#it's just a vomit of words and intense feelings )

[shecriestotheclickingoftime]

it'll be ok

patrick x reader, 11.2k words

(basically, this fic is what happens when you let a songwriter have an unlimited word count with no narrative skills but a lot of feelings...)

this is a long one, and an intense one, and the plot is kind of convoluted and a mess and a lot of and im ngl reader is very specific and also very mentally ill and struggling the whole time (and is also def a flawed character but pls go easy on her)

an insanely angsty, moody, sad, but hopeful ending Patrick Zweig x reader fic (with a lot lot lot of Art Donaldson mentions though, like he is a main character just not a romantic interest)

set during Stanford era, reader goes to Stanford with Art

TWs: quite a bit of drinking, vomiting at one point from drinking, a lot of mental illness is present here ngl, reader has a really bad relationship with family (but there are not too many specifics), and some moments where reader cannot eat or sleep because of anxiety!

Freshman year of college was hard. You’d been so excited to finally get away from your family, and attend Stanford, but the adjustment was hard. You’d already been there a couple months, and you’d made friends, your closest one being Art Donaldson, a tennis player who just kind of… popped up in your Psychology 101 class, and then just stayed in your life.

The second you walked into the massive lecture hall, you knew you had messed up signing up for an introductory science class. You were an English major, this class wasn’t even required for you, but for some reason, you were here. You scanned the room, trying to not look as nervous as you were, and sat down in an empty seat. The class still didn’t start for a few minutes, and students were still filing in, getting set up for class. As the lecture hall started to get more full, you looked back down at your notes, trying to get everything ready for today. There were still a fair amount of empty seats left, so it took you by surprise when a blonde, athletic-looking boy came and sat down a seat away from you. He smiled at you, and you smiled back, and he introduced himself as Art Donaldson. You nodded and looked away, trying to look disinterested, but for some reason, this kid was hell bent on getting to know you. 

Eventually, you reluctantly decided to give him a chance. As much as the alarm bells in your mind went off, reminding you that it was definitely a bad idea to let yourself get socially involved, something about Art completely disarmed you. Though you tried your hardest to resist getting attached, especially to a guy, Art did everything he could to be a stable figure in your life, and for some reason, he cared about you. He didn’t mind your quiet, sharp exterior that you guarded yourself with; it seemed like he cared about you more because of it- from the first time you two met, it felt like he saw straight through you in a way that no one else ever had, like somehow he already knew you the first time you two met. 

You did everything you could to protect yourself, keeping your struggles and emotions to yourself, like you had been taught to. The hardest part about Stanford was being away from your family. All you had ever wanted was to be away from them, away from their mistreatment, but even after everything they had put you through, you couldn’t help but miss them. You missed your parents, as much as you didn’t want to, and you felt so alone without your family. You didn’t want to be alone, but you knew you couldn’t go home either. You just felt so alone. 

The only thing that felt worse to you than being completely alone, was actually trusting someone and then being left. But despite your resistance, you slowly found yourself starting to trust Art. At first, you tried everything you could to push Art away more. But every time he saw right through you, so you tried to be icier and more distant, so you could get him away before he even got the chance to hurt you. But Art had this careful kind of persistence, somehow not really minding that you pushed him away- He wasn’t trying to sneak closer to you, or get you to let him in, he just wanted to be there, wherever you were comfortable with. And as independent as you tried to be, you had to admit that maybe sometimes it was good to have a friend. 

You revolved your life around school. But nothing you did could help the loneliness that had been tearing you apart from the inside since you were a young teen. You were haunted by the thoughts that no one could understand, or care, and even if they did you knew that no one ever stayed. You were too much for anyone to handle. So you had no choice but to let the loneliness fester, and to just hide the pain from everyone else. But the emotions hurt more than words could describe- so you looked for distractions. So you studied. Obsessively. And your first midterm season was no exception- you put so much pressure on yourself that on the nights before your tests you couldn’t sleep or eat, your anxiety making you feel so restless and sick that you physically couldn’t do anything besides just studying and spiraling. 

–

It was not an exaggeration to say that by Friday night, you felt like death. After finishing your last midterm, you felt beyond empty. Your test adrenaline that had kept you going the past few days had suddenly worn off, and the consequences of your own actions had finally started to catch up to you. And without studying and anxiety to obsess over, you could no longer avoid your chronic loneliness. You were tired, and hungry, and completely alone. 

So when Art Donaldson showed up at your door to invite you to the frat party tonight, and added that his best friend was in town and he wanted us to meet, you knew it was a terrible idea, and you should definitely not drink in this condition.

So naturally, you agreed. 

You’d heard about his best friend Patrick Zweig before, and to be honest, he seemed like a cocky, self-centered idiot. But Art was insistent on introducing you two. You didn’t have much interest in meeting him, (but to be fair, you didn’t have much interest in meeting anyone right now). But, when Art asked you to just give him a chance, you couldn’t say no. 

So, in your zombie state and all, you went to a fucking fraternity party. Completely out of any energy, you poured yourself a strong drink, downed it, and repeated. And repeated. And repeated until losing count. 

And there you were, severely sleep deprived, practically hallucinating, and already wasted. 

And that’s when you met Patrick fucking Zweig for the first time. 

Even drunk, you could tell at first glance that Patrick was a player, just based on his cocky demeanor (and the fact that he was tall and hot. like, what girl wouldn’t want him?) So, you gave him a tight-lipped smile, closing your walls again before you’d let some womanizer guy take advantage of you.

Why had Art wanted you to meet him anyways? This guy seemed completely incompatible with you, and to be honest, you were surprised that he would be such close friends with sweet, gentle Art. So, you introduced yourself quickly, slipped out of the corner you’d been hiding in for the past half hour of this party, downed your way-too-strong drink, and went to go make another one. Now that midterms were over, you couldn’t use your obsessive studying to distract you from your family and loneliness, so getting fucking wasted seemed distracting enough. 

But of course, Art had to notice. And he had to get worried about you, making sure to stay close and keep you in his eyeline. He’d noticed your sadness, and having seen Patrick go through the same complicated family feelings throughout his years at Mark Rebellato’s, he could tell enough of what was going on. 

He was initially drawn to you because he saw Patrick in you. However, instead of shutting people out by acting overly confident and social like Patrick, Art watched you shut yourself away. And even though he had only known you for a couple months, he couldn’t help but care about you, recognizing Patrick’s sadness in you. 

So, when he saw you drinking so much at the party, he knew you were just coping with loneliness. He’d seen Patrick numb himself with drinks enough time in high school, trying to fill the emptiness with liquor and meaningless flings with the girls around him, trying to escape the desperate need to feel cared about and loved. Art knew Patrick like the back of his hand, and he knew that you two were scarily similar. 

As you got drunker, you migrated back to standing near Art, who was practically attached at the hip to Patrick, and you somehow end up rambling about the English paper you just finished. As douchey as Patrick seemed, something about his demeanor seemed gentle towards you, nodding and smiling softly, actually listening to you as you sipped drink after drink and had pointless conversations with Art. You tried to avoid his eye contact and ignore him- you hated to admit it, but he was good at being charming, and even after drinking this much, you still knew that you couldn’t let yourself fall for that. You’d already been dumb letting Art in so much, and you were still scared by how much you trusted him, and so there was no way you were going to let yourself develop some delusional crush on his douchey best friend. So you tried to ignore how tall he was, and how he towered over you, and how he somehow seemed actually interested in your idiotic drunken ramblings. You wouldn’t fall for his tricks.

You were incoherently drunk. And meeting Patrick fucking Zweig at the same time. You weren’t one to lose control, you wanted to tell him and Art, but at this point it didn’t even matter anymore. Because now, here you were, stumbling over your words and pouring all of your thoughts out before you could even stop to think about how embarrassing this was. It couldn’t get any worse than this. 

Actually, you soon learned that it could get worse. Finally, the countless drinks that had been churning around your stomach finally started to catch up with you, and you could tell that you were absolutely going to be sick. You tried to excuse yourself quickly from the boys, stumbling through the crowd outside as quickly as you could, just trying to reach the fresh air outside and hoping that it could refresh your senses. But of course, your escape plan was useless, because Art and Patrick trailed worriedly behind you. And as they followed you out, you prayed to forget all of this tomorrow.

You breathed in the cool, smoky air, wishing to vanish or something, anything to get out of what you knew was bound to happen.“I think I need to go back to my dorm,” you blurted out, turning around to face the boys, and slowly backing away, trying to conceal your wobbly steps, praying that they leave you alone before you got sick. 

But of course, you wouldn’t escape that easily. 

“Hey, let us walk you back,” Patrick said gently, stepping carefully towards you.

“Yeah, it’s really late, and my building is near yours anyways,” Art followed up, offering a comforting smile.

Even in your drunkenness, you could already tell that the two were worried and definitely wouldn’t be letting you walk home alone this late. And as much as you didn’t want them to see you like this, you didn’t trust your ability to get back home right now. So, you gave up on getting them to leave, and you finally nodded, letting them catch up to you as you accepted your fate of possibly having the worst first impression in the history of ever. 

You’d barely walked for 2 minutes when the inevitable feeling hit you… you were gonna throw up. 

So, this was how you introduced yourself to Patrick Zweig. Instead of hiding behind your cold, quiet demeanor that you tried to maintain, you ended up getting embarrassingly drunk, and now fucking throwing up. You scolded yourself in your head, trying to breathe slowly and calm the sickness, but the ground felt like it was spinning and you lost control. You quickly made yourself stumble towards some bushes as you vomited. (sorry guys i know this is gross but it's part of the plot </3)

You tried to conceal your face from Art and Patrick as much as you possibly could, not wanting them to get grossed out by your display (if you could call it that)- although there wasn’t really a way to hide when they’re standing next to you. Nonetheless, you tried, wishing to yourself that they would somehow forget about this, and just leave you alone to die in the bushes out of pure embarrassment. 

You continued to be sick, and everything just hurt at this point. But you suddenly felt a large, calloused hand gently lowering onto your back and rubbing soothing circles along your spine, as another hand gently brushed your hair away from your face, holding it back with a soft hold. Even in your dizzy state, you could tell that it wasn’t Art doing that- Art’s hands were always smooth and, like, way too well kept and soft for a college athlete. So, this must’ve been… Patrick?

God, this is your first impression? Throwing up at a fucking frat party? With him holding back my hair?

You can’t even tell how long you were standing there, throwing up into the damn Stanford bushes. But you do remember Patrick’s gentle touch never leaving your back or your face, as he whispered little “you’re ok”s into the night air as he comforted you. 

After you got back up, the rest of the night passed by in a dizzying blur, your vision making everything around you look like a stop-motion movie. You could feel your drunken memories as they evaded your mind and disappeared from consciousness just as quickly as they happened. You generally remember the idea of walking back to your dorm, trying to accept what just happened. You briefly remember Art and Patrick still walking with you after that, Patrick arm floating around your waist, as he tried to keep you steady. Both Art and Patrick seemed completely unfazed, and even understanding of you, like they had experienced this a million times before. 

The boys walked you all the way back up to right outside of your dorm door, making sure that you got all the way back home safe and intact. You whispered a feeble sorry and good night to them as you slipped back into your room, shutting the door and not even bothering to turn on the lights, letting yourself fall into your dorm’s shitty little twin bed. To be honest, you kind of knocked out after that, escaping from the chaos of the night and letting everything go black 

The next morning, you woke up with the golden San Francisco sun peeking through the half-open blinds on the windows. Despite not remembering falling asleep the night before, you could tell that you had knocked out cold soon after you got back to your room, seeing that you had fallen asleep outside of the covers and still in your party clothes and makeup… and even your shoes were on, damn. 

And, of course, you woke up with a headache. And a stomachache. And so tired, and so thirsty. But the pain in your body felt almost nonexistent compared to the horror that completely washed over you as the memories of the night before flooded back… at least enough of them to remember meeting Patrick, who was way too tall and cute to be embarrassing yourself in front of, as you recalled talking, and talking, and talking, and drinking, and talking, and then… throwing up. And then walking home. 

