you.”

This is a familiar position for you by now, with your thighs bracketing Gadriel's sides and his chest pressed against yours—only this time, the head of Gadriel's cock rubs against your stretched, wet hole. You rock your hips until it catches the rim of your ass. You're not sure who gasps when the head sinks into you.

You scrabble for purchase on Gadriel's back and he holds you closer, sinking in little by little. “Angel,” you choke into his ear, and he responds with a cracked moan of your name.

He's so big. That's the only thing running through your mind. Though you held Gadriel's cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago, it somehow feels longer and thicker as he sinks you down onto it. When you feel his balls on the swell of your ass, you can't help looking down to make sure there's not a bulge in your stomach.

“It's in?” Gadriel pants, and you nod.

“It's in. A-all of it. Oh, Throne, I took all of it...” He chuckles weakly, kissing your temple. 

“Do you think you're ready for me to move?”

“Yes!” The word is barely out of your mouth before Gadriel thrusts, pushing you upwards against the wall. You scrabble for purchase on his back, rucking up his shirt and exposing some of his ports.

“So tight, am I hurting you? You feel...so good.” Gadriel pants directly into your ear, his warm breath cascading down the collar of your shirt.

“No, doesn't hurt, but—” Gadriel fucking stops and you muffle your scream by biting his shoulder. “It feels like you're splitting me in half!”

“That's the plan,” he huffs, and resumes thrusting. The positioning is a little awkward; you almost wish Gadriel took you from behind. But on a particularly harsh thrust that makes your toes curl, you watch Gadriel's lips part softly and his eyes roll back into his head.

That alone makes everything worth it.

Despite your best efforts, you cum first. Gadriel holds you through it, continuing to grind his cock into your asshole so you can ride it out. When you pull back, you stammer your apologies at the wet spot your orgasm left on his shirt.

“No, don’t apologize. It was beautiful.” Gadriel kisses you, gently wiping your tears with his thumb. “Do you want me to cum in you?” When he grinds into you again, you swear his balls feel fuller than before.

“Please, Gadriel,” you whimper, and his next kiss devours your mouth. You can barely breathe even through your nose as your oversensitive ass is pounded by Gadriel’s cock, molding your hole to its shape. When Gadriel pulls away, the long string of saliva connecting your mouth snaps as his head throws back with a deep moan. You seize the moment to pounce and bite down on his exposed neck, relishing in the whine Gadriel makes as he pumps your ass full of hot, sticky cum.

After all the sounds you’ve made, the hallway is silent as you both come down. You nibble on Gadriel’s neck and rub his back, careful to avoid his ports lest you overstimulate him. His hands squeeze your thighs in appreciation before lowering you onto the ground. Both of you wince as his cock slips out of you.

“Oops,” Gadriel laughs sheepishly, reaching beyond you. Looking over your shoulder, you watch Gadriel touch a dent in the wall made by his forceful thrusts.

“It’s all right; nothing important is on the side of that wall,” you reassure him with a kiss. Gadriel helps you put your pants and shoes on, sneaking kisses and copping feels as he ties your apron.

“Did you at least enjoy it?” The shy expression on his face is so cute, you want to kiss him—so you do.

“It was amazing. But I think I would enjoy it more in a bed.” You lean back and stretch, wincing as your back cracks.

“That can be arranged, if you’d like?” Gadriel pauses in the middle of pulling his sweatpants back on. “I understand there is a stereotype of Space Marines sleeping on slabs of rock, but my bed is quite comfortable.”

“I’m very tempted,” and Gadriel’s nigh rakish grin is enough to make you reconsider, “but I have other plans for the rest of my night. Though you’re welcome to join me?”

It takes a few minutes to reheat the sauce, as it has coagulated since dinnertime. But soon, the kitchen fills with the sounds and smells of simmering red wine sauce and grand chestnuts. You let the sauce go while you prepare the roast. Gadriel’s patience is adorable; keeping his hands to himself as you occasionally pass him with hot pans and sharp knives.

The kitchen is quiet as you both eat, hunched over the counter. You savor every bite, letting the tender flesh fill your mouth. With the tender sweetness of the grand chestnuts breaking up the robust flavor of the roast and the acidic quality of the sauce, it’s the perfect dish.

Well…

Your eyes cut over to Gadriel. He catches you staring and gently nudges you with his elbow, eyes twinkling.

Almost perfect.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crash and Burn 8

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Tony Stark

Summary: a powerful man comes crashing into your life. Literally.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It feels like hours since it began. The night assures you of the passing time as each second stretches into eternity. You’re weak as you lay on the floor, sprawled and twitching, as your nerves continue to torture you from the inside.  

A coat of sweat covers every pore and your hair is damp with the endless struggle between hot and cold. You claw at your cheeks and neck as if you can rip open your own flesh like a coat. You just want to be free. You want it to stop. 

You moan senselessly as another thrum builds. Your insides squirm and that knot begins to tie around itself. You heave and curl up in a ball as you bite down on your lip. Right as you’re about to climax, the tide ebbs and leaves you dried out. 

“Please,” you sob, “Tony, please... I can’t...” you rasp as you try to sit up, only to fall back onto your side, “please...” 

“What’sa matter, sweetheart? You need some help?” He taunts as his footsteps echo around the room. 

“Yessss,” you whine. 

“Mm, and how can I help you?” He tisks. 

“Please...” 

“Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do to help you, sweetheart,” he stops, his shadow looming over you like a wraith. “Say it nice and clear for me.” 

You groan and wipe your forehead, a sheen slathering your knuckles. 

“Tony, please--” 

“Say it, baby, because I’m a bit confused here. You said you didn’t want me but you’re sending mixed signals--” 

“Just!” You screech and force yourself flat, your body vibrating. “Please, Tony, fuck me. Just do it. End it. I need... I need to cum. It hurts.” 

“Ah, I know it hurts. You know what else hurts? Words. You called me disgusting,” he scoffs. 

You growl and writhe. He hasn’t exactly proven you wrong but you can’t think straight enough to argue. You can’t think at all. 

“Please, you’re not—I--” 

“Tell me you want me, sweetheart.” 

You pout and your eyes well with tears, “I want you. Please.” 

“And how do you want me?” He kneels down, hovering by your head as he holds a finger over his watch. 

“I... any way? I don’t care--” 

“Tell me how you want me,” he demands. 

You groan and clutch at your chest, “inside me. Er, oh...” you drone, “from behind?” 

“Oh, kinky girl? You got a nice peach, don’t ya?” He reaches to tickle your thigh and you babble as you bite your lip. Just a touch and you’re on fire. 

He pulls his hand away from his watch. The buzz inside of you remains tepid but still there, just enough to keep you uncomfortable. He grabs you by your arm and stands, hauling you up to your feet. Your legs wobble dangerously under you. 

He wraps his arm around your back and turns you to face the cityscape outside the tower. He walks you across the room and leads you before the window. He shifts to stand behind you and guides your hands to the glass pane. You brace it desperately as you fight to keep from collapsing. 

The sharp cut of his zipper rises in the air and you whimper. Your palms smear on the window as he lets his pants fall to his ankles with a rustle that sends a breeze up your back. You shiver as he traces the curves of your sides and frames your hips. He brings your feet back so you stand at a slight angle. He kicks your heels apart with his leather shoe. 

You can’t help but arch in expectation. Desperation. You just need it to end. You need the release. Your panting breaths fog up the glass as the city sparkles back at you. 

He keeps a hand on your hip as his other flutters up your ass. You moan and he snickers. He steps closer and pulls his thumb back to press his tip down between your cheeks. You groan and lean back, begging silently. 

He rubs himself up and down your crack, teasing you, taunting you. Your thighs quiver and your fingertips stick to the glass, squeaking loudly. You stand on your toes and push against him. 

He trails down and presses his tip along your entrance. You whine and stick your tongue. You purr around it and slap the window. You wish he would just put it in! 

As if he can read your thoughts, he dips into you. You gurgle and put your forehead to the glass pane. You growl as he bottoms out and drags his hand up to your neck. He pins you as you are and thrusts. The panel shakes but you don’t have the sense to care. 

He slides back and you reach to latch onto him. You pull him back into you and dig your nails into him. He slaps his hand over yours and bucks. You grunt and huff. 

“Fucking more,” you demand. 