God, not only did you embarrass yourself in front of Art’s best friend, but you also did that in front of Art… your closest friend at Stanford… and god, he probably was disgusted by you and never wanted to see you again. 

At least, that’s what your mind told you, as you could help but feel nauseous again as the last night played back in your head. That’s what you get for going out right after skipping so many nights of sleep and proper meals because of midterms stress… God, you were dumb. Why did you listen to Art, and why did you agree to meet his best friend?

You still didn’t fully understand why Art had been so insistent on you meeting this Patrick guy, anyways. Did he want to set you up with a douchebag player? Like, what was the point?

Your mind flashed back to the feeling of his hand on your back, gently holding you while you were sick, and his careful, almost nervous hand floating around your waist, stabilizing you as you walked back to the dorm. That was Patrick, not even Art. And something about his featherlight touch and sweet silence made you feel like he understood you, and somehow he knew how you were feeling, even though you had never met before.

You shook the thought off, figuring that it was just your drunken mind making up this feeling between you. He was probably just giving you that smug smile that he flashed at you when you first met, and you perceived it as something gentle and kind in your pathetic loneliness. Ugh, you felt dumb. Your shame of the past night felt like a weight tied to your ankles, keeping you imprisoned in your dorm room. You didn’t want to see Art anytime soon, your mind crowded with thoughts about how he probably thinks you’re so dumb at this point, and he wouldn’t want to care about you anymore after seeing how you acted. (And to be fair, your thoughts were definitely irrational and untrue, but the Sunday (or technically Saturday) scaries can seriously be haunting sometimes).

Oh, and you could definitely never face that Patrick guy again. He doesn’t even go to Stanford, so if you can avoid Art enough, then you’d probably never have to see him again anyways. Hopefully.

But… you could almost still feel his hand on your back, rubbing circles, taking care of you while you were sick, and it just felt so… affectionate. No one had comforted you like that in a long time… Even at home, when you got sick, you’d lock the bathroom door and turn the faucet up to drown out any noise you’d make, so you didn’t “burden” your family with your illness. You took care of yourself. Like you always did, and you always would. But in that moment, even just recalling the hazy, embarrassing memory, you could still feel that safety and care from him… 

You snapped yourself out of this mental spiral- God, you were delusional. And probably also eternally pathetically lonely. 

And you were most definitely not leaving your dorm room for the rest of the weekend. 

–

You spent the rest of the weekend hiding in your dorm, feeling like fucking Dracula not being able to bear the outside light. You tried to push down your shame, blaming the hangover for your anxiety, but you still decided that distancing yourself from Art would be the right thing to do. There is no way you could let yourself be that vulnerable with a guy, especially since you couldn’t stop thinking about Patrick, and how he took care of you. And maybe this was a strange thing to ruminate on so much, but something about it felt so personal. It’s like something is pushing you towards him, that you have no control over, making you want to just be near him again. 

God, you were pining. For Patrick Zweig? You were getting attached to a guy you had met for one damn drunken night. Fuck you, Art, for introducing you to Patrick. You were fucked. And spiraling. 

– 

After a successful weekend of avoiding the world, you finally had to leave your room again. You had classes to go to. You took a long shower, composed youself, and got ready to get back out in the world- there was no way you were gonna let a dumb embarrassing moment in front of fucking Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig interfere with your academics. And besides, you needed to distract yourself, and filling the void of loneliness with countless tasks and books to read sounded perfectly fine. 

You saw that Art had texted you that Sunday morning asking how you were. And you ignored it. And of course, he had to text again on Tuesday, asking if you wanted to grab coffee before Psychology lecture like the two of you usually did. Like everything was normal or something. 

And again, you didn’t respond. And then you skipped your Psych class. You emailed an apology to the professor, and watched over the class recording he sent you, taking notes on it. But there was no way you could face Art Donaldson yet. 

Your avoidance of him almost got irrational- you knew you were blowing things out of proportion, but you were so scared that if you got close to Art again, you’d see Patrick again, and… you couldn’t do that. You made a commitment to yourself- from now on, you definitely fucking hated Patrick Zweig. You didn't need to justify yourself with a reason why. You just needed to hate him.

–

Avoiding Art got more and more difficult as the weeks went by- you skipped another Psych class and practically snuck around campus to go to your classes, paranoid that he would see you around. So you broke, and decided to talk to him. Well, not really talk to him about your 2-week avoidance. He didn’t have to know what was going on with you. So, you came up with the most bullshit excuse you could. You claimed you’d been sick, and coincidentally also your phone had been broken, and that’s why he didn’t see you and you also didn’t text him at all. Pneumonia was really going around this year, right? 

Somehow, you actually showed up to your next Psych class. You sat on the opposite side of the row as Art, burying your face in a novel and pretending to not even notice anyone around you, not even him. You stared at your notebook for the entirety of the lecture, obsessing over your notes that were definitely way too detailed, and made sure not to look over at Art. He couldn’t be mad at you if you simply just didn’t see him, right? And as soon as class ended, you dove back into your novel, not even looking up on your walk out.

You knew you were acting irrationally. But you’d been acting like this for so long that you knew you’d dug yourself into a hole with Art, and there was no use trying to crawl out and explain yourself. So you just let it continue. 

– 

However, your seemingly flawless avoidance plan (predictably) didn’t last very long. It only really ended up lasting until that same weekend, when of course, you had to cross paths with Art Donaldson on your walk back from your favorite, cute little bookstore. You had almost made it back to your dorm without bumping into anyone, and you almost forgot about all of your anxieties- 

Until you looked up and found yourself looking straight into Art Donaldson’s eyes, as he walked the opposite way as you, your eyes widening at the sight of him in his tennis uniform, with his giant racket bag slung over his shoulder. You instantly remembered: he always leaves for his Saturday tennis practices at this time. Fuck, you shoud’ve known not to be here at this time, but you just wanted to go to the bookstore so much that you had to forget literally everything else. 

So, here you were, face to face with Art Donaldson, after ghosting him completely for over two weeks, because… you threw up in front of him at a party. You stopped walking as you approached him, guilt flooding your mind as you realized that you had completely shut him out for… god, almost three weeks today. 

“Hey”, he said as he approached you, his voice soft, almost like he was testing the waters, as you froze in place, unable to look away from his eyes. “Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you since… like the day after midterms. You said you got pneumonia? And your phone broke?”

Your face flushed in embarrassment as you tried not to visibly cringe at how illogical your actions and excuses sounded in his words. 

“God, Art, I fucked up,” you blurted out, unable to filter yourself… and now that you’ve started talking, you knew you couldn’t stop… “I’m so sorry, Art” you said, trying to breathe and compose yourself, the shame for your actions threatening to swallow you whole. “I… Ok, I’ll just be honest. I felt so embarrassed after getting so drunk at that stupid frat party, that I started avoiding you, and then I guess I… Once I started, I couldn’t then go up to you and talk to you, so I let myself dig further and further into this hole and it just felt too bad to climb out and… Well, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I should have texted, and you did nothing wrong, I just was embarrassed-” You stopped yourself from rambling further, forcing yourself to take a breath and let Art respond. You looked down, as if you were trying to gaze straight though your shows and into the ground, as you braced yourself for the worst- you had been told a million times by people around you that you were too much to handle, so you pushed away and broke every relationship, and you knew that you had just done that again. And now you talked way too much, and he

“Listen… I get it” Art almost whispered- and when you looked up, you were met by a sympathetic smile and a worried stare that looked like it could read your mind. “I know how stressed you were because of midterms, and it definitely wasn’t a good idea for me to drag you out to a party right after we took them- and I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you by also introducing you to Patrick too, I know that he can be… a lot. And I’m not mad at you. But next time, just let me know if you’re not doing well. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, just… be in contact.”

You were almost taken aback by his words- you were expecting Art to give you icy stares and bring out words so sharp that they pierced straight through your skin, and you felt like you would have deserved it. But he actually thought about you, and apologized? You stood there for a moment, your mind still processing his response and unable to form words, when he spoke again, this time softer and more nervous:

“Just… try meeting Patrick one more time? You don’t have to anytime soon, but at some point, just get to know him a little. And then you can never talk to him again, but… this is important” he insisted, his tone anxious and almost a little awkward. He offered a comforting smile, still noticing some fear lingering in your eyes after the entire conversation. 

– 

Looking into your expression, Art’s mind went straight back to the one night in 10th grade at the academy, when he and Patrick had stolen a joint from their young guest tennis instructor’s bag, and decided it would be a great idea to try getting high together for the first time. It started fun, as Art and Patrick settled into a half-conscious recalling of embarrassing childhood memories, laughing at themselves and at old classmates, until they had somehow gone into talking about family memories, when Patrick broke down crying while confessing about how much he didn’t want to go home for the holidays. In the 5 years that Art had known Patrick before that, he never heard him talk like that. The two of them talked for a couple hours, eventually joking around and laughing too hard at everything, like high teenage boys would do, but something in Patrick had melted away- like some barrier that he had held up for so long that neither Patrick not Art even fully realized it was there the whole time- and Art suddenly saw a glimpse past Patrick’s self-centered persona, and say what was behind his loud words and bold actions. 

But, by the time Art woke up the next day, Patrick had realized how much he exposed himself the night before, and completely shut down. Of course, with this being Patrick, it didn’t last more than a week before he and Art started joking around again- but from then on, Art could see through Patrick’s actions a lot more. And even though Patrick never explicitly mentioned that night again, and he still probably wouldn’t, even years later, he did open up a little more after that: he started calling his parents when Art was in the room, and starting skipping his own family’s events to stay at Art’s grandma’s house during the winter holiday breaks- and although Patrick never showed this side to anyone else, he let Art see it; he had almost memorized the hurt in Patrick’s eyes after rough phone conversations with his parents, the loneliness that Patrick tried to cover up so desperately, and finally could see straight through Patrick’s words, when he pushed people away because he was afraid. And when he met you, despite the fact that you seemed cold and almost kind of mean, Art instantly recognized the distinct kind of sharpness in your voice, and the fear hiding behind your judgey stares. And since then, he couldn’t help but want to take care of you and protect you, the way that he wanted to protect Patrick- but even more than that, he could tell that Patrick would see straight through you too, and soften him up a little. Neither you nor Patrick seemed like the type to admit that you cared, but something about the two of you seemed intertwined, like there was some sort of invisible string between the two of you that was obvious to Art the moment he met you.

–

Stupidly enough, you had actually agreed with Art that you’d meet Patrick again. But maybe not yet. Art understood more than you thought he would, and didn't bother you about it as you warmed back up to a friendship with him. You stopped feeling like you had to sneak around campus and you went back to sitting with Art during Psychology class. And even though things still hurt, the weight that your family had left on your shoulders seemed to slowly get lighter, and you stopped missing home so much. Between Art, your other English major friends, and some kind professors, you have started to feel a bit more independent. However, even as you let yourself let go of home a little more, you could still feel the loneliness gnawing at you- you liked being independent, and you had gotten used to being independent- you had been independent your whole life, figuring out how to cope with things yourself and not letting yourself need anyone. However, even as you became more content with your college life, you still felt a desperate part of you wanting to feel a little cared for and wanted- maybe just someone to understand, to share the hurt sometimes. But you just blame that on your family issues, praying that the empty feeling would eventually fade away- it was better than trying to find someone to fill it, you couldn't let yourself trust anyone to stay. 

But in the meantime, you focused on yourself. At least you tried to. You tried to take care of yourself, you worked hard in classes, and you didn’t force yourself to call back home. You tried to be more social, actually attending some frat parties with your girl friends (and the nights didn’t end terribly for you anymore), but you still strictly maintained a lot of your coldness and quietness- you liked having friends, and you felt like you fit in, but you made sure to lock away any sign of neediness or pure vulnerability- you didn’t want to let your past drag you down, so you shut it out, and shut everyone away from that part of you. And you did a pretty good job- but of course, Art saw right through it. But he didn’t say anything, he just tried to help from the outside as much as he could without overwhelming you. He started bringing over coffee or dinner when he noticed that you were shutting yourself in your room, and quietly helping you out on the simpler things, like helping you out with laundry or helping you out with your desk clutter on the days that it was hard to get things done without some motivation. 

The next few months of the semester floated by, as you learned to balance your schoolwork with the rest of your life, and you buried your sadness deeper inside until it was almost invisible- although you could feel it tearing into you a little more. You felt it when you were alone, and even worse when you were in a group or a crowd, still feeling lost and like despite even being friends with all of the people around you, none of them actually could touch the pain inside of you- and you felt too guilty to tell them, not wanting to place your burdens onto them as well. 

You ended up staying at Stanford for thanksgiving, telling your family the excuse that it was just too far to fly all the way home for less than a week of vacation, and had dinner alone on the floor of your dorm, drinking through a bottle of wine and watching trashy reality tv. You didn’t tell anyone that you did this- you didn’t lie, but you also dodged any conversation about it. Although you told yourself that you loved the cozy nights alone, you couldn’t fully ignore the loneliness ripping you apart further. As much as you tried to cover it up with a quiet and guarded personality, you still found yourself in bed at night replaying the distant, fuzzy memories of Patrick Zweig on that one drunken night- and even though you tried to hate him during the day, you still found yourself curled up on late, anxious nights, letting yourself remember and cling onto a feeling that you felt for less than a second that night, finally allowing yourself just a brief moment to be weak, no longer holding onto your defenses, and for a silent moment letting your mind be cradled by that untouchable, unexplainable feeling that somehow, for some reason, someone had understood you. He understood you, and he saw straight through you, and he still held onto you. 

(But, by the morning, you had already pushed that idea so far back down, that you would have forgotten how real it felt, when you let yourself feel it. But, by the daytime, you were sure again that you were imagining these things about Patrick Zweig, and you allowed the familiar pull of loneliness tearing you apart just a little more, crying for something that didn’t exist. And inside, you kept a secret from yourself- that all of you was hoping for just one more night that you would let yourself be held by the memory again.)

–

You saw Patrick again in passing on the few times he came to visit Art. He always seemed to try and talk with you, despite you brushing him off every time. Once, much to your dismay, he came with you and Art to grab your usual coffees before your lecture together, and Art basically struggled to hold back his laughter at Patrick, whom he had always seen as the charmer who moved on from girls almost instantly, seemingly try his hardest to try and get you to break a little. And while Patrick respected your space, and left you alone when you brushed him off, he seemed like he was longing for some sort of conversation with you.

And the truth is, Art would’ve advised Patrick to fuck off a long time ago after you ignored him for the first time, if you had wanted him to leave… but Art knew you, and based on the way that you always blushed whenever Patrick’s name was brought up, and you always fidgeted with your jewelry and hair anxiously even as you openly ignored Patrick, Art knew you were just pushing him away. Art had seen you do it before, and while he allowed you to push Patrick away over and over again, part of him just loved to see how much Patrick actually let his guard down around you. For the first time in Art’s life, Patrick was really nervous about a girl. So nervous that his cocky, charming alter-ego completely fell when you were there. Because Patrick understood what Art had noticed in you- you were also hurt, and really really persistent in protecting yourself, hiding any vulnerability. And Patrick was the same- but something about you made him ok with showing that he cared. With you there, he couldn’t help it. 

Patrick visited Art a total of 3 times that semester (not that you were counting, definitely not), and for each visit, Patrick tried to approach you at least one time, wanting to really talk to you, but always giving you space whenever you signaled for it. He felt bad being so persistent, constantly trying to understand and follow any rules or boundaries you were setting, but it felt like you were being purposefully vague with him. So, he followed your lead as best he could.

And to be honest, you didn’t even know what you wanted either. Your mind told you that you needed to push him away. But you just couldn’t let him go completely either. But it just couldn’t work out. Everything was confusing, and nothing you could do felt right. You didn’t like him, you couldn’t. You didn’t. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, Art could easily tell that you and Patrick were both way too into each other- but there was just no way to get you to let your guard down in front of Patrick. You seemed terrified to let him care about you, even though Art could tell you had a soft spot for him, and how much you forced yourself to block him out. But every time you told Patrick to leave, he made sure to leave you alone and give you the space you wanted… but you always just ended up looking depressed whenever he left, no longer talking and shutting down even more than when he was there. And by the end of Patrick’s third visit, after you spent the whole time trying to push him away, but you then always stayed around Art’s dorms and tennis practices when Patrick was there. Always near him. Art couldn’t help but notice how you locked yourself in your room for a few days, and looked unusually and consistently sad every time he saw you for at least the next week. 

God, you two were absolutely, undeniably lovesick, and it was getting more obvious in every interaction. 

—

As you neared the last month of your first semester of college, you almost forgot about the yearly Stanford tradition that was inching closer and closer- family weekend. 

Well, actually you didn’t forget at all. How could you, when you got like at least twenty reminder emails in the past week, and saw the flyers for the activities that were planned for all of the students to do with their parents. You were fully aware that family weekend was nearing…

And you just didn’t tell your parents about it. You didn’t have to. And honestly, they were so focused on taking care of your older sister at her school, that they didn’t even keep up with any Stanford news. (and, even if they had seen one of the many emails that were sent, they didn’t mention it, because they ended up making plans to visit your sister over the weekend). And so, you were going to be alone on family weekend. 

You crafted a plan for this weekend nearly identical to the one you had for thanksgiving- ask for a couple bottles of wine from your sorority friends, order a shit ton of food to your dorm, and hide inside and pretend that nothing else exists from Friday to Monday. 

And that was the plan. Sure.

Until Art had a different idea.

“You know, since my grandma’s house is only like an hour away from here, and she’s gone for the weekend, I was just gonna stay there for the weekend. And I have spare bedrooms, and air mattresses in the basement, so like last minute now I’m hosting boys and girls tennis teams, and we’re partying all weekend. I guess a lot of tennis kids don’t care to see their folks this weekend either,” Art grinned at you excitedly, looking a little too excited to explain his plan. “And you know… you haven’t told me about what you’re doing, but on the off chance that you were free this weekend I saved a room for you in my house if you’d want to come. No pressure,” he says, and you definitely don’t miss the glimmer of excitement that flashes in his eyes when you nod your head, deciding to just let Art win and not try to put up a fight. To be honest, it’s not like you were doing anything good locked up in your dorm room, so you might as well go to Art’s house. Worst comes to worst, you’ll just hide and read your novels in the guest room there anyways. 

“By the way,” Art says, looking slightly nervous but also clearly holding back a smile, “Patrick’s gonna be there this weekend too, if that’s ok. You don’t have to talk to him at all, it's no pressure at all.” 

–

The rest of the week passed by you like a breeze, and by Friday morning you were packed for the weekend and ready to go. You had packed a combination of casual cute clothes and some sweats as well, since Art had claimed that this was all gonna be chill and casual. 

All of Art’s guests had to organize rides for themselves, but since you weren’t part of the tennis teams, Art had immediately offered you to go with him. Art was always weirdly good at identifying what was making you anxious, and trying to find a solution if he could. So, after an hour car ride of you blasting your favorite songs with the windows while Art drove you both down to his house, and you realized how much you missed obnoxiously loud music**** and speeding down highways while you were living at Stanford. 

****(Irrelevant author’s note: in my mind, I’m imagining listening to the Jeff Buckley songs Gunshot Glitter, Nightmares by the Sea, and What Will You Say, specifically the live version from the Theatre de Fourviére, Lyon, France. Yes, it being this specific exact live performance is very important to me! And for bonus points, the Radiohead songs Airbag, Just, and How To Disappear Completely (depressing but heavenly at full volume), and also for something fun and loud, the song Closet by Fleshwater. Trust me that song is so good omg. Ok thats it from me byee <3).

It seemed like no time at all until you and Art arrived at his (insanely oversized) house, and as you pulled into the smoothly paved driveway, you felt a breath of relief escape from your lips. You didn’t fully let yourself process just how much you were dreading the Stanford family weekend until you realized that you actually, officially escaped it, and the relief washes over you like a cold rainstorm finally breaking through a heat wave so long, you had forgotten that the burning feeling wasn’t normal. 

While the thought of your family not even noticing, or more likely not really caring about, the family visiting weekend burned in your chest, it at least felt good to get some physical distance from the festivities going on back at school. And even though you loved Stanford, and it started to feel like your true home, you knew it would do you good to be physically forced out and away from your beloved dorm room, after trapping yourself in it so much (which you had also been planning to do again this weekend). And besides, you knew that Art was going to set you up with a cool guest room, which, although you didn’t want to admit it, would definitely be way nicer than your cramped little single dorm and rock-hard twin bed that you had grown used to. (No hate to the dorm room from this story we still love u queen <333)

Walking through the front door of Art’s house felt like another sigh of relief, a pestering weight being lifted off of your shoulders, even if just for this weekend. Since you traveled with Art you two arrived a little before everyone else, so you two share a bottle over overly-expensive sparkling rosé (that is definitely too fancy to be consumed casually like this, but Art clearly doesn’t care), while the two of you hang around as people start to arrive and leave their stuff in their rooms.

It’s only like 7pm on Friday night when the party has already seemingly started, all of the guests having arrived and just too excited to wait to have fun until later that night. You find yourself more relaxed at this party than at the usual frats, sipping on some other expensive champagne that Art opened for you, actually savoring your countless glasses you’re drinking, instead of your usual chug of overly strong liquor-filled complete mind-escaping drinks. You queue up songs and walk around the ground floor, the kitchen, the living room, and the game room all filled with different groups of tennis kids playing games and hanging out. It feels a lot more low stakes than the usual frat rager, and you enjoy the slight warm and fuzzy feeling you're getting from the alcohol, instead of drinking until you stumble around and your head feels empty. 

You almost get surprised when a song that you’re sure you didn’t mean to queue up, Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley, the live from the Cabaret Metro in Chicago version (yes it being this live version is important to me) starts flooding the room. The song is definitely too gut-wrenching to be playing at a college party, you think to yourself, but you also don’t make any effort to skip the song or turn it off anytime soon. Hearing this song blasted over the speakers, surrounding you in its emotion and vulnerability, feels almost like a complete catharsis. And of course, as if in a queue, you spot him across the room…

Patrick. fucking. Zweig.

He looks up at the same time as you, the bridge of the Jeff Buckley song blaring and the timing feels too in point, like some sort of dumb set-up. And you almost want to roll your eyes, but you can’t move your stare away from his eyes, and without even trying you feel like you can read straight through his intense gaze, like you’ve both been hypnotized by each other’s expressions. And as you hold eye contact for far too long to be normal, you see a break in his expression. For a single moment he looks completely fragile, and his walls have broken straight through. And in his eyes, you see a glimmer of sweetness, and even though he’d tried approaching you several times before, he had never looked this lovesick and cute before. And though you’d only met a few times, and you tried to convince yourself you didn’t care, something in you broke down from the way he was looking at you… and for a passing moment, you could read the loneliness behind his expression, and you could feel it tearing him apart too, the same way it did to you. And for the first time you let yourself notice a concealed sadness in his eyes that felt so familiar, a thought crossed your mind that said that somehow, you must have known each other all your lives.

The moment only lasts until you blink, and you realize that you had fully stopped breathing for the past 39 seconds, looking at him. Your mind swells with a hailstorm of countell words, your thoughts connecting and swirling into tornados, and you couldn’t help but just sit there and feel them breaking down your strength and burning doubts through your memories. You felt as old memories started echoing through your body, and your mind was filled with alarms blaring, begging you to not let the past happen again, screaming at you to run or hide.

You tried to pay back attention to the music, which had moved from Jeff Buckley songs and was now playing some old SZA that Art must’ve cued up, and you tried to focus on the music, wishing that it would drown out the noise of the alarms that still tortured you, and your thoughts were so loud you thought they might overflow. Needing to get out, especially before Patrick saw you like this, you rushed over to Art, desperately needing to reach the nearest escape route.