“Hey, sweetheart, don’t get snappy with me.” 

He rams again and you squeal. 

“Fuck, yeah,” you sigh. “Fuck.” 

“Mmm, I like you like this,” he ruts again. “Clinging onto me for dear life.” 

He flicks his wrist oddly and suddenly, the pane slides away and you’re left with only air before you. You flail out with one arm as you hang onto him with your other. He keeps you balance as he snakes his arm around you and rolls his hips. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he snarls as he bends to nuzzles your shoulder. “I got ya.” 

[leviismybby]

Pass the time

//nsfw 18+, mdni, Nanami Kneto x fem!reader//

Nanami's hands found themselves on your hips as you sat on on his lap, the rain was pouring outside hitting the car windows, creating just the right atmosphere. Your tongue played with his, the kisses you shared were messy and needy. He needed this as much as you did even if you were stuck in his car in the middle of an empty parking lot. You would be a fool go complain, it was only natural that this happened with the sexual tension that piled up between you.

His hands slide under your shirt, cold fingers graze the soft skin of your back as his lips move to your neck. A soft moan of his name slips past your parted lips when he bites into your neck, not enough to leave a mark behind but enough for you to feel it. Your fingers run through his soft blonde hair, pulling him closer to your body. Nanami grunts when you move your hips, grinding your heat against his hardness.

He kisses up your jaw, his lips crashing against your again. The way you grind on him makes Kento start to get impatient and he moves his fingers down to sqeuzze your ass. Pulling away from his lips, you quickly undo his belt and Nanami does the same to you, pulling down your pants and underwear with ease. The tight space in the car makes it a little harder but neither of you let that stop you.

The rain outside keeps getting worse and despite the come weather outside, you have never felt hotter as he kisses you again and rubs his hands up and down your naked thighs. "Do you want to get into the backseat?" You shake your head not wanting to let go of him for even a minute. "No. I just want you inside of me." Kento nods, you take the base of his cock, biting your lip at the thickness of it and position yourself before sliding down.

A hiss leaves his lips, his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your thighs. "You feel even better than I thought, princess." You whimper as you start to move on top of him, your hands still messing up his hair. Nanami's eyes don't leave your face as you ride him, the pure list in them is making you more turned on, you move your hips more desperately, pushing his cock deeper into you.

"There you go, princess." He takes your hips, ducking you faster on his cock, making you bounce on top of him. The car starts to move back and forth with your movements, the windows are starting to get fogged from your intense session. You lean to kiss him again, this time you take control of the kiss, sucking on his tongue as you bounce on his cock.

Both of you moan against each others lips, your pussy starts to clench around his cock, Kento pushes hips up and fucks up into you. He breaks the kiss, the grip he has on your hips will leave marks on your body and it sends a shiver down your spine, you want him to mark you, to make you his. You start to already feel that burning sensation in your lower belly, you have never felt an orgasam built up this intensely.

Nanami can feel it too. "That's my girl." Your hands drop from his hair, one hand land on the window, leaving a handprint on the glass, while the other grips Nanami's bicep, messing up his perfect dark blue blouse. "Kento, I'll cum." You whimper, your hips rolling against his, he starts to move you faster on top of him, his lips attack your neck, leaving bite marks all over your skin. He wasn't planning on marking you but you feel too good.

"You feel so good, princess. Such a tight little cunt." With the few last thrusts, you break on top of him, cumming all over his cock. Nanami growls pulling your body into his, his hands wrap around your waist, your head lean in on his shoulder as he fucks up into your harder, chasing his own high.

It isn't long before you feel his cock twitching inside of you, kissing you again passionately. He stops moving and cums deep inside of you, your warm walls squeeze his length again as he keeps coming inside of you. After he is done, he kisses your shoulder, both of you breathing heavily. You look outside of the foggy window, the rain has clam down.

Kento pulls out of you softly, his cum dripping from your pussy onto his pants, he doesn't mind it. "That was....something." You smile. "We should continue to drive..." Your words come out with a underline of disappointment, you really wanted him to take you again.

And he knows you to well, so he makes a proposal. "How about I drive you back to my place, we can continue our little session there, hmm?" He moves your hair out of your face, kissing your cheek. You nod. "I'd like that."

[rhiannonsknife]

── ❆ DAY 14: merry christmas, please don’t call.

— summary: oh golden girl, don’t act like you were kind. you were mine but you were awful every time.

— warning: angst. hurt/no comfort. internalized homophobia. implied cheating. mean!jackie.

the tires crunch against the snow as you pull up a few houses down the road from the taylors’ home. it’s one of the many habits that you’ve picked up on, without even noticing: you only park that far to avoid being seen. to avoid questions that have never even been asked. you still do it, even right now, when there’s no one around who could be watching at all. you’re just so used to hiding yourself that you’ve become invisible all on your own.

your hands linger on the steering wheel for another long moment, gripping it tightly as your breath fogs up the windshield. it’s not too late to leave, to forget this whole thing and go back home. you haven’t even left the car yet and you already know that this is a mistake.

you’ve run this moment over and over in your mind; how it might go, what she might say…but none of the imaginary possible outcomes feel good. still, the gift sits on the passenger seat, neatly wrapped and waiting.

you do think about leaving, then. you think about putting the car in reverse and flee the whole scene, like you’d never been there at all. it would certainly spare you the otherwise inevitable headache. but something keeps you there, frozen in place. maybe it’s that stupid hope that jackie will open the door. that she will see the present, and magically realize that what you have together is worth more than this secrecy and distance.

or maybe it’s just the stubborn need to see her, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

and then you see them. not her. them.

jackie’s car pulls into the driveway, the headlights slicing through the falling snow, and your chest tightens as you catch sight of her. instinctively, even though you’re at a safe distance, you duck your head just the slightest bit. yet another habit. you internally curse yourself for becoming a ghost in her presence all over again, and watch the scene unfold.

jackie steps out, laughing as her parents usher her inside, their arms wrapped warmly around her. the sound of their voices is muffled through the windows and the snow, but the joy is unmistakable, looking effortless from the outside. and there’s jeff: stepping out after her and holding jackie’s hand like he belongs there, his other arm draped protectively around her shoulders.

your stomach drops.

jackie looks happy from an outside perspective. or at least, she’s pretending to be. her smile is bright enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know her the way you do. there’s a distance in her eyes, a subtle stiffness in the way she lets jeff hold her. he must miss it altogether, whereas her parents appreciate the perfect picture jackie is portraying. the taylors care more for their reputation than they do for their daughter.

you watch as they disappear into the house, the warm glow of christmas lights spilling out onto the porch as the door shuts behind them. for a moment, the world feels silent, save for the snowflakes pattering softly against your windshield.

your fingers loosen on the wheel once they’re out of view, instead wiping the fogged-up glass with your sleeve. you feel like an intruder, watching her life from the outside. a life where she laughs and holds jeff’s instead of yours, like it’s nothing. a life where you don’t even exist to begin with.

it’s pathetic to be here at all. and you still don’t have it in you to drive off.

you can see their silhouettes moving behind the curtains from where you’re sitting. the gift on your passenger seat suddenly feels stupid. childish, even. what had you been thinking?

still, your feet move before your brain can comprehend what is going on: you step out into the cold, the snow crunching underfoot, and approach the large house. the glow of the christmas lights feels harsh now, as you step closer, and every breath you take clouds the air in front of you until you’ve reached the doorsteps.

you take a moment to catch your breath, staring at the wreath hanging on the door. it’s perfect, of course. red ribbon tied just so, gold accents gleaming in the glow of the porch lights. everything about jackie’s life seems to must appear fucking perfect.

you try to swallow the lump in your throat as you reach out. your hand hesitates on the doorbell, trembling slightly as you finally press it.

for a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat pounding in your ears. for a moment, you hope no one heard at all. then the door opens.

jackie stands behind it, dressed in a cozy, crème colored sweater and a matching skirt and with her hair falling over one shoulder neatly. she blinks in surprise when she sees you, her perfectly set smile dropping. her gaze darts to the gift in your hands, then back to your face.

“what are you doing here?” she finally hisses, her voice quiet but sharp enough to sting.

you swallow hard. what are you doing here? “i just…i wanted to give you this” you hold out the present weakly. “i thought you might like it”

jackie doesn’t make any attempts to reach for it. instead, she glances over her shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone’s watching. apparently, only being seen with you is shameful already. the obvious hesitation in her movement feels like a dagger to your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here”

you’re still holding out your arm with the present, frozen in place as she speaks.