“Hey Art, which guest room is mine?” you ask, trying to press a fake smile on your face, willing your face to look happy, but your voice chokes as you desperately hold into the tears threatening to stream down your cheeks. Everything is too overwhelming for a second, and while you try to focus just on the music, the random groups of friends hanging out around you start to feel like they’re closing in on you, and their drunken giggles and chatter start to sound like they must be talking about you. All of a sudden you feel suffocatingly claustrophobic, and you can’t help but choke on your breathing. Just praying to the tears and sobs you’re clinging onto can stay back for just one more minute, at least until you get to the stairs. 

Art looks over your face, almost worried but trying hard not to press into you and make you feel worse. “The stairs are through there”, he says, gesturing to a hallway on the right, “and your room is the third door on the left. There’s a little sticky note with your name on it up on the door, I put one on yours and Patrick’s rooms to reserve the best rooms for you guys,” he explains, trying to give you a comforting smile, trying to show his understanding without making you feel delicate, even though you look like you could break at any moment. He’s never seen you like this, so opened, and it’s like someone completely tore down the walls and guards you always keep around you. The coldness that usually sits in your eyes is gone, and while you may just look kind of upset to most people, Art can tell how unprotected you feel right now. He nods and guides you over to the hall that leads to the stairs, but he lets you walk up alone so that you don’t have to cry in front of him. Despite his instinct to comfort you, he knows that you want to be alone right now, so he lets you go. 

Your conversation with Art goes mainly unwatched and you sneak out of the party pretty successfully, as you’re finally out of sight from the crowded living room, stepping slowly up the soft beige carpet that drapes over the tall spiral staircase. Once you’re completely hidden from the party, you finally let yourself lose control over your spilling tears and silent sobs, rushing up the stairs and into the room that Art had labeled with your name. The guest room looked regal, an ornate white cabinet standing against the wall and a huge, soft bed sitting in the room, the towering white bed frame adorned with a transparent, light blue canopy that draped over the bed, turning the bed into a fantasy-like cove that looked like it belonged on a cloud, not in a spare bedroom of the Donaldson’s mansion. You somehow don’t even have the energy to change out of your jeans before you flip off the lightswitch and crawl straight into bed, letting yourself get swallowed up into the blankets as your tears and mascara silently stain one of several white pillows stacked around the bed. If you weren’t in the middle of crying you probably would’ve laughed at how extravagant and detailed the Donaldson’s guest rooms are, the whole mansion feeling like it should have been more out of Downton Abbey than the house of Art Donaldson. There were also somehow like 5 other bedrooms scattered around the house, and you didn’t even want to imagine what the rest of them looked like. 

Sniffling, you close your eyes and do your best to breathe, pushing away the thoughts that you feel eating at you, echoing around your mind, waiting for answers- what the fuck happened there with Patrick? You took one good look at him and wanted to cry, like what the fuck. 

The familiarity in his expression is haunting- you’ve spent so much time feeling alone and misunderstood, and you’d just figured that no one would really get how you feel, and that was ok… But he understood it. He understood the loneliness tearing you apart, and maybe somehow he felt it too. But why would some random, rich, popular tennis player kid understand you out of everyone? How could he understand feeling unwanted, when he looked like that? And the memory of his brash, cocky smile makes you want to cry even more, you can’t believe you’re getting attached to someone who clearly wouldn’t care about you. You had tried too hard to push him away, and not let yourself get close to him whenever he came to visit… but something about tonight made you feel completely powerless. What scared you the most was that during all of it, you could feel that all you’d really wanted in that moment was to be wrapped in his arms, and told that everything was ok. You just wanted to feel cared for- you didn’t want to feel the pain by yourself. And feeling like that was genuinely terrifying.

And as much as you hated the truth, you also felt so relieved to admit it. To maybe be ok with it, even though it seemed terrifying to trust someone like that again. But despite how much you hated the truth, it felt freeing to stop forcing yourself to deny it, even if it was just for a moment.

You let yourself sink into sleep, and despite the night being hard, it somehow felt necessary- and while you know that your guard won’t stay down forever, it at least felt good to let yourself past the walls for the first time in a while. 

–

The next day you woke up to an intense beam of sunlight pouring straight through the windows and onto your bed, and the tension that you’d been holding in your body doesn’t feel so tight anymore. 

As you climb out of the sunlit bed and step onto the cold wooden floor, you can’t help but cringe when you realize you slept in yesterday's clothes. And jeans. You really were completely drained, and you must have also been crazy tired yesterday- maybe that’s why everything felt so intense, and your little moment with Patrick was not as terrible as you thought, right?

You changed into a new outfit for the day, fixing your hair and redoing some makeup, and you went down to find an already populated kitchen. You ate breakfast and made small talk with some friendly tennis girls, checked in with Art, and curled up on a couch and read for a couple hours- you tried to not hide in your room, but you definitely were also not going to waste all of your energy before the night even began.

By the time you had gotten up that morning it was already past 10am, and the rest of the day seemed to just breeze past you, as you alternated between reading, hanging out in the backyard with Art and some of his teammates, and you even passed by Patrick a couple of times without psyching yourself out too much.

You were curled up on the couch the first time he walked through the living room, and he smiled at you when you looked up. But the proudness and obnoxious confidence that he usually bared in his smile was absent, his expression just kind of cute and soft, a stark difference from the usual intimidating mask he has on. He ends up just passing through the living room and going to the kitchen, but his smile sticks in your mind for a little longer, your slight surprise as the pure softness of his look still present in the back of your mind even as your mind wanders away from him and back into your reading.

You two pass by each other a couple more times that day, and you notice how even when he greets you in public, his guard falls for just a minute when he looks at you, his loud facade falling just for you. Art clearly notices too, and you can see the amusement on his face whenever Patrick looks over at you, stealing small glances at you when you don’t notice. He’s told both you and Patrick enough about each other that you two don’t seem like strangers despite this being your second time meeting. He can’t help but let out a laugh when he sees the way you look back at Patrick though- your stare back at him is cold, and even though Art knows that you’re not doing it on purpose, you never really smile back- you seem more focused on reading Patrick’s smile than focusing on your own face. And no matter what, you consistently look away from him first, and your cheeks burn a little red every time you look away.

You two continue your silent game for the rest of the day, and you let it happen. Patrick Zweig was pining. 

Even after your constant pushing and pulling, and avoidance, and dismissing of Patrick, he was still there. After fucking months. And for some reason, he understood you. And he fucking waited, he waited for you to open up, and he didn’t even know if you every would. And he cared for who you were. Even when you were really fucking embarrassing. And maybe, possibly, he isn’t just trying to hurt you, and, like, someone could actually care. And you wanted to let him. You did. 

But you stayed quiet.

-

By the time the sun had set, you had decided to accept your fate as completely hopeless. And you were completely exhausted. And you decided that you should just talk to Patrick and tell him it’s over, and you don’t want him. And you knew it would be a blatant lie, and he would know it was a lie, and even fucking Art would know it was a lie, and you didn’t know why you were doing it. 

And you could again feel yourself being ripped to shreds on the inside. And you knew it was your fault, and you were making it happen. And to be honest, all you could think about was how you wished he was holding you. And you wished for things to slow down, and for the constant alarms in your mind to quiet down, and you just wished that everything could just cease to exist for one moment, so maybe for once you could have a break. 

You and Art were the only ones left outside, surrounded in a total silence that was more vulnerable than anything you had ever said to him. And you tried to tell Art about how you really, truly, didn’t want Patrick. But the words just didn’t make sense. How could you end things with someone you had never even started with? How could you even explain to Patrick that, even though you had always rejected him, that you actually wanted him the whole time, and now you don't? And how could you even admit to Patrick that you wanted him in the first place? And how can you explain a feeling this complicated? 

“It’s fucking torture. Even just thinking about him is fucking torture,” you say, your words piercing the silence that had laid so comfortably over you before. 

You watched as Art turned his face, looking at you, but not saying anything.

You let out a shaky breath before continuing, “It’s just… I don’t even know anymore. I don’t understand why I can’t let myself be happy for once. For the first time, I feel like I’m just completely breaking. Like, I can’t protect myself anymore. It’s like I’m fucking killing myself keeping people away, and I feel like it’s what I need to do to protect myself, but I’m fucking dying maintaining this. And I don’t want to be like this. I want to be different.”

And you just… cry. 

And for the first time, you don’t hide, and you don’t try to run away. You sit there, and cry. And you just let it happen. 

You look over at Art and break a small smile- “Can we watch a movie?” You ask, your voice still a little shaky.

And, of course, Art grins and nods- “Yeah. of course. We can go to the little lounge upstairs,” he says, getting up alongside you as you both walk indoors.

Just like last night, the entire ground floor of Art’s house is filled with the tennis kids partying. But you don’t spot Patrick anywhere as you and Art cross through the living room and reach the stairs, and as you climb up, Art breaks the silence. 

“Patrick’s probably in his room,” Art says, looking straight at you, practically having read your mind.

You roll your eyes and let yourself smile, softly responding, “could you maybe invite him?”

Art nods, pointing to the TV lounge room, saying “there’s the lounge room. I’ll ask Patrick. Meet you there,”

The wooden floor planks make a slight creaking noise as you walk down the hallway, entering the little room that Art had pointed to. It’s just a little lounge room, with a sofa and an armchair facing a tv. You pick up the remote and start fiddling with it, sitting down on the big couch, sinking into the cushions. Your heart rate goes up a little as you hear footsteps coming near the door, and Patrick walks into the room, followed by a grinning Art. Patrick sits on the other side of the small couch, while Art snatches the remote from you and claims the armchair. 

“Any requests?” Art asks, flipping through the different streaming options. Neither you nor Patrick answer, so Art ends up flipping through the options before picking some random, terrible looking horror movie off Netflix. He turns off the room lights as the movie plays, and you curl into the couch. You can’t help but look over at Patrick, watching him stare at the screen, clearly deep in thought. 

You watch Patrick for a long moment, and although you can feels the alarms in your head waiting to go off, you just stay still. And you feel scared for a second, realizing just how unguarded you feel, and how easily you could just fall into Patrick’s hold. 

And for the second time that night, you cry. The tears stream silently down your face, and Patrick looks over as you wipe them off. And you just cry. You cry because you’re lonely, and you cry because it hurts that you just want to feel cared for so bad. And you cry because you wish you could’ve told Patrick or Art about your family, and you hate that you feel so damaged. You cry because you hate how Patrick and Art understand you so well, and you cry because you know that Patrick understands you because he feels it too. And you cry because you hate how much you’ve resisted Patrick, and that you didn’t let yourself even talk to him. And you cry because you regret pushing Patrick away so much, and you cry because you watched him open up for you, and you couldn’t do it for him. And you cry because you miss the way he touched you on that first night you met, and you cry because you feel dumb for crying.

And Patrick can’t help but just look over at you, your knees curled into your chest as you cry. And he doesn’t know what you’d want him to do. He’s never seen you cry like this, and he can tell how much it hurts to cry in front of him. “Hey,” he whispers, looking over at you, your face tucked into your knees, and for the first time, you seem so small. His gaze softens when you look up at him, letting him see your tear-stained face. And in that moment, the couch seems so big yet so small, and he just wants to hold you.

And Patrick can see Art out of the corner of his eye, observing the scene. And Art almost looks frozen in awe, looking at how his best friend looks at you, and how you look back at him. 

You and Patrick look at each other for a beat, when Patrick almost inaudibly whispers, “can I come closer?”

You nod, letting go of your knees pressed against your chest, and move closer to Patrick. And you can't help but meet his gaze again, as he leans in and scoops you up into his lap. And you’re curled up against him, your head his chest, as he wraps his arms around you and just holds you there. Patrick looks over to Art, who is now watching the movie intently, as he glances down at you, trying to make sure that you’re ok.

Art looks over at you two and can’t help but smile at the scene, seeing both Patrick’s tough act and your cold defenses just completely let down. But it’s really late, and he quietly gets up, whispering to both of you that he’s going to sleep and good night.

And wrapped up in Patrick’s arms, you let your eyes close and you nuzzle your face into the crook of his shoulder. And he holds you tighter. Patrick leaves a kiss on the top of your head, as you whisper, “Can we lie down? I’m tired”

Still refusing to let go of you, Patrick adjusts to lay across the couch, and you lay over him, as he holds you flush against his chest. As his arms wrap around you, he rubs circles across your back with one of his hands, and holds you tightly against the other. 

And you feel safe in his arms. And as you drift off to sleep, you feel that maybe, from now on, you won’t have to go through everything by yourself.

[maccreadysbaby]

Some of my favorite words and phrases to describe a character in pain

coiling (up in a ball, in on themselves, against something, etc)

panting (there’s a slew of adjectives you can put after this, my favorites are shakily, weakly, etc)

keeling over (synonyms are words like collapsing, which is equally as good but overused in media)

trembling/shivering (additional adjectives could be violently, uncontrollably, etc)

sobbing (weeping is a synonym but i’ve never liked that word. also love using sob by itself, as a noun, like “he let out a quiet sob”)

whimpering (love hitting the wips with this word when a character is weak, especially when the pain is subsiding. also love using it for nightmares/attacks and things like that)

clinging (to someone or something, maybe even to themselves or their own clothes)

writhing/thrashing (maybe someone’s holding them down, or maybe they’re in bed alone)

crying (not actual tears. cry as in a shrill, sudden shout)

dazed (usually after the pain has subsided, or when adrenaline is still flowing)

wincing (probably overused but i love this word. synonym could be grimacing)

doubling-over (kinda close to keeling over but they don’t actually hit the ground, just kinda fold in on themselves)

heaving (i like to use it for describing the way someone’s breathing, ex. “heaving breaths” but can also be used for the nasty stuff like dry heaving or vomiting)

gasping/sucking/drawing in a breath (or any other words and phrases that mean a sharp intake of breath, that shite is gold)

murmuring/muttering/whispering (or other quiet forms of speaking after enduring intense pain)

hiccuping/spluttering/sniffling (words that generally imply crying without saying crying. the word crying is used so much it kinda loses its appeal, that’s why i like to mix other words like these in)

stuttering (or other general terms that show an impaired ability to speak — when someone’s in intense pain, it gets hard to talk)

staggering/stumbling (there is a difference between pain that makes you not want to stand, and pain that makes it impossible to stand. explore that!)

recoiling/shrinking away (from either the threat or someone trying to help)

pleading/begging (again, to the threat, someone trying to help, or just begging the pain to stop)

Feel free to add your favorites or most used in the comments/reblogs!

[rainrot4me]

Return The Favor

Summary: Stumbling in on your neighbor’s chopped up body, an unlikely friendship forms between you and Toby. Striking a deal, you agree to help the killer and his friends, buying them necessary prescriptions. But when one visit turns to multiple, Toby becomes curious, finding a not so subtle love note hidden away.

Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Mentions of death, explicit description of a dismembered body, decomposition, death, gore, obsession, vomit, throwing up, blood (non-sexual), blood (sexual), vaginal fingering, degradation, biting, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, vaginal, choking, gagging, somnophilia, rough, Toby literally goes insane about you, virginity kink, first time, desperation

Words: 9.4k

A/N: This shit long asl I'm so sorry... Characters in this story are not canonical!

It’s said that when there’s a dead body nearby, your body can sense it before your brain can. 

It’s almost like instinct, a survival nature programmed into your brain. It’ll start with goosebumps and chills running all over your body as if you were being watched, this uncomfortable sensation that you just can’t rationalize. Then the anxiety sets in, body aching and sweating for no apparent reason but it just knows there’s something wrong. 

Finally, when you’ve finally choked it up to just being your imagination, that’s when you’ll smell it. Throat instantly closing and nostrils flaring at the putrid stench of rot and gore. It’s incomparable, no amount of food poisoning or disease compares to the sickness you feel in your stomach at the smell of a human body decomposing. Every instinct in your body pleading and begging you to get out of there, run as far away until you can’t breathe anymore. 

You would know. And it seemed like the boy huddled in front of you did too. 

There was no real reason for you to even be in this house in the first place, but your all-too-good heart guilted you into it. You had just come home from work, mind tired and body sleepy as you unlocked your front door, tossing your bag onto the kitchen table inside. It was well past midnight, the diner you worked at closing way later than normal, but at least you made some good tips. 

Sliding into your bedroom, you changed into more comfortable clothes, tying your hair back before stepping into your kitchen. You gripped the tiny journal lying on the counter, cracking the worn pages open to where you left off, scribbling your thoughts onto the paper. It was your nightly routine, journaling things you saw or did, a coping mechanism suggested by your therapist. It wasn’t for anything intensive, just minor anxiety and self-image problems, always having negative thoughts about yourself. It helped. Glancing up, you looked through the tiny window above your sink, a clear view of your neighbor’s back porch, Mr. Higgs, an older man who made it very difficult to be friendly. He was a hateful guy, always nitpicking your choice of decorations or specific outfits he didn’t find appropriate. A real sweetheart, obviously. 

But compared to his usual eight PM lights out, the living room lamp was still bright, shining directly through his open back porch door. That was odd. As long as you had known this guy, it wasn’t like him to be up this late, let alone be outside. Every instinct told you to just clean up and go to bed, his angry ass probably scooting off a raccoon or something. But you just couldn’t pass up that nagging feeling, your kindheartedness overpowering you. So, sighing, you tossed a hoodie on and slid out your back door, stepping down the porch steps into the cool grass.

You flinched as a flash of brown passed your vision, small and thin against the dark grass. Cooing, you kneeled down, holding your fingers out as Mr. Higg’s old cat, Addy, sniffed the air around you, pressing against your bare legs as she purred. The man was way too protective of his cat. Something was definitely wrong.

Standing again, Addy pranced away, meowing loudly behind you as your bare feet became wet against the midnight dew, grass sticking to your ankles as you walked, arms hugging yourself against the cold. This would probably just end with you getting told to mind your business and stomping back to bed upset, but it was the thought that counted. Gripping onto the porch rail, you stepped up his creaky wooden porch, knocking against the wooden frame of the open door.

“Mr. Higgs? Everything alright?” You called into the room, refusing to go in. There was no response, you knocked again after a couple of seconds. Still nothing. You gulped, rubbing your arms against your sides, nerves wracking you. “Okay. I’m coming in. Don’t get mad 'cause you didn’t answer me.” You called again, pressing past the door and wiping your wet feet on the welcome mat. 

The house was quiet, the only light being the lamp sat on a coffee table adjacent to the old couch. All the furniture had an older look like something out of the eighties, it made you cringe. “Mr. Higgs, are you home?” You shouted down the dark hallway, all the doors shut except for one at the end which you assumed to be his room. Hugging yourself, your legs felt anxious, your mind racing with all the reasons you shouldn’t walk down there. There was no reason for it, this was all just probably some old guy who forgot to shut his door, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling.

Taking a step down the hallway, that’s when it started. Those feelings, like your body can feel shouldn’t be there. The air suddenly grew thick, a nauseating feeling setting in against your chest, pressing down like a conscious weight. But you shook it off, telling yourself it was just you scaring yourself with all of those crime shows, but you should’ve known better.

The door was cracked, moonlight from the open shades pressing against the doorframe, your hand flat against the wood as you pushed the door open. Then came the smell. It was stout, a putrid funk that wafted against the walls, souring the room. The room was dark, pupils blown wide as they fought to see, hand sliding against the wall and searching for a light switch. Your body was tense, senses on high alert against the dark, breathing ragged against the awful stench filling your senses. Your eyes were beginning to water, wondering what in the hell could be stinking this terribly, until you felt the switch, flipping it on.

Your first instinct was to throw up, throat constricting and stomach tightening, but you just couldn’t move. You were petrified by the scene in front of you. Mr. Higgs was there, at least, what you could recognize of him. His head had been cleaved from his body, intensive amounts of blood staining his beige bedsheets. His cheeks were bloated, a gnarly purple color as his veins poked against his forehead, skin wrinkled and soaked in blood as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. They were yellow now, dark veins contrasting against the orbs as puss leaked from every hole on his expressionless face. The rest of his body was scattered, chunks of muscle shredded from his arms and hands like they had been cut off, legs more or less the same. His wide stomach was completely visible, his skin swollen and dark, bloated against the same liquids spilling from his pores. The blood was the worst part. It was just everywhere. Splattered on the sheets, the nightstand, even the walls, specks reaching the roof. You were so lost in your racing thoughts, your heart pounding heavily against your chest as you gripped the door tightly, knuckles white on the frame. You could feel the cold sweat drip down your brow, utter fear chilling your body. 

You wouldn’t have even noticed the tall boy standing in the corner if he hadn’t flinched, eyes wide and locked on you. He was lanky, easily taller than you and pale. No, not pale, more gray. He had curly brown hair that fell in front of his eyes, his freckled cheeks flushed against the bandages across his jaw. A pair of goggles rested amongst his curls, a dark mask covering his nose and mouth. He wore dark wash jeans loose around his hips and a heavier brown hoodie that was stained with dark blood. Oh God. The boy didn’t look much older than you despite his bruise battered skin. But he wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking, he was just watching. 

His hands were behind his back, shoulders scrunched against the corner of the dark walls as you pressed back off the door frame, breathing ragged. “Who the hell are you?” You grimaced, tone coming across a lot more confident than you felt. The boy flinched, not out of fear, more like a bodily reaction. He refused to answer, eyes scanning around quickly until he pressed off the wall, sliding to the shuttered window and pinching the blinds open, scanning the night without explanation. That’s when you heard loud boots stepping up the porch steps, head spinning quickly down the hallway. “Shit.” You heard him, the boy’s voice panicked and rough, his boots stepping quickly across the hardwood and into your vicinity. Panic strained you, head spinning back quickly before your vision was filled with his arms wrapping around you, palm slapping over your mouth as he pressed you to his chest. 

You tried to fight back, mumbled pleas against his hand as you shouldered his arms, your back pressed firmly against him. He was dragging you into the room, your feet dragging as you struggled, clawing his arms away but he never budged, practically unaware of the scratches you were leaving on his hands. “F- Fuckin’ quit-” He growled quietly, pressing open the small closet doors and dragging you both in, quickly shutting the door as you heard the boots grow louder down the hallway. A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door, leaving you just enough room to see the gorey scene as you pressed off of him, his muscled arms refusing to let you go.

“Toby?” A scratchy voice called into the room, the figure stepping through the door frame and into your line of sight. At his appearance, you froze completely, your body tense against the boy behind you. His arms gripped tighter, bandaged fingers digging into your cheek as he kept you quiet. He was horrifying. 

This man was taller than the one in the closet with you, pasty skin a sharp contrast against his dark messy hair. His eyes were wide, pupils dark against his reddened scleras. He wore a white hoodie, dark jeans covered just the same with Mr. Higg’s blood. But the worst part, the part that made your heart pump in your throat, was his smile. It was etched in, flesh torn upwards into a mocked smile, teeth exposed from the side of his cheek. The area was mangled, seemingly unhealed as blood dried against the cut. He almost made Mr. Higgs seem not that bad.

“Twitch, come on,” He called again, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket as he strolled around the room, kicking Mr. Higg’s severed foot out of the way. “I’m gettin’ tired. This guy had some good beers and I’m tryna get back home and drink ‘em.” He snickered, turning back out of the room and back down the hallway, his loud boots stomping against the old floors. Who you presumed to be Toby didn’t let you go, arms just as tight around you as you gripping his hoodie’s sleeves tight. “Fine then! If you’re gonna play fuckin’ hide and seek then I’m leavin’ your ass here!” He called throughout the house, your body only untensing when you heard the back porch door slam shut, loud boots thunking down the porch and out of earshot. 