“it’s just-“

“look,” jackie interrupts, stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind her. “you can’t just…show up here. do you have any idea what this looks like? what if my parents saw you? what if jeff-”

“jeff,” you scoff, bitterness seeping into your tone. “right. i forgot i’m not supposed to exist when he’s around”

jackie’s jaw tightens. “that’s not fair” she says.

“isn’t it?” the words spill out before you can stop them. “jackie, i’ve done everything you’ve asked. i’ve kept this…us, a secret because i thought it’s what you needed. and all i ever get back is-“

“don’t,” she cuts you off, her voice firm but audibly wavering at the edges. her eyes dart away from yours, focusing on a patch of snow by your feet. “don’t say that”

“why not?” you demand. “this whole thing it’s just- it’s bullshit! i can’t keep pretending that-“

“it’s not real!” jackie snaps suddenly. her eyes meet yours now, shining with a mix of frustration and that one thing she’s too afraid to name. “whatever this is” she lifts her arms from where she’s been hugging them to her chest “it’s not real. it can’t be. you need to stop thinking it is!”

her words hit you like a slap to the face. for a moment, all you can do is stare right at her. “jackie-“

“jeff is my boyfriend” she goes on, careless about how you feel. “he’s got every right to be here. you- you’re the one who shouldn’t just show up!”

“i wasn’t trying to cause any trouble” you finally manage. your voice comes out so much weaker than you’d like. “i just thought-“

“you thought what?” jackie cuts in harshly. that’s the thing with her: she’ll be sweet and tame as long as she’s got you exactly where she wants you, where she has the upper hand of the situation. the moment things are out of her control, this is how she gets. “that you could just show up here, hand me a gift and things would be- what? normal?”

the lump in your throat grows heavier with every word she spits at you.

“you don’t understand. i am not…i can’t-“ she can’t even make herself say it. usually, at least she can tell you that much: a haste assurance that she’s not gay, as she’s getting dressed again. a thing she always says, more to herself than to you. “i won’t ruin everything just because you think this is something more than what it actually is”

somehow, that hurts more than a simple ‘i’m not gay’. the words hit you like a punch to the gut and for a moment, you can just stand and stare at her.

jackie only shakes her head and slowly starts stepping back. “i don’t know what you want from me” she says, finally, the christmas lights casting a light on her from behind. “but you shouldn’t have come here. you shouldn’t have made this harder. please. just…go”

the gift box feels like dead weight in your hands as you take a shaky step back, the cold seeping into your bones. jackie doesn’t wait for you to turn around before slipping back towards the door. she does glance back at you once, over her shoulder, mumbling: “merry christmas, y/n. don’t call”

and with that, the door closes, leaving you standing on the snow-dusted porch, the weight of the gift still in your hands.

you stand there for a moment, staring at the door that she shuts on your face, hoping against all odds that she might open it again, that jackie might say something, anything, to take it all back.

she doesn’t.

as the snow falls heavier around you, you force yourself to turn away. you bite your tongue and, instead of just smashing the present against the sidewalk like you desperately want to, you put it down on the porch steps before hastily rushing back to your car.

you slide into the driver’s seat, glancing back once, in spite of yourself. through the frosted window, you can see jackie laughing stiffly with her family, jeff’s arm draped possessively over her shoulders.

she looks happy, pretending again.

a bitter laugh escapes you, followed instantly by the tears you’ve been holding since the moment she opened the door. ‘don’t call’ she’d said. jackie doesn’t want this. she doesn’t want you. not here, not now, and maybe not ever.

for the first time, you genuinely let yourself hate her for it.

inside she waits with her back against the door for a long moment, listening to the faint sound of your car driving off. only when she can no longer hear the noise of the engine, does jackie dare to breathe. her nails dig into the sleeves of her sweater as she makes her way back to the living room.

her parents’ laughter filters through from the space, mingling with the faint sound of christmas music playing from the stereo. jeff is sprawled on the couch, looking like he belongs here more than she does.

“everything okay?” he asks, glancing up at her. his brow furrows briefly, but his tone is light, casual.

jackie nods quickly, smoothing her hands down her sweater. “yeah, just someone at the wrong house,” she lies, her voice tight. jeff doesn’t push, just grins as he stretches out an arm. “come here. we’re watching a christmas movie next”

jackie forces a smile and lets him pull her down beside him, settling into the crook of his arm as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. she keeps her gaze on the flickering lights of the christmas tree, nodding and murmuring polite responses when her mom asks if she’s having a nice time.

her mind keeps wandering anyway. back to you. to the way your expression had crumpled when she’d told you to leave. jackie shouldn’t care. it was only ever supposed to be a causal hookup. nothing serious, nothing that she should care about at all.

she shifts uncomfortably, and her gaze flickers toward the window. it’s still snowing outside, the porch almost entirely covered in it and…that’s when she sees it. the faint glint of something tucked against the corner, just barely visible through the thick layer of snow.

“be right back,” jackie mutters, slipping out of jeff’s grasp before he can say anything.

she opens the door quietly, the cold biting at her face, and there it is: the small, carefully wrapped box sitting on the doorstep. she glances around instinctively, as if you might still be there. but the driveway is empty, the faint tire tracks from your car already half-covered by fresh snow.

jackie picks up the gift, her hands trembling slightly as she shuts the door behind her. she shouldn’t open it, she shouldn’t even keep it.

but she does.

back in her room later that night, while jeff sleeps soundly, jackie sits cross-legged on her bed, the present resting in her lap. she unties the ribbon with car , the paper crinkling softly in the stillness. inside is a small, velvet box. her breath catches as she opens it, revealing a delicate gold charm necklace resting against the fabric. her heart skips. it’s simple, but undeniably beautiful. It’s so you.

jackie picks it up, careful so that the torn paper won’t make too much noise, and lets the little heart charm dangle from her fingers. the gold catches in the dim light of her room and it feels warm against her skin. a small card is nestled in the box too, which she quickly picks up.

‘to jackie. you deserve something that’s really yours this year. merry christmas’, then signed off with your initials. jackie fastens the necklace around her neck, the little heart resting between her collarbones. she takes a moment to look at herself in the mirror, at the glint of gold, and it feels so different from the gifts she received earlier: the ones picked out by her parents, or jeff’s thoughtless one. this feels real. personal.

she touches the charm lightly. when she turns back toward the bed, she sees jeff sprawled there, his arm half-extended toward her even in sleep. the ache in her chest deepens, and she slips under the covers, her back to him, one hand still curled protectively around the golden heart.

jackie presses her lips together, blinking rapidly as she sets the box aside and buries her face in her hands. she doesn’t cry, not exactly, but her shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all in.

[child0feden]

RAINY DAYS

just sharing a little thought i had whilst it rained today!

pelle would probably really like the rain, he does not so much like being in the rain because i think he would get slightly irritated at the feeling of his denim jeans sticking to his already cold and pale skin but inside the house? he likes it a whole lot

he likes cuddling up with you when it rains, big spooning you from the side so that his eyes can stare out of the one small window in your shared bedroom, his blue eyes reflecting the image of small water droplets rapidly hitting the glass and trickling down as his cold hands trace your hips, not helping much to warm you up but you do not say anything, you just let him rest and push your body further into his front, trying to create some body warmth which works well enough… occasionally his blue eyes will drift away from the window and down to your resting face, watching as your nose twitches lightly in your sleep or your soft lips part to breathe, admiring you in your most vulnerable and serene state, watching as the orange, fiery glow from a nearby pine scented candle lights up your face in the dark room…

rain often helps him fall asleep, helped even more by the feeling of your body pressed up against his, the sound of steady water drops hitting the roof and glass windows soothing his mind and clearing it almost entirely of the fog that lurks, his hand grabbing yours and holding it tightly as his tired eyes droop and he buries his pale face further into your neck from behind, his chin still resting just atop your shoulder as your warm fingers draw soft circles on the back of his cold hand

when it rains, pelle does not really like to do much except relax the best he know how and admire the cold, gloomy weather… to him, it is not gloomy or even depressing as it may be to some, pelle finds it to be so beyond relaxing and calming! it is one of the few things aside from you that helps soothe his mind, put his mind to rest for just a while…