You both waited a couple of seconds, heart thudding in your ears as arms slowly released you, palm unclasping from your mouth. Panicked, you slammed out of the closet, turning around quickly and facing Toby, back pressed against the nearest wall as you searched for something to defend yourself with. “D- Dumbass.” He grit, pressing out of the cramped closet and facing you, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. The stench of the room pressed harder than ever, making your head dizzy as you pressed out of the room and down the hallway, Toby quick on your heels. “Whoever the fuck you are, whatever the fuck you want, I’m sure Mr. Higgs didn’t have it. Why in God’s name is he in pieces in his bedroom?” You hissed, gagging as the image replayed in your mind, turning into his kitchen and wracking the cupboards. When you found a small plastic cup, you ran water in through the sink, chugging the stout liquid down as you calmed your breathing. Toby stayed in the doorframe, crossing his arms. You probably shouldn’t have let your guard down, knowing full and well what he had just down to your neighbor, but you figured if he was going to he would have already.

“It’s none of y- your business. I don’t k- kill innocents, so you s- shoulda just stayed home, m- missy.” He growled back, stuttering through the words. You tossed the cup in the sink, the plastic clattering against the metal as you turned to face him, running your hands through your hair. “Hard to when you guys so obviously left his door open. The bastards hounded me for years, you’d think I’d be happy about his death, but not fucking like that.” You hissed, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms, bare feet cold against the porcelain tiles. “I mean, Jesus. And I mean, thanks and all for the save back there, but how is killing him and saving me any different? It’s just favoring one innocent over another.” Toby shook his head, sliding past you and tugging a drawer open, shovelling through old receipts until he found the stack he was searching for. He passed it to you, paper crinkling as you skimmed through, old pharmacy receipts for prescription medicine. 

“H- Had the old bastard bu- buying our meds. Paid h- him off and everything. Un- Until he started g- giving us coun- counterfeits, sellin’ u- us out. He h- had to pay u- up somehow…” He huffed, shoving his mask down off of his nose and under his chin, his thin lips chapped against the bandages hugging his cheeks. And of course, he was cute. 

“So he gets shredded?” You had to breathe through that sentence, throat tight with nausea. Toby nodded, a small smirk crooking at the corner of his lips. You grimaced, pressing off of the counter and through to the living room, the old furniture seeming a lot less homey now. You were going home, filing a police report, and praying to God these fuckers didn’t come back to get you instead. 

“U- Uh, might wa- wanna clean up, t- too,” Toby chuckled from behind you. You paused, confused as you looked around, stomach twisting as you looked down. Bloody footprints trekked through the kitchen behind you, a trail leading to your bare feet as you lift your knee, gagging at the sight of Mr. Higg’s blood coating your soles. Toby was laughing, the noise muffled against the ringing in your ears as you hunched over, stomach convulsing as you puked on the hardwood floors, your lunch from work coming back up. Head straining, you panted, wiping your lips. “Oh, s- shit, okay.” Toby hissed, sliding to your side and raising you up, hugging you close to his side. He drug you through the door, stomach still churning as you watched your footprints faintly appear beneath you, purposefully dragging them through the grass to get the blood off. You felt disgusting, giving no fight as Toby brought you to your porch steps, helping you up. He was so bipolar, angry and distasteful for one second, then cautious and endearing the next. It really was like you were dealing with a teenager. 

Addy circled your ankles, her dense fur tickling your skin and making you jump, Toby gripping your arms tighter. “Oh, hi kitty.” You cooed, breathing deep as you kneeled down, scooping her up into your arms as Toby helped you up the rest of the steps. Without asking, he slid open your screen door, helping you both inside as Addy purred against your chest, Toby wary as he stared at her. You dropped her on the floor gently, Toby sliding the door shut as you hunched over your sink, cleaning your mouth and grabbing a rag for your feet. Toby still eyed Addy, fidgeting his nails as he followed her. “Ever seen a cat before? She was Mr. Higg’s.” You chuckled, cleaning the soles of your feet off and tossing the rag into the sink, still feeling unclean. Toby nodded, rubbing his arms nervously as he looked back at you, smiling awkwardly. “Yeah. Us- Used to have one. T- They kinda sc- scare me now.” Smiling, you scooped Addy up again, petting her soft fur as you brought her close to the boy, his neck twitching nervously. 

How could this guy shred a man to pieces, but petting a cat was too frightening for him? You couldn’t understand. Digressing, you gripped his wrist, steadying the twitches as you placed his hand on her back, rubbing gently as Toby flinched, breathing quickly. Addy purred, unbothered by the action as he became more comfortable, fingers playing with her fur before he pulled his hand back, breathing deep.

You were too nice for your own good, too easy at giving the benefit of the doubt. Of course, you would find the redeemable traits in a murderer, heart hurting for this boy who was more or less the same as you. Groaning, you dropped Addy, crossing your arms. “Listen. What you did, it’s… For my own conscience, I can’t let it happen again.” You grit, circling your countertop and sitting on a stool, your journal tucked in front of you as you fidgeted with the pages. “If we can agree, I’ll buy your meds. I have a friend who can write me prescriptions, no questions asked. But I need you to understand, under no circumstances, are you allowed to harm me. I’ll call the cops.” Like the cops could stop these lunatics. But, you needed some type of leverage. 

Toby thought quietly, eyes narrowed as he flinched uncomfortably against Addy rubbing on his shins, purring loudly. If you could hold your end, there would be no trouble, but he had to know he could rely on you. “Th- The meds aren’t for m- me. My f- friends, they need ‘em to function, m- mentally… You g- gotta realize this is- is serious.” Even stuttering his voice was stern, arms crossed as he thought, contemplating. You nodded, brushing your hair from your face as you groaned, realizing how desperately you needed to learn to set boundaries. “I can get them. But you have to keep your end, too.” You hissed back, pinching your fingers nervously. Toby smiled, crossing his heart, literally. Rolling your eyes, you nodded, rubbing your face as you groaned. What the fuck were you even doing? 

“I’ll have them by the end of the week. Come later at night, cops’ll be swarming for weeks thanks to you.” Toby nodded, sliding over to the counter and gripping your journal, tearing a page out as he wrote the list of prescriptions you would need to get. It was a hefty list, some of that shit intense. “Abou- About that,” He slid his mask up over his nose, sliding the screen door open as he stepped out, chuckling. “Do- Don’t go outside. Gonna ma- make it look like a g- gas leak.” You could hear the smile in his voice as he shut the screen, sliding his hood over his head and peeling down the porch steps. Finally taking a deep breath, you stared at Addy, wondering what in the absolute fuck you were doing. Rest in hell, Mr. Higgs.

-

He made it look like a gas leak alright. The house was on fire in minutes, the bright orange flames lighting your room as you heard sirens in the distance, your other neighbors gathered outside their houses as you climbed into bed, groaning your displeasure. Cops and firefighters swarmed for days afterwards, investigating the area thoroughly, but never finding any remains of Mr. Higgs, his body buried somewhere far away. They eventually grew restless, the city quickly cleaned up the charred remains of the house and a new plan for construction was set in soon. It went over smoothly, no one even suspecting a thing. 

The days passed slowly, nervousness building as the end of the week grew closer, feet shuffling as you stood in line at the pharmacy. You got the doctor’s notes easily, already called in and waiting to be picked up as you were handed a small paper bag, the pharmacist eyeing you closely as you hurried out. Once in your car, you rummaged the sack, eyes wide as you read the dosage instructions on each little pill bottle. You read each bottle carefully, cringing at the names of the contents: Thorazine, Prolixin, Haldol, and even Aripiprazole. They were all high-end antipsychotics, the list of treatments for schizophrenia and mania, along with treatment-resistant depression. The last bottle caught your eye, a quick Google search told you it was for tourette's. So his twitching wasn’t just nervousness, huh. Shoveling the sack into your bag, you sped home, Toby well on his way as the sun set low.

The first week was easy, Toby in and out without so much as a hello, nodding his thanks as he bolted back into the woods, eyes dark and heavy. It was easy for you, moving along with your life despite the one night of the week. You felt easier, the boy quick about his stops with some chat, but never hanging around for too long, eyes always scanning the tree line nervously. 

As weeks passed, he grew more comfortable, you learned that he was quick about stopping due to his friends, their curiosity about you making him nervous about losing his ‘dealer.’ You learned to leave his meds on the counter, sometimes not even present when he would sneak in at the late hours of the night, your job taking precedence over your sleep schedule. But with all of this money being spent weekly on medicine, you had to pick up more time at work, everything being paid for out of pocket not to raise suspicion. You were sleeping more, journaling and your hobbies taking less importance until they were practically nonexistent. It was hard, your serving heart refusing to let you rest, making sure Toby got his medication is the most important thing. You were strained, to say the least. 

However, surprisingly, after a couple of weeks, Toby wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He had slid in like he always did, you sat at the counter eating your dinner as you scribbled through the pages of your notebook, summing up the previous days. You were exhausted, Toby making you jump slightly as he shut the screen door, rummaging through the paper sack. “G- Got any more?” He grinned shyly, sliding his mask and goggles off and tossing them onto the counter. You nodded to the fridge, an extra container of leftovers from the diner quickly opened in front of him as he shoveled it into his mouth. “It’s better heated up,” You laughed, shutting your journal as you slid off the stool, gripping the to-go container from him and popping it into the microwave. You both sat there awkwardly, Toby kneeling down to rub Addy’s back as she appeared beneath him, soft purrs echoing. He was still nervous, never petting her for too long before standing back up, the microwave beeping. The food came out steaming, sliding open a drawer and handing him a fork, Toby continued to shovel the food into his mouth. You hissed, holding his arm as the steaming food sizzled inside his mouth, it had to be burning him. “Oh. Y- Yeah, I don’t fe- feel pain. Th’s good, tho- though.” He grinned, slurping up more of the food. He acted like he hadn’t had warm food in forever, stuffing his face and barely giving himself time to chew. You rolled your eyes, chuckling as he ate.

The stays became longer after that, his excuse being he was hungry, continuously raiding your fridge until you began to have food ready for him, prepping his meals along with your own. Thirty minutes turned to an hour, to two hours, and then eventually through the night. He would crash on your couch, Addy curled in his lap as the television blared some old movie. That was one of the only times you didn’t see him ticcing, the cat acting as an anchor against his restless body. He looked truly comfortable, using your blankets and pillows to his advantage, beginning to invite himself to stay the night after a while. 

You sat at the counter, Toby snoring loudly as he laid face first into the couch pillow, scribbling into your journal. It was the one thing you had time for, having to get up early for work as the soft glow of the kitchen light lit the pages. Toby was practically pushing himself into your life, his lack of manners and curious mannerisms leading him to take initiative. You were grateful for his friendliness, giving great detail of his missions with his friends and explaining that whole situation. Even still, you were wary. 

But against your better judgment, your relationship with the killer was becoming less transactional. He brought you things to make for dinner, talked with you through your mutual sleepiness, and even took care of Addy when you were too delusional after work. For lack of a better word, he was becoming a friend, showing up for more than just his medication, even sometimes forgetting the bag and having to chase him down. He was infesting your life, arriving earlier than he should and leaving later than you cared for. The end of the week was becoming optional, the screen of your porch door sliding open nearly every night of the week Toby didn’t have a mission. It was annoying but in a comforting way, like you both were becoming closer naturally despite your differences. 

As you heard his snores, you groaned, rubbing your tired eyes as you began to write, letting your pencil guide on the page numbly as you wrote your thoughts. It wasn’t directed at Toby on purpose, but the further you got down the page the further your heart sank, hand fisted in your hair as you rested your elbow on the cold marble counter. “Ah, Jesus…” You grit, scribbling the final few words as you lean back, rubbing your head. The words weren’t lies, more of a hard truth you weren’t willing to accept, chalking it up that you were just tired and desperate. The words could have been about Toby, or they could have been about anyone, you didn’t really care. Sighing, you tore the page out, folding it and shoving it into the back of the book, closing the pages quickly. Sleep sounded much easier as you flipped the kitchen light off, turning the volume of the television down as you trudged upstairs to your room, giving one last glance to the snoring boy and his matching cat.

-

Toby knew his mishaps with you, his moral compass long forgotten the more time he spent inside your home. He told himself it was just easier, food and shelter at his disposal whenever, but he knew better. It was so much more than just picking up medicine for Tim and Brian now, it was a solid relationship, a bond that was forming in his eyes. 

It had been almost four months since the unfortunate death of your neighbor, a smile creeping every time he saw the charred flecks of wood buried in the overgrown grass. You had begun to leave the back door unlocked, reasoning that someone breaking and entering would be less of a hassle than him. That was what Toby really hooked onto the most about you, your humor about everything. Despite your hardships and the emotions you had to overcome, you held a caring heart, compassion always lacing every action. He found it admirable, your humor through your busy life. And, likewise, he did feel bad for making you work so much, tired eyes always hurting his heart whenever you were around. But, it wasn’t like he could get a job, so he helped where he could, cleaning and learning to cook for your sake. He needed this medicine, for his friend’s and his own stability, even at your expense.

You were already nestled at your spot on the counter, writing your thoughts in that damn journal. You barely even looked up as he entered, diving for the fridge as he scooped up Addy with one arm, her purs a nice vibration against his shoulder. Popping the container in the microwave, he leaned in over your shoulder, trying to catch a glance at your scribbling before you shoved him off, closing the book quickly. “Ah, ah, mind yours.” You smiled, forking your own food into your mouth. “O- Oh come on, [Y/N], just a pe- peak.” He smiled back, gathering his food as he began to eat, sliding onto his familiar spot on the couch. It was routine now: where you sat, what he watched, what you both talked about. He explained his latest mission with Masky in more detail than you enjoyed, pushing your food away as you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. You both laughed throughout the night before you whisked your food into the fridge, calling your goodnights before heading upstairs. 

Toby continued to watch the television, brushing Addy’s back with his bandaged fingers as he sat his empty container to the side. His curiosity nudging him, he raised up, tossing his trash before he slid to the counter, you all too confidently leaving your journal there. Slipping back onto the couch, he began to flip through the pages, listening closely for your footsteps as he read your entries, smiling as they dated all the way back to your high school years.

It seemed as though everything you thought spilt onto these lines, emotions erratic between every page as he realized just how much of a people pleaser you really were. All through your recent years, it was nothing but service, acting through the goodness of your soul until it felt sickening, fake almost. He cringed, flipping quickly through but finding nothing juicy, no deep dark secrets that he felt were interesting. Sighing, he closed the journal, standing to set it back onto the counter, until a slip of paper fell from between the pages. Smiling, Toby leaned down, arms twitching as he slid the journal back onto the counter, leaning against the marble as he flipped the paper open, reading carefully.

“Sometimes, when I think about it too hard, I get all emotional about myself. I know I put on a front, like everything I do I’m in charge of and can handle, always putting everyone around me first. But what if I wanted to be put first? I do so much for the sake of others but it never seems to be returned, never compensated for the mental strain. Well, maybe I want to. Maybe I want to be loved like I see others, rough and real. I have no clue how I even would, I can barely handle touching myself before I'm overwhelmed. But I just want someone else to take the reins, show me that I don't have to work my brain so hard and can just numb out. That's not too much to ask, right? Just someone who can love me, not some creep or one night thing, someone who cares. If I never ask for anything again, that would be it. Someone who wants me for me.”

He could have died. The brunette’s cheeks dark as he re-read the crumbled page, excitement coursing through him. In his mind, he wanted to storm upstairs and just rattle you then, showing you how good he could treat you. It was like a bomb had gone off, Toby having to pretend like him having a crush on you wasn’t achingly obvious, convincing himself he just didn’t know how to act around women. But now it was clear, his mind racing with a million wants and needs, body spasming under the excitement. 

Convincing himself to leave, he slipped the note into his pocket, body buzzing with excitement as he slid out your door. He would be back, like always. But this time, he would show you what you truly needed, what only he could give you. 

-

Like always, Toby left a note for the medication you needed to pick up, it sometimes changing week to week. Everything looked normal, the usual combination of pills reading off. But as you scanned the bottom, you groaned, shoving the paper into your pocket. Trilafon, Saphris, and… Plan B. As if your desperation for some affection couldn’t have gotten much worse, your heart twisted, a lump growing. Whether it be for some girl he was laying or a girlfriend he already had, you didn’t care, all you wanted was to get the medicine and go. Crawling into your bed sounded like a much more exciting activity than dwelling on the brunette, heart saddened in all the way you knew it shouldn’t. 

To make your night even better, Toby didn’t show. It wasn’t unusual, for him sometimes not to show up for days due to extensive missions. But a part of you longed to see him, especially after today, just to help your mind with the whole morning-after pill situation. So now, instead of imagining him surrounded by his friends on a mission, you imagined him towering over a girl. Strong arms holding her, body contorting to fit against hers… You could’ve been sick, shaking your head as you ate quickly and pressed upstairs, barely petting Addy before you slinked into bed, hauling the covers over your head. 

It was lonely on nights without his presence in your house. But especially tonight, thoughts racing uncontrollably to the point of tears, thick droplets streaking down your face as your chest hurt, longing for a body, any body, to hold close to yours. Maybe you really were just a transactional thing. 

-

Toby smiled as he trekked through the familiar stretch of woods to your house, heart racing in his chest. He had it all planned out, exactly what he wanted to do, his cock already twitching in his jeans. 

He hadn’t shown up tonight on purpose, hanging back at the mansion to take the best shower he could, Ben teasing him about how good he smelled as he was leaving. You had to be well in bed by now, body tired after working all day just for him. He would take care of you, showing just how grateful he was for how much you were giving up just for his friends and him. Pressing past the tree line, he smiled, pulling his hood down as all the lights in your home were out, signaling your retirement. 

Pressing up the steps, he slid the screen door open quietly, careful not to alert you as he clicked it shut. Stripping his hoodie, he tossed it onto the couch, Addy purring light against the cushions. It was warm in your house, black t-shirt hugging his arms as he untucked it from his jeans, climbing up the steps, his mask and goggles quick to come off next. 

He was too excited for his own good, boots stepping quietly against the old hardwood as he slinked to your door, fidgeting with the knob. A rush of your scent blew into his face, your perfume stout in your small bedroom, eyes searching around in the dark space for your bed. It wasn’t hard with your breathing, quiet snores making him smile as he leaned against your mattress, admiring your unawareness. You looked so peaceful, his bandaged fingers tracing your cheeks and brushing your hair from your face, your skin flinching under his touch. “Hi, baby…” He whispered, the pet name sounding right against his tongue as he referred to you, tugging the sheets down. 

Toby always knew how nice of a body you had, you sometimes sauntering around the house with shorts and a t-shirt and making his eyes trail just a little longer than normal. But now, under his cold hands, you were even more gorgeous. You were wearing an oversized shirt, a slight tug at the fabric revealing that you only had panties on underneath, you slightly stirring as his nails brushed your skin. The brunette was excitedly jittering, kicking his boots off as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling at your curled body sound asleep. You shifted, rolling onto your back as you breathed deep, stretching your arms before settling back into yourself. Toby could have died, your legs stretching out to rest around him, his cock twitching with interest against your now visible panties. A quiet sigh breathed through your lips.

That was all the invitation he needed. Running his cold hands under your shirt, he felt your warm skin and goosebumps rising as you squirmed under them. Your brows scrunched but Toby pressed further, running his fingers along your waist and up to your tits, palming the mounds gently as he smiled. It was crazy to him just how soft your skin was, not weathered or bruised from missions or nature, perfectly smooth under his axe-calloused hands. Pushing your shirt up to your chest, he gasped at your round tits, the weight so perfect in his hands as he pinched at your nipples, rubbing the nubs gently. Toby was never very sure of anything, always brushing through life at the command of others. But the one thing he was sure about? His love for boobs, especially yours. 

Nudging closer between your legs, he rested your knees on his thighs, leaning down to your chest as he popped a nipple into your mouth, sucking gently. The nub was hard against his tongue, slowly circling as he massaged the opposite one in his palm, pinching your nipple gently. That’s when you began to stir, hands sliding against the bed and unconsciously searching for the cause of your sensitivity. Lazy hands pushed against his face, soft groans echoing in the boy’s ears as he popped off your nipple and moved to the next one. Your hands fingered through his hair, tugging lightly until your eyes were beginning to flutter, your mind slowly coming alive. Toby let off your tit, kissing along your chest and licking a stripe between your tits, humming as he watched your eyes slowly blink open, confusion rocking you. He kneaded your tits gently, tugging at your nipples as you realized what was happening, eyes slowly widening as you strained to sit up against him. “Toby? Wha-” Your voice was scratchy, ridden with exhaustion as the brunette kissed up your neck to your cheeks, pushing you back down as he slotted himself flush between your legs. Slowly realizing what was happening, your cheeks flushed dark, hands pressing against his chest as you squirmed, nervously babbling as your body was still half asleep. “Lay b- back, baby… You’re so ti- tired, let me take c- care of you…” Toby sighed, running his hands back down along your skin, relishing in the way your body nervously shook under him.

You physically could not believe what was happening. This had to be a dream, some sick trick your mind was playing as you felt cold fingers hook under your panties, sliding them down. Heavy eyes wide, you grabbed his arms, clenching your thighs together against his waist. “No- No, wait- I don’t even, I mean, I’ve never-” Toby was already shushing you, gripping your wrists together and kissing your palms before pushing them back down to your sides, resuming his tug down your thighs. “I’ve go- got you. Don- Don’t gotta worry about a- a thing…” He smiled, raising your legs up to slide your panties down the rest of the way, hooking them off of your raised ankles before pulling you down closer to him, pushing your shirt over your head. “Read y- your journal, you don- don't gotta act protective, ba- baby. I know this is what y- you want…” If you weren’t already panicking, you definitely were now. 

You wanted to hound him for snooping through your journal, mouth opening to tell him off. But as his fingers brushed against the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your folds, you lost all train of thought. He was watching you, eyes excited in the darkness of your room as he swiped his thumb closer again, your thighs flinching shut. “Anyone else e- ever touched here before?” He mumbled, pressing his thumb against your plump lips and tugging them open, getting a nice look at the wetness that was already forming between your folds. Shaking your head, Toby lit up, cock pushing hard against his jeans as he had to adjust his position, using both hands to pull your lips apart, sighing at how pretty your cunt was. Just something about knowing that Toby was claiming his stake on you, imprinting his touch for the first time before anyone else could, made something deep inside of him burn. It wasn’t like the brunette got much play himself, hooking up with a girl here and there, but being your first? That already made this so much better than any other girl could even try. 

Sliding his fingers through your wetness, you gasped, hands clutching the pillow behind your head as he groaned, spreading your arousal across your lower abdomen. You whined, thighs begging to clench together as he purposefully slid your juices over your cunt, pressing his thumb down against your swollen clit and jolting your back off the mattress. You had only ever masturbated here and there, your body getting too overwhelmed after one orgasm and forcing you to stop, but would Toby stop? As he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, you doubted his restraint.

“Please be gentle…” You warned, hands planting on the mattress as you sat up, resting on your elbows as you watched Toby bring his digits back down to your cunt. He rolled his eyes playfully, tugging your folds open with his opposite hand as he pressed the tips of his fingers against your entrance, pressing in slowly. “I’ll try…” He laughed, your fingers gripping the sheets tight as you watched his fingers sink in slow, stretching your cunt uncomfortably. His index and middle fingers screwed into your tight walls gently, twisting his wrist to draw a moan from your lips, digits spreading against your gummy walls and making your entrance ache. “Just i- imagine my dick in here…” He cooed, eyes darting between your nervous face and your pretty cunt fluttering around just his fingers, barely even handling them. 