pelle just likes to sit and watch the rain with you, listen to it as it falls from the pale sky as if it is natural music to his ears, the softest and most beautiful music he thinks he will ever hear and it inspires him, it inspires him to make art or write lyrics, doodling randomly at his desk as shadowy rain drops are reflected onto the paper through the window

and when the rain stops, pelle is the first one out of the house, looking at you blankly for a couple seconds before leaving without a jacket, as if silently telling you to follow him, which you do! though he does not do anything crazy outside, no, pelle just stands and breathes through his nose… tilting his head back ever so slightly, long blonde hair draped over his face as he inhales quietly, breathing in the fresh dewey air and the signature smell of rain… he might purposely walk through or even stand still in some murky water puddles, staring down at his rippled reflection before walking off to another one and doing the same, not caring in the slightest about the water now soaking through his shoes and dampening his cotton socks… you think it might be some kind of childlike wonder still in pelle, some kind of playfulness and curiosity very obviously still left inside the man that so many claim to be heartless and cold…

you will probably have to convince him to just put a damn jacket on as he walks around the front of the house, not wanting his weak immune system to fall victim to a nasty cold, he will probably comply if just to please you! and when you finally wrangle him inside, he certainly will not say no to you making him a nice hot drink, his tall and lanky stature standing in the kitchen and watching you as you make the drink for him, watching you with a gaze many would assume to be blank and uncaring but you can see more than that, anyone could see more than that if they really looked…

anyways, it just kind of came to me whilst it was raining today! still love sharing my random little thoughts and always remember, i welcome your thoughts into my ask box with open arms :)

[mothertoall2]

Part of Their World (RE Age Regression)

A/n- This is a age regression book about Resident Evil Village, I will be making one that is not age regression shortly but the first few chapters are the same anyway so until t picks up it will be the same book.

Description: This story takes place in a world where Age Regression is normalized and accepted. As a child you were taken by Mother Miranda and experimented on with the T virus, after years of captivity you don't show responses to the experiments and are sent to be a maid at the Dimitrescu Castle. None of the other maids like you, and Lady Dimitrescu always keeps a close eye on you. This is a little gn reader story and if you don't like it you may respectfully leave, this is not a fetish book and is sfw, thank you and have a splendid day.

Warnings: Childhood trauma and neglect

Y/n's POV

I open my eyes from a sudden jolt of the carriage as it hits a particularly large stone along the uneven path. The carriage is going remarkably slower, the horse having become beyond tired from the long journey to it's destination. Shortly after the second hour I had fallen asleep while counting trees as they pass by one after the other. While I rarely have the luxury of carriage rides such as this, they always had the ability to make me fall asleep within minutes. I find something soothing with the way it moves along the dirt or stone roads. 

Another jolt of the carriage snaps me out of my thoughts, I sit up from the window to see if we are any closer to where I'm being taken. I wipe away the fog from my breathe to clear the glass, though it does very little with the freezing temperature outside. I look around trying to see past the thick powdered covered trees. The snow covering the ground appears grey and unearthly, clearly holding a past in which I am now determined to discover. There is not a building in sight which just leaves me to wonder where I'm going. I can't help but think the worst, maybe she's taking me to be killed, I can tell I haven't met her standards of what she wants from me. She's expressed her disappointment with me, it wouldn't be a surprise if she's taking me to be left up to fate of the beasts that roam the village. I've never seen them but mother tells me all about them and how she protects me by keeping me inside. 

The next jolt of the carriage catches me off guard and I fall onto the seat. "Sit up Y/n, I have raised you better than that" she says coldly. "Yes mother" I reply without looking her in the eyes, I won't make that mistake again. Mother isn't always this cold, only when I don't meet her expectations, which has been frequently as of late. I sit up and adjust my position so I won't fall over again. As I move to look out the window I catch a glance at my reflection in the cold frosted glass. I try to avoid looking at my reflection, I asked mother to remove all mirrors from my chambers. I was tired of looking at myself and questioning why I'm not enough for her. Why she isn't proud enough to show her child to the lords she speaks so highly of. 

As I observe my reflection  I see a stranger gazing back at me. I am trapped in a body that has never been my own. I study my distant blue eyes, inside them I see a soul wanting to be freed, a soul that is forever trapped inside a cage, the key no where to be found. I see the freckles that litter my face, mother has always liked them...which I realize has made me hate them. Anything mother likes about me I find myself hating more, I wish for nothing more then a different body to feel myself in. I had hope when mother told me her experiments would change my appearance, but after many trials there has been no change. That must be the reason mother is sending me away, I wasn't able to give her the results she wished for. I doubt she has ever noticed how much I try to please her and be as she wishes of me, but it is never enough for her. I must accept that fact.

I am once again ripped from my thoughts when mother calls out to me. "How many times have I told you to stop chewing on your fingers. You know better child." I hold back the tears threatening to spill from my eyes as I respond to her. "I apologize mother it will not happen again." All I get in return is an inaudible mumble under her breath as she turns away. "Are we almost there mother?" I ask as politely as I can but receive no response in return. I turn back to the window in defeat as I rest my head against it. I find myself slowly drifting off into a slumber once more, only to be awaken what feels like only minutes later. 

As I sit back up straight with my hands resting in my lap, just as I was taught, I speak, "What is it mother?" She speaks clearly and hesitantly with her next sentence . "You have permission to look at me for our following conversation, it is important and I need your full and complete attention. Have I made myself clear?" I nod and lift my head to look mother in her eyes. I have never had permission to do so before, in fact last time I had done so I hadn't received meals for two days. 

"Y/n, before we arrive I must inform you of what is going to happen. As you well know I have raised you for the past 23 years out of the kindness of my heart. I have fed you, clothed you, bathed you, and taught you manners because you were my child." When she said the last part my heart shattered. She is having me killed, I knew it. "All I had wanted in return is for you to be successful, even through my generosity you couldn't provide me the one thing I asked. Do you know the pain that causes me? You have failed me Y/n, you are a disappointment and a disgrace." Every insult mother gives me causes another tear to fall. "That is why I am sending you to work as a maid for one of my most trusted lords. You will be working for Lady Dimitrescu, you will do as she says, she has my full permission to punish you as she sees fit. Do you understand child?"

With a simple nod of my head my fate is sealed. I can't help but feel shattered by the fact that she was able to pass me off so easily. My thoughts and insecurities all come true at once. I am worth nothing in this world, I never will be. Yet again I am removed from my thoughts, this time by a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. There I see it, a grand Castle with a tall gate surrounding it. Hearing it slam closed behind us is as finalizing as the last chime of midnight. I exit the carriage after mother, stepping into the frigid powder that covers the ground. I walk behind mother as I follow her up the snow covered path all the way to the large doors of the castle. As I stare up at the doors I wonder what fate lies for me behind those doors. I wonder to myself, what more do I have to lose?

[mudandmire]

wanna cut out both your eyes

….I should not be held responsible for what happens when I listen to Glass Animals.

So. There ya go. A firefighter, a boxer - one pulls the punches and pays the price.

...

The boxing ring exchanges hands when the sun goes down. A slip of marigold satin on the horizon, the final blink of the suns round eye before it disappears completely. Eris watches it from the floor to ceiling windows in the third floor of the gym. Each descending shade of indigo, painted on the blank stares of the office buildings across the street.

There's still a sticky trace of sweat along his back and face. He's sure the ring behind him remains secretly streaked with the culmination of his and his opponents earlier fights.

All he'd done to soothe the agitating itch of it was rub a wet towel over his body. It had to be enough, there was no point in showering—he wasn't yet done tonight.

Eris wraps his hands. Methodical and practiced to the point of perfection. He doesn't even glance at his slowly clearing reflection in front of him.

As the last breaths of day sink, and an encroaching dusk comes to share it's space, Eris' eyes lock onto a figure on the sidewalk below.

A mere silhouette under the fluorescent spotlight of the streetlamp, carrying a duffle bag at his side. Eris can only see the top of his head; dark, before he disappears inside the building. The gym is practically deserted now, and the top floor stays empty. Yet Eris cannot help but think that for this, even the walls grow ears.

If it were cold out, Eris' shuddering exhale would fog onto the window. His wrapped hands tense at his sides, mimicking the tension lining his shoulders under the thin hoodie he wears. Despite continuing to face the window, he turns every sense toward the door behind him. He knows how long—in seconds, in feet, in the rapid, anxious knocking of his pulse—it takes for someone to get from ground level to the third floor of the gym.

Specifically; how long it takes Azriel.

Even though he's been there for hours now, Eris feels the change as soon as the fluorescents overheard become the primary source of light. It's his ring, his stage, when the sun is up. As if asking for one last confirmation that it'll return to him tomorrow, Eris taps one of his wrapped knuckles against the window.

When the sun sets, and the ring is empty apart from the one lonely soul that haunts it—it belongs to Azriel.

A shiver rolls down his spine like beads of sweat at the sound of footsteps down the hall. Then, right in front of the door when it opens.

"I'm on call." Azriel says, and it may as well have been the first hit thrown between them.

Eris pinches at his taped hands, "you can spare me an hour," he says.

The itch of his skin beneath the wraps is unpleasant with dried sweat and a tender soreness growing from the joints like roots.

The duffle bag drops at his feet, the only sound between them before Azriel says lowly. "I'd give you the whole night," and then pauses, even the sound of his rifling through the gym bag stops. "Ask me to."

Azriel asks because he knows Eris won't answer—not that one.

It takes him a deep inhale before he's ready to turn around.

Back to the window, to the night shuttered city that crawls out of view of his reflection, Eris' eyes find him.

Every time, he wishes it was easier.

Azriel's shirt is halfway off, rising up the expanse of bronzed skin. The flex of his arms when it comes away from him completely makes Eris' stomach plunge. Every part of Azriel is hewn, hand carved with the kind of underlying strength that comes from hard work. Eris thinks if they ended up locked in this room, he wouldn't even break a sweat with worry. The breadth of his shoulders are enough to make the thick wooden door with a thin slit for a window look like soft clay.

Indulging in his trailing thoughts, Eris' eyes fall to Azriel's hands—scarred horribly from a fire long ago. It's not the kind of scarring one can easily look away from, it demands attention. Every ridge whitened and tight, a mottled patchwork of scraped and clumsily chiseled marble.

He still finds it ironic—a completely different kind of illness—that Azriel turned to firefighting in the face of it.

Maybe that's what some people call courage, bravery in the face of challenge.

Eris calls it madness. Not even the good kind.

Azriel begins to wrap his hands, a diligent silence taking over the two of them as he twines and tucks with single-minded focus that proves how much he's done this. The muscles in his exposed forearms flex as he works—Eris looks away quickly, keeping his gaze fixed on the empty ring.

It's a near dangerous thing, watching Azriel work. Eris has found his attention pried up by the roots again and again just to focus on him.

The fabric is between Azriel's teeth as he tugs it taut on his hands. Eris finds the skin of his bottom lip pinched between two fingers as he catches Azriel's dark eyes from under the fan of his sooty lashes. A direct contrast to the bearing of his teeth: pearl white, sharp points at his canines—Eris hopes he draws blood tonight.

He walks forward, ducking under the boxing ropes and padding barefoot onto the canvas. Shaking out his fingers, he doesn't glance over his shoulder where Azriel is. The charge pulses through him, from the non-slip canvas to the windows and back—body attentive to where Azriel is. It's a magnetic forcefield, how Eris' bends apart when Azriel's bends forward, the opposite draw addicting as it is frustrating.

This is ritual; this place, this time, this silence.

Until Azriel, as always, breaks it.

He levers the boundary ropes up, the underside of his arms tensing. Eris strips off his thin hoodie, heat building under the surface of his skin like a fever.

"You pulling punches today, Vanserra?" Azriel's stance is low. Balanced and ready even as his shoulders stay loose and his dark eyes glint with the hint of a fight coming on the wind—a storm brewing on the horizon.

Eris scoffs. "Don't count on it."

Banter has no room in his head. The ring's turned over it's hand, it belongs to Azriel now and Eris is going to have to work twice as hard to keep his feet beneath him tonight. A pleasant buzz hums through his worked muscles, biting at the bit for a challenge.

Eris raises his hands, positioning them in a way so innate he does it without thinking.

"Come here," he says, and then his mouth goes dry. Eris swallows hard, trying to find words to follow up with what sounds like an invitation, a plea, yet comes up empty.

Azriel doesn't give him time to, anyway. He's on call, the stopwatch had already started. The ring belongs to him in the meantime.

There's a flash of a grin, tucked behind raised fists, near feral. Eris is given a minute to appreciate the fall of his raven hair over his forehead before Azriel strikes.

Strike is a good word for it: cleaving from heaven to ground in a split second.

Eris molds his body effortlessly into a slip. Turning his head and shoulders away to dodge it quickly, but is back up, coming around with his left arm for a swing at Azriel's side.

Though he absorbs it, his arms coming up to shell the sensitive muscle and skin of the side of his abdomen. Azriel shoots him one, quick flicker of a grin, before it disappears behind the shutter of his concentration.

From there, it devolves. Eris had learned over the years, and many, many won fights, that he strikes like a snake. Quick and decisive, unpredictable unless his opponents eyes are keen enough to spot the tells. His fist lashes out, body coming in for a follow-through, and a poisonous pain sinks into every sensitive, tender part of the skin he makes contact with.

Planning his steps comes easy when he can debilitate someone's lungs with a well-placed blow—leave them gasping, leave him circling like a vulture.

With Azriel, it is entirely different. If he is a snake, then Azriel is a wolf. Wild with the way he strikes out, the force behind him something that would snap Eris' bones if he wasn't experienced. He does not keep his arms to his body, does not mind if tender, vulnerable places are hit—just continues to advance, teeth bared, snarl on his face and a bloodlust in his eyes that Eris is ashamed to find time and again, leaves a firm impression in his shorts.

Eris manages to block one of Azriel's blows, but it rattles up the bone in his arm. He grimaces through it, coming back up to roll into his next punch, keeping most of the force on his back leg instead of letting it power through his swing.

Azriel parries easily, eyes narrowing into a glare even as he pants hard through his mouth.

"Don't," he grunts, arms coming to cover up his face in the second of rest, the muscles in his lower abdomen tightening. "Give it to me, Vanserra."

"Christ." Eris' breath leaves him in a rush of strength as he aims low and punches hard. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat. The only consolation is that Azriel seems to be just as out-of-breath as he is. The dew of exhaustion on his bronze skin glints like gemstones. It should not be as attractive, distracting, as it is.

The next breath between them is used up entirely in a quick series of movements. A force of push and pull where Eris has Azriel on the defense, until a well-timed slip leads him to grasp at his throbbing ribs.

It must be anger, or something deeper that burns low in his stomach, flushing his cheeks bright. Eris strikes out, sure and strong, grunting low with effort as he catches Azriel in the chin through a feint. The throb of his knuckles irrelevant in the face of Azriel's gleaming, dark eyes.

One of his hands leaves position guarding his chest, and reaches up to thumb away a drop of blood beading at the cut on his slack mouth.

"There," he says. Eris stumbles a step when the thumb and the droplet disappears between his lips.

He tries to regain control over his breathing, the tightening at the base of his spine. Tries not to think of where else Azriel could say that—how else. The brush of a split lip on the shell of his ear, Azriel's hard-won pants of air pooling warm in the hollow of his gleaming collarbones.

Azriel's head tips, stomach swelling with each breath he takes, and through his parted mouth he clicks his tongue.

"Head," he grunts as he swings, Eris barely managing to dodge it, "in the ring."

It shakes him enough to grit down on the rising tide of coal-hot desire, seamlessly falling into a series of movements so quick he could've missed one for the other if he didn't know Azriel so well. Every time he moves, it's with a pained breath of effort. The spot on his side that Azriel had so expertly targeted and won with it's yellow and green blooms of bruises, aches and stings against his ribs.

He must've stumbled, or gotten distracted by the sharp twist of the tender skin at his side. Eris doesn't know what he had faltered on, feet or hands or head. Next thing he knows Azriel has two large, hot palms on the back of his thighs, feet no longer touching the floor. His face is close for a second, features nearer than they have been the whole night. Azriel's eyes are glazed when he looks at him through the pinch of his dark eyebrows and bared teeth.

The ground meets Eris' back with a sound like thunder. Every breath, every inch of air looses from his lungs with a hollow gasp and his wrapped hands digging his nails into the sweat-slicked skin of Azriel's back. The pain doesn't register, not before the all-consuming feeling of suffocation that molds him in between his empty lungs and Azriel's heavy, hot, looming weight.

Knuckles red, raw, he digs his fingers in further to the muscle of Azriel's shoulder blades and relishes the hiss that slips from his pink lips. A dull ache spreads up from his spine to his shoulders and down to his tailbone. Eris' head tips back, features crumpled in what may have looked like pain if he weren't burning alive, skin stuck to the canvas floor.

The spread of Azriel's shoulders between his pale thighs sends his pulse into a furious thrum. Bronze and glazed like pottery, every crease of muscle and skin wears like the finest finish and Eris finds himself struggling to swallow.

When he does get his breath back, it's to glare straight up into Azriel's hazel eyes and heave out a breathless, "cheater."

Azriel's mouth tightens, dark brows furrowed into a shadow over his lidded eyes. The molten press of his palms, even through the wraps, says everything about his disappointment Eris couldn't see through his shuttered gaze. They follow a pre-determined path; one stays on his side, the bruised one, where his fingers rest in between the slots of his heaving rib cage. The other wanders, a teasing brush here and there, down the sweat-slick skin of his stomach, the sensitive strip above the waistline of his shorts, when it finally stops to rest at his hip. Pressing down slightly in warning.

"What did I say, Eris?" He asks, looming closer until his thighs are stuck to the backs of Eris'.

Eris finally finds use for his hands. Where they had dug trenches into Azriel's back, they take a particular kind of vengeance in the damp locks of his raven hair.

"You brute," he says, a scratch in his voice, "you must get tired of repeating your braindead demands." His fingers had curled into the hair at the base of his neck, where he tugs hard enough to send a tendon feathering in Azriel's dewy jaw.

Silence rings in place of it, but Azriel's hand moves quickly further down on his ribs until the weight of his palm presses hard on the blossoming, tender bruise on his side.

Eris holds in a whine, his fingers going limp then tightening in the span of the hard kick of his heart against his chest.

"I—" a whimper slips out of the loosening iron control over his mouth, "go to hell."

The pressure on the contusion increases, Eris' lungs working hard to take short, shallow breaths.

His hands fly away from the safety of Azriel's hair, mussed and carded like he had been fucked well. They land like startled birds at his shoulder, the flexed muscle of his bicep as he presses down.

"I could do this until I get called into the station." He says easily, head tipping to watch Eris writhe. "But then we'd both go home losers tonight. It's really up to you."

Eris gasps, mouth wet and parted even as he grits out, "maybe I wouldn't mind that, seeing as I could nullify your victory—"

"No, Eris, this isn't my victory."

The pressure lessens slightly, the heartbeat of the tender ache crying out in relief as Azriel pulls back just enough for Eris' to breathe fully. His lids blink heavily up at him, dazed and stinging.

A calloused, scarred thumb rubs gentle circles on the soft skin of his hip. "Now, what did I say?" He asks again.

Through the fire in his belly, the smoke in his head, Eris finds it in himself to arch wildly into Azriel's solid frame. Making every effort to dislodge him even as his cheeks flush a rosy pink up to his ears.

"Oh, absolutely fuck you." He spits, nails digging crescents into the meat of his shoulders.

Azriel doesn't dignify him with a response. Instead he bends in closer and Eris' thighs are forced wider from it—it distracts him enough that he doesn't notice when the hand on his hip comes to circle his neck. Heavy like a marble necklace, but Azriel's skin is rough, warm, and then the pressure returns to the contusion on his side and Eris' head falls back hard enough he can hear the noise of it echo in his skull.

The fingers don't tighten, but the threat of them has heat spilling down the line of his spine, pooling at the base of it.

"What did I say?" Azriel's demand is stone in the face of Eris' disobedience. His eyes dark with the pupil expanded wide enough Eris can barely make out the lingering ring of hazel around it. Despite his cool features, barely a wince passing across his face even as Eris' nails mark him bloody. Eris watches the controlled heave of his chest, his stomach, and finds that he wants the barely leashed power pressed against him.

"You, fuck," it comes out breathless, rushed, as pain licks along his warming side. "You said don't hold my punches back."

Azriel leans more weight onto the hand against his ribs. "Exact words." He says quietly.

"I—Azriel, God, wait—you said," he wets his lips, panting, a hand circling Azriel's wrist though making no effort to move it. "You said to give it to you."

He hums approvingly, shifting his knees where they're red pressed to the canvas floor. "Could've had me on my ass three times by now, but you didn't. Wanna know why?"

"Why?" He croaks, a wetness gathering in his eyes he doesn't want to investigate.

"Because you don't listen, do you sweetheart?" His head dips, face parallel to Eris' to the point where he can't choose one eye to focus on—so his gaze falls to his lips instead. A shaking, raw hand coming up to thumb at the bottom lip.

Azriel's breath falls over the touch, warm, shuddering.

"Azriel," the name comes from the very base of his stomach where the urge to taste his mouth comes roiling up his spine with a vengeance.

A sharp ringing cuts through the haze in his head. So loud he thinks at first he's imagining it, or it's a siren from outside.

It's only when Azriel's whole body tenses, and his head falls to rest on Eris' chest that he understands what it is.

"Shit." Azriel swears into the dip between his pectorals quietly, but with no less vehemence.

"That wasn't—" Eris' trembling hand falls to his hair. "That's not an hour."

"Yeah, well, tell my boss." Azriel grunts as he begins to move away. Peeling the heated press of his weight and presence from Eris' own body like a horribly stuck band-aid. He keeps a whine tucked behind his teeth even as the corners of his brows pinch upwards.

Azriel's shoulders duck out and away from in between his thighs, and his eyes near wet with frustration as the air conditioned cold of the room seeps into his warmed skin. His legs fold without him there, pressing together as if that will restore the heat lost. It's then, almost an accident, that Eris discovers the culmination of every touch and word from Azriel as a firm afterthought in his gym shorts.

The outline of it rankles him. The fact that it's his hand and not Azriel's that sweeps down the plane of his abdomen, sweat-cooled and tacky.

Azriel had crawled out from under the boundary ropes to look at his pager—at least that's what Eris thought.

A harsh, scarred hand grabs his before it can reach the hem of his shorts. Eris' eyes snap open, darting to meet Azriel's crooked mouth and dark eyes.

He ducks low so his lips brush against his ear, halfway out of the ring. "If you touch yourself, I'll make sure to fracture a rib tomorrow." He says.

Unbidden but by the sound of Azriel's voice, the heat seeping into his skin around his wrist, Eris' arches his back with a shameless whine.

His cheeks go pink. "Wait, but—Azriel."

Azriel's hand falls away from his wrist, ducking back out of the ring with a teasing nip to his earlobe.

Dazed, lingering in the sweat gathered on his back and the tender pulsing ache on his side, he watches as Azriel scoops up the handle to his duffle bag, pager in hand.

Eris' brows furrow slightly when he stops before the door.

"And to think," he says, gazing over his shoulder at Eris through the dark soot of his lashes, "we could've both been winners tonight." His grin is sharp, slicing through Eris and burying it's blade in his core.

The door closes with a soft snick behind him, and Eris is left entirely alone again.

An arm comes up to sling over his face as it burns through the heated pulse of arousal under his shorts.

As much as his fingers itch to slip under, find the heat that's been missing since Azriel left, he stops himself.

How would he know?

Eris' head tips back till he faces the ceiling. Black and white patterns and fluorescent lights blinking hollowed images in the back of his eyes.

The answer comes to him easily; as innate as wrapping his hands or slipping into that first stance of a fight.

I would tell him. He thinks.

Again, his head tips back, throat bared and cold in the unforgiving, dry gym air. "Fuck," he says quietly, unable to bring himself to move.

He may just stay here, stuck to the canvas floor in a concoction of lust, shame, and sweat. He may just wait until the sun rises, lightening in soft ribbons over the floor until it hits the boxing ring and Eris knows for certain he can stand on his own. Once the ring turns its hand over to him.

He'll spend the whole day waiting, wishing, for darkness to come quicker so he and the ring can belong to Azriel again.

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, he finds one of his hands pressing against the thundercloud bruise on his side. The hitch in his lungs is half pain, half remembrance.

Nightfall can't come soon enough.

...

This devolved very quickly and I'm not entirely sure where it came from??

But also Glass Animals has the magic juice that makes me write feral things. So maybe it's not entirely out of the blue. Anywayyy hope you enjoyed!!

Also, the song is 'Wonderful Nothing' by Glass Animals 🤌

[rustedhearts]

black swan: a severed lamb continuation

(pastor!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: pastor steve pays you a visit at college "on behalf of your mother."

♰ roller girl’s pie stand! 🍒 ♰ severed lamb ♰ 'tis autumn

tags: this is a blurb, not a “part” of the series!!; age gap (steve is 35, reader is 19); religious manipulation + regular manipulation; fear + intimidation; stalking i guess; a loooot of religious guilt; actual scripture quoted; forced prayer; like almost dollification; pls do not read this if any of this makes you even the slightest bit uncomfortable. (did not edit, don’t come for my mistakes.)

for @softagardenblooms ⭐️ giving us all what we really want: more pastor!steve <3 sorry it took so long!

rural pennsvylvania, autumn, 1981

Outside the iron lattice of your Lane Hall window, an early winter brewed. The leaves turned and died quickly, and those that clung to their boughs appeared rusted and limp. Walking through campus was now a noisy feat. The soil seemed eternally damp and dull, what grass remained more blonde than green. The thing you missed most about Georgia was the robin's egg sky. Here, everything was grey.

The glass of the window fogged terribly. The girls in Lane cranked the heat up high enough to have an excuse for minimal clothing, yet the outdoors remained bitterly cold.

In an effort to enjoy a moment of quiet solitude in your room, you stood from the creaky wooden bed and wiped your palm over the window. It squeaked over the condensation, creating a streak of clarity to the street of houses below.

A maroon two-door waited on the curb across the black road. It had an Indiana license plate.

"Delilah? You got a visitor!" one of the girls called from outside your room.

You stepped back from the window, lowering your hand and its cold fingertips to your side. Another cold swept through you, settling somewhere in your chest. As bitter as a Pennsylvanian autumn, and as a sour as a cherry from your tree back home. The cherry that once stained his fingers, dipping between his mouth and your mouth.

Bloody fingers that delivered evil through pleasure.

Bred to obey the calling command of male visitors, you turned away from your bed and started toward the door. But you stopped on the toe of your socked foot.

You could feign slumber. But he came in when you were sick and tired.

You could hide in the closet. Your eyes darted toward the lone door near your desk. But he always knows where to find you.

You swallowed as your hand touched the door. It yawned open on its hinges. Immediately, the murmuring of the girls scattered amongst their rooms and the lower floor emitted in a low hum. The floor released little snaps with each step toward the stairs. The Hall was old and worn, taped over with celebrity posters and glittered name stamps.

As you took the first step, another cold gathered. This one in your belly, behind your navel where that sweet, sickening, nauseating pleasure festered under his hands and his touch. You pressed your hand there, pausing on the second step to take a breath.

You could feel him.

The way you felt him from the moment he arrived back home. How he lingered in every room with the omnipotence of his Savior. How his stare sat like hot coals upon your shoulders from across the room. How the promise of his hands came with the fleeting breeze of his body in your vicinity.

His presence had a warmth and a wholeness to it that made your throat tighten. Like being locked in a tight, black room that grows tighter and yet seemingly vaster with every second inside. As though the limits of the darkness are endless, though its bounds are tangibly sworn.

"Delilah? Deli—oh, here she is!" one of the older girls, Rachel, cooed as she collected you with a hand around your arm on the steps.

She came bounding down, and you swore it was only because she pulled you that your feet remembered to go.

He stood tall in the center of the lounge, barely past the doorframe, feet still angled to go further. They flocked around him like pigeons, pecking at the affections of his slow, sideways smile, and roaming gaze. It turned to you as your hall mate pulled you into the room.

You could have sworn something pierced your lung, eliminating all possibilities of keeping in air.

“Hello, Delilah.”

His voice hit you like the gong of a church bell at noon. Familiar, expected, but with a resonance of something to come. An image of his eyes hovering over you while his hands swept through your nightgown flashed through your mind. You had to pinch away a shudder.

“H-hi,” you murmured, and cast your eyes down to your socks.

“She’s always so shy,” another girl piped up. “Lilah, aren’t you gonna introduce us?”

A warmth spread to every inch of your face. It singed the tips of your ears. You fiddled with the strings on your bed shorts, suddenly feeling bare. Though he had seen you in far less—had seen you as bare as the day you were born—you could not fathom to stand before him like this with the audience growing in the lounge.

“I’m Steve,” he said for you, and cast a smile upon the girls that had them elbowing each other. “But I’m afraid we can’t stay for pleasantries, girls. Delilah and I were just headin’ out.”

Your eyes flitted toward him, a panic setting like stone in your limbs. “R-really?”

He seemed to only look at you, though the girls tipped and cocked their heads to assess him and his garb, alternating between his corduroy jacket and your tattered sleep clothes.

“Yes,” he purred, and the smile the others swooned at made you take the smallest step backwards. “I’ll wait while you change.”

♰ ♰

It took you another ten minutes to change, fumbling through every drawer and hanger knowing everything he'd ever touched you in was packed away and left back home, and nothing in your collection seemed worthy enough to dispense so easily.

When you met him on the lawn, his eyes went directly to your chest, where he became accustomed to finding the gleaming gold of a delicate cross. Today, it came up bare.

He said nothing of it as he turned toward the car, and you followed with silent, tip-toed steps. You kept a distance as you passed through the door he opened for you and took your place on the leather passenger seat.

The cold condensation of a milk carton between your thighs against the sticky heat of a Georgian summer haunted the car. Even in the white-breathed cold settling in the car, you felt a scorching heat crawling up your spine. You pulled at your sweater sleeves to invite the cold in.

The car jostled when he slammed the driver door. You kept your eyes on the dash, fingers curling into your palms as he turned the keys in the ignition.

"Your mama's worried about you," is the first thing he says to you.

You wet your lips, turning to the window to watch the street go by. The town was built for the university's accommodation. The library marked the edge of town, and everything past that was farmland and desolation. You hoped he wasn't taking you there.

HIs statement settled like spoiled milk. You wanted to proclaim it a lie immediately. Mama hadn't answered a letter once this semester. Every weekend phone call went unanswered. You called one of the neighbors and asked them to check on her in case the liquor finally got the best of her. But they assured you she was doing well. Just busy.

Yet, he wouldn't lie...right? He wouldn't drive the half day it took for his own pleasure, would he? He once told you that God sent you here for him, that God placing the pair of you in the same vicinity was no mistake. God does not make mistakes, he said. And He always has a plan.

You were His plan for Steve.

At least, that's what he told you.

"I can see why," he continued.

Your head moved on its own, and you were looking at the frown etched between his brows before you could stop yourself. He took glances every few moments as he headed away from the residence halls into campus. Few times they fell to your empty neck.

Your fingers ached to fiddle with the missing token. You hadn’t worn it in months. When you left home, you left the necklace on your dresser. It grew more and more difficult as the weeks went on—free of the Georgia heat and all that grey hazy because of it—to believe you were worthy of wearing the cross. Worthy of speaking to Him knowing what you’d done.

“Oh, Delilah,” he sighed and he shook his head out at the road. “You poor thing.”

He took a turn down the main strip of campus buildings and fit the car into a spot against the curb of your most-frequented. The ballet studio, unlike your splintered and rotting barb back home, nestled on the second floor of a red brick building home to the arts. Steve took his keys from the ignition and opened the door with the sureness of someone like you, who spent most of their days there.

“Come on,” he said when the passenger door was open.

You stepped onto the sidewalk, avoiding his outstretched hand. He placed it on the small of your back as he guided you up the steps and through the door. Your shoes, having collected the dampness of the pavement, squeaked over the gleaming tile. This hall always had a chemically lemon scent to it, and today it made you particularly queasy.

"Up here, isn't it?" He pushed the heavy door open to the stairwell and the steel latch echoed hollowly against the concrete.

His hand seemed to be locating your spine. Reaching for it, through the material of your cardigan, through the thickness of your flesh. The bone ached dully with every step upward. Around the chipped iron railings, winding through the twists of the building. His loafers were black and recently shined. He'd taken to wearing a gold band around his pinkie. His fingers were as long and slender as you remembered, but his skin appeared paler.

It was no longer summer and the cold was an affliction to the body.

Another door thrown open to another linoleum-tiled hall. You traced the black streak marks from boots and sneakers like a set path to the arched doorway to the studio. At the end of the hall, a large latticed window overlooked the yellowed lawn. Often after rehearsals, bundles of ballerinas squished within the bow of the windowsill and blew cigarette smoke against the glass. Permanent fog marks gathered at mouth-height.

The studio was empty. Four mirrored walls, ever-polished hardwood floors the color of sand. Barres cleaned of blood from blistered heels, and a cushioned folding chair near the head of the room, pressed against the mirror. It was the seat of Madame Celeste, the slender, wrinkled woman who commanded the company.

Today, it was empty.

You jolted when the wooden doors clamped shut behind you. The pressure in your spine released and when you turned, it became evident why. He stood before the doors with his hands behind his back, long coat unbuttoned to reveal the white band of his Roman collar. The black shirt of his permanent uniform remained buttoned to the top, snug against his throat.

He fixed his eyes upon you with the intention of a wolf.

Oh, yes. You remembered how this felt. It was almost as though you'd never left.

The blackness of your confinement began to close in around you.

He inhaled deeply and it whistled through his nose. Your own breath shuddered into the room. Madame Celeste did not believe in heat and kept the radiator off. Even when bolts of snow gathered on the window in the hall, the dancers were made to spin until sweat managed to appear. It never took long.

And now, a cold sweat festered under your sweater.

"I am fearful of what I see here," he proclaimed. His gaze left you to trace the room, taking a large step away from the door. The clunk of his shoe resounded like a gunshot.

"'What are you doing, you devastated one? Why dress yourself in scarlet and put on jewels of gold? Why highlight your eyes with makeup?'"

You swallowed as he began to pace the room. Hands settled against his back, one hand closed over the other. Each step like a bullet inching closer to your place in the center of the room. Each word like a slice against your flesh. Stinging, piercing, bleeding you out. He would not look at you and you grew smaller by the second.

"'You adorn yourself in vain,'" he emphasized, shaking his head down at his feet.

His hands had released to press his fingers together as they often did at mass. While he preached and prophesied, and chewed off more of your soul with every syllable. The room felt as off kilter as the chapel back home.

He stopped suddenly before the rear wall of mirrors and fanned his arms wide.

"Vanity!"

You stumbled back with another gasp. A vein protruded between his brows, eyes filled with serpentile venom.

"All this..." He spun slowly, a performative flair that rivaled even yours. His voice dropped to a whisper nearly drowned out by your own pulse. "...mere vanity."

He took a moment, eyes still trained on the mirrors behind you. The proclamation hung in the thin air of the room. Your fingers felt numb pressed into tight fists against your back.

He tipped his chin down and blinked at you. Slowly. There were no charming grins or sideways smiles. There was no softness to the beauty of his features.

“You’ve abandoned God.”

Your hand touched your bare chest. He tracked your movement with his eyes. Stepped closer. One, two—you could feel the warmth of him again. It buzzed in your feet. His proximity stirred a nausea in your gut.

“But I will save you,” he whispered, touching his hand to his chest.

His foot thumped on the floor. Another step. Inching his way to you. The gap between your bodies: shorter, shorter. You jerked backward when you could feel his breath.

He moved one hand your way, palm cupped and fingers bent as though approaching a kitten in the road. He hunched his shoulders a little, lowered a little closer to your eye-line. Every breath taken felt like a load on your lungs. Like at any moment they’d explode from the pressure.

“You will be saved,” he breathed.

The serpent had abandoned him, and its place was something dangerously soft. With warm, round eyes and cinched brows, he appeared transformed in a near instant.

How one gazes upon an infant in the cold. A thing to save. A token of helplessness.

Both hands approached you now, outstretched at shoulder length. You tipped your head away from his incoming presence, eyes squeezing shut when he took hold of your shoulders and spun you around. Every muscle in your body came to a cold front. They cemented together, and maneuvering your body felt like turning a mannequin.

“Kneel,” he murmured. “He wants us to pray.”

He guided you there, and your black tight-clad knees collided into the floorboards with a dull, painful thump. You kept your eyes shut, but heard another pair of knocks behind you. A mirrored vision of your kneeling, he kept arm’s length between your feet and his hands, now letting you go to retrieve the leather bound bible in the pocket of his coat.

The spine tapped on the floor. You could hear a nose drip in the silence. Your own blinks registered with tiny clicks.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

It was as though someone had scrubbed the inside of your mouth with sandpaper. With the vigor of a rusted pan and a woolite sponge, leaving the soft pink tissue of your inner cheeks and writhing tongue raw, useless, and scarred.

Your mouth could not utter the pastor’s words.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

His own voice was that of an instrument, hollowed with an echo that reverberated through your spine and around the room like a boomerang. Like whistling into a cave and waiting for the pitch to make its way back.

Your fingers curled over your knees and grabbed on tight. Every tiny bone in those ten ligaments began to ache.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.”

In the lull, his breaths were heavy. Shallow gasps rasped in the emptiness behind you.

He waited, and he watched. He watched your shoulders rise and fall, your toes curl against the thin suede of a pair of ballet flats. You left your new pointe shoes back in Georgia. Against your every attempt to banish him to the past, Steve wriggled through the gaps.

The pointe shoes came in the mail a month ago.

Steve inhaled sharply, and you squinted one eye open to find him in the wall of mirrors. His chest ballooned, head tipped back to the florescents. After all this time, this was the first you'd seen him worship.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," he began again, and you hung your head toward your knees with a wince.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

Tears stung behind your eyes. His Sunday Morning Mass bravado distorted every syllable of his prayer. Your eardrums quaked with the birth of a buzzing.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory- say it!"

The bible slammed into the ground with a thundering boom. Your entire body lurched forward with a shriek, setting forth the cry building in your throat.

Through wavering vision, you watched him crawl forward and hover near your shoulders. It took only a moment for to realize that the horrible whining sound was coming from you.

“F-for ever a-and ever,” you croaked, blinking hot tears into the reflection before you.

The pastor stood, towering behind you in the mirror. A menacing shadow, once more the serpent with fangs.

You sniffled, bubbling forth a pitiful hiccup when he placed his hand on your shoulder. His fingers danced over the bone for only a moment before they swept under your chin. He turned your face toward him, shoes thumping around your knees until he stood beside you.

You gave in to his wishes, allowing your gaze to meet those reptilian eyes.

It was only a matter of time before your weakness divulged. Only a matter of time before he sunk his teeth in again.

The slightest pressure pulled on your chin, just as he stepped back and held out his hand, palm upended.

Each blink came with warmth on your cheeks, every breath with fire in your lungs. You slipped your hand into his palm and pressed to your feet.

He lifted your hands, only gently cupped together. Gave his wrist the smallest curve, enough space between your bodies for you to twirl.

You pressed to the tops of your toes and spun just once. A complete rotation, heels pressed down once more. You were met with a vision of yourself before you: red-eyed and puffy, and holding the hand of the devil.

From behind you, he collected both your hands. Held them upwards, bent the elbows with another feathered pressure. You sank back to the floor with graceful repose. Every fiber of your being yawned for relief. The weight of his presence fatigued.

On the glossy floor, you knelt in your former position of prayer. He caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

From the inner lining of his pocket—where the bible conjured from only minutes ago—appeared a chain of gold.

Unclasping the adornment, he swept it over your head and toward your throat. The pendant clung to your chest like a magnet, kissing your flesh in relief to be home.

You knew what it was before you could even find it in the mirror.

He clasped the chain around your neck and laid your hair back in place. Gently fluffed around your face, meticulously drawn over your shoulders. He watched all the while in the mirror, intently observing his own craftsmanship.

He pinched two fingers under your chin and nudged it downward. He tipped your head a little to the left. He bent the elbows a little more, placed your clasped hands on your right knee.

He stepped back.

Patted you twice on the head, and in the mirror, smiled.

“My lovely Delilah.”

He smoothed his hand down the back of your hair just once.

And there you sat, soaking the cross on your chest in tears.

Foolish girl. You can never escape the mark of God.