Pressing his opposite thumb against your clit, he began to rub in small circles, dragging your hips further and further off of the mattress until you were practically rolling your hips against him. His fingers probed in and out of your cunt at a slow pace, just enough to make you comfortable with the unfamiliar intrusion, but his arms ached to go faster, curl his fingers until you spasmed. “Toby…” You sighed, his hands moving in time with other as he screwed his fingers inside of you, angling them just enough so they pressed against your tight walls. His name sounded like heaven against your aroused tongue, so quiet but so desperate, secretly drawling for more. “Tell me w- what you want, ba- baby…” The pet name made your face hot, your stomach fluttering as you pressed back into the pillows, running your hands down to your thighs and squeezing the flesh. “I want… more…” You sighed through your arousal, cunt clenching desperately around Toby’s cold fingers, sucking them back inside every time he drew them out. The brunette laughed, pushing his feet under him to push his hips up against your ass, your hips raising off the bed as he fingered down into you. You could feel his cock straining behind his jeans below your raised ass, twitching needily with every tug of his fingers and moan that whined from your throat. His size was overwhelming, making your heart pound as Toby began to curl his fingers, making your eyes shut quickly. 

His fingers pressed so deep in your cunt, curling against your sensitive walls and making your jaw hang, beginning to press against your walls at a steady rhythm. It was like a new fire had lit under Toby, fingers screwing in at a quicker pace and making your stomach clench, face screwing into an overwhelmed feeling. His fingers pumped in, knuckles sinking in through your wetness and gripped by your gummy walls, curling his fingertips just right as he got deep. It was so intense, so rough, just a mess of slick and your wet cunt sounding through the room with every squelch as he abused your clit, swiping left and right quickly. Your thighs twitched and ached with every curl, trying to close around his hand practically fucking you into sensitivity. Your hands wrapped around his forearm quickly, begging his wrists to stop curling abusively inside of you as you tugged your nails into his skin. Toby wouldn’t, continuing to pump his fingers as he stared at your flushed face, cunt squelching embarrassingly loud. “Just a l- little more… Co- Come on…” He groaned, nudging his hips against your bare ass as his fingers milked moans and whines out of you, his fingers glistening with your arousal every time he tugged them out. He couldn’t feel you clawing at his arms, loud groans begging him to let up as your cunt clenched, molding around his thick fingers. 

You could feel your orgasm rolling through you, Toby huffing as the veins in his arms popped, his shoulder muscles straining against his shirt as he watched your face carefully, picking up as your moans became louder. “Gonna come f- for me? Yeah?” He teased, clothed cock twitching against your ass, pushing your cheeks apart as he rutted against you. He curled his fingers quicker, mumbling his arousal as he watched your cunt swell around him, clit throbbing under his thumb. Your orgasm hit you like a truck, stomach tightening and forcing you to sit up, Toby was quick to let off your clit and wrap his arm around your back, holding you up as he pumped your through your cunt squelching, tightening around his digits. Your eyes rolled, teeth grit tight as he palmed your clit, slowing his pace to a slow thrust as you became undone against him. No orgasm of your own had ever compared to that, head light and chest heavy as you breathed quickly, gripping Toby’s shirt tight. 

Refusing to let you go, Toby leaned in, pressing kisses against your neck and licking at your sweat, relishing in the warmth around his digits. You whined, cunt sensitive as he tugged his fingers out, his skin raw and pruned against the wetness coating his digits. Your folds were absolutely drenched, Toby spreading his fingers through your lips and pushing his sopping fingers over your warm thighs wrapped around him. “God, y- you’re so wet-” He gasped, pressing his fingertips back against your clit as he laid you back, gripping your tit. Your mind panicked, cunt flashing with sensitivity as he began to rub against your clit, swiping left and right against the rub quickly. “Toby- Stop- Toby, please-” You cried, breath catching in your throat as your stomach clenched, his fingers pressing hard as he pinched your nipples, eyes trained on your wet pussy. “You e- ever squirt before?” He smiled, transitioning fast between digging his fingers into your cunt and pulling them back out to swipe against your clit. It was nauseating, cunt crying desperately for relief as he dug nails into your tits. Gasping loudly, you gripped his arms, knees screwing tight against his sides as you cried out, hips bucking up against his hands. 

Every time his fingers slipped into your entrance, they squelched loudly, fluttering around the intrusion before desperately aching as they tugged out and moved onto your clit. “Squirt li- like a whore, m- mkay? Quit fightin’.” He hissed, letting his hand off your tit and scooping under your left knee, pushing it back to open your cunt wider, spreading your legs further apart. Your head was dizzy, heart pounding as you gasped for air, panting at every push of his fingers. You were already quick to cumming, but it felt weird, not that normal clench you felt in your stomach, more of a strain against your cunt itself. You cried out, tears slipping down your cheeks as he forced your pussy against his will, ruining you. 

As he swiped his fingertips down hard against your clit, your entrance clenched, mouth opening wide as you cried out, hips bucking up as you felt your cunt squirt, thighs trembling hard. There was literally nothing to compare it to, mind hazy as you sprayed onto his black shirt, his fingers digging into your entrance and pushing more juices out of your swollen folds. Toby was smiling, moaning his approval as he rubbed your clit softly, pushing the last of your orgasm out as you strained against the mattress. “Gunna fu- fuck you dumb, baby…” He growled, tugging the soaked shirt over his head and tossing it as he unzipped his jeans, tugging them down and off his legs as his cock hung heavy against your drenched cunt. You couldn’t even react, head spinning as Toby gripped your hips, pushing you onto your side as he grabbed your ankle, pulling it onto his shoulder and straddling your other. 

Neck craning with excitement, he teased the tip of his swollen cock between your folds, slicking himself up with your ruined juices. “This is wh- what you wanted, is- isn’t it?” He smiled wildly, pressing his cock into your ruined cunt, groaning loudly as you swallowed him in, warmth gripping tight as he gripped your leg, other hand stable on your tit. You groaned, face turned into the pillow as he began to thrust deep, giving you no mercy as he tugged at your nipple, biting at your calf as he fucked into you. You felt so full, your body so exhausted already as stretched you further, your entrance burning against the sting of this new girth. You squeezed him so tight, cock forcing itself deeper with every tug of his hips as you began to cry, tears staining your pillowcase.

“Fuckin’ tal- alk to me, baby. Gunna mak- make me cum al- already.” He sighed, teeth chewing against the meat of your calf as he pressed your cunt wider, sweat dripping from his nose as his curls clung to his forehead. He let off your tit, left hand slinking up to grip your jaw and turn your face back to look at him, your eyes heavy as they blurred with tears. Toby looked so good right now, cheeks dark against his freckles as he towered above you, cock pushing against your gummy walls and making your mouth hang. “So pretty…” He smiled, slinking his hand down to your throat and squeezing, cock pulsing as your face tightened, mouth gasping out as he clamped tighter, refusing you air. There was something so orgasmic about cutting your airway, watching your body react as he fucked your virgin cunt, holding your life in his hands. He had to breathe deep to stop himself from cumming, his violent brain spasming out. 

He pushed your ankle over his head, pulling out roughly as he rolled you onto your stomach, you gasping from the wave of air hitting your lungs. Pushing himself against your ass, Toby swore, pushing his cock back into your cunt as he pushed your back down, making you arch against him. “Just a l- little more, m’kay?” He growled, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and squeezing hard, pressing your face down into the pillow. With a new pace, he fucked down into you wildly, hand kneading your ass hard as digging his nails into your skin, little welts forming across the soft flesh. Your muffled cries sounded against the pillow, head light and static filled as you gasped for air, Toby’s cock ramming down against your g-spot. “Never s- seen a bitch so willing, so des- desperate for my dick you’d gi- give it up so easily.” He teased, growling as he let off your neck, neck sore as he leaned down, pushing your hair off your neck. Toby hadn’t felt like this before, wanting to mark you, fucking you so desperately he wanted to carve his shape deep inside. He couldn’t let you go without knowing exactly who you craved, corrupting you, ruining you, molding you to fit only him. 

He licked against your shoulder, sucking onto the skin before he pressed his teeth, digging both hands into your hips as he sunk them in, groaning at the pop as your blood soaked his teeth. You were crying, screaming into the pillow as your entire body begged for him, craving him, mind going blank as your blood dripped from his chin as he licked at the wound. He pressed on, nibbling into the crook of your neck and sucking revolting hickies into your skin, marking you like an animal. “Wan- Want you to come on m- my cock, baby. I got- gotta fill you full, want y- you ruined for everyone b- but me.” He mumbled quickly, cock begging to spill inside of your warm cunt as you reached around, gripping his hair as he sunk his teeth in again, walls fluttering around him. You pulled his hair, dragging his mouth off of your neck and to your lips, smashing your swollen, tear-stained lips against his as he groaned, kissing you roughly. 

You were cumming again, back arching onto Toby’s cock as you moaned into his mouth, walls holding him tight inside. He tried to move, to continue thrusting, but you were so tight all he could do was rutt his hips, begging for friction as his own seed spilt, his brows screwing tight as he came deep inside of you, warm cum seeping deep into your cunt. Your mind was blank, eyes rolled as you cried into his grasp, his nails digging into your hips until you were nearly bleeding. Your cunt squelched, milking his cock as he finally pulled from your lips, letting the last of your orgasms fizzle out before he pushed off of you, slowly tugging himself out as you whined. Looking back, his cock was soaked, glistening with your arousal and streaks of blood, Toby’s eyes wide. “Ah… Yo- You tore…” He hissed, wiping his soft cock with his shirt before pulling his boxers on, quickly trotting out of your room. You dropped your head back onto the pillow, cunt aching and body ruined as you sat in your sweat and each other’s cum, mind tired as you slowly blinked. 

Toby was back in seconds, a water bottle, a wet rag, and a small bag all in tow as he climbed back onto the bed, flipping your lazy body onto your back. You smiled, sipping the water bottle slowly as he began to clean you up, gently running the warm rag between your folds and against your thighs until he was satisfied, gently rubbing your skin. Finally, he grabbed the bag, your confusion evident as he tugged out the prescription bag, rummaging for the plan b he made you buy and popping one of the pills out, handing it to you as he smiled. Your chest welled, previous anxiety dissipating until you began to tear up, taking the small pill before reaching to wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him down next to you. Toby went easily, body cradling against yours as he kissed against the bruised spots on your neck, rubbing your bite mark gently.

As you began to doze, Toby mumbled something about your note, your mind too dizzy to hear the rest. The last thing you saw was a subtle flash behind your eyelids, sleep overtaking you as Toby held you close.

-

Morning came quickly, your body stirring, reaching for Toby but finding the bed empty. Confused, you sat up, eyes heavy and head still pounding but you pressed off the bed anyway, searching for the boy. Downstairs, on the countertop, laid his hoodie neatly folded, with a small piece of paper resting on top. Sauntering over, you reached for the top, sliding it over your head, it falling before your hips as you gripped the paper, reading its contents.

On a mission. Be back later tonight. Meanwhile, enjoy ;)

Flipping the paper over, you gasped, slapping your hand over your mouth. A small picture was taped to the back, a polaroid-type photo of the two of you cradled together, your bare body pressed against his, bruises and sweat on full display. Smiling, you tucked it into his pocket, breathing the scent of his hoodie deep as Addy circled your ankles, begging for breakfast. 

Staring out your back porch door, you made sure it was unlocked, always open for him. Killer or not, that boy was yours now, accepting his every mishap the same way he did yours. For the first time in a long time, you felt wanted. 

Rest in Hell, Mr. Higgs.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[aashi-heartfilia]

The hypocrisy of Jinshi and MaoMao

*light novel spoilers*

I just love how hypocritical MaoMao's nature is. She yells at Jinshi for being a 'Masochist' and yet we see that she's no different. Now, by definition Masochist is a person who drives sexual gratification from their own pain and humiliation, plus it relates to Jinshi's tendency to do self harm (like burning his skin with a brand)

And what is MaoMao's most favourite thing in this world?

POISON

She literally takes pleasure in consuming it and no one can convince me otherwise. Plus she uses dangerous plants and animals and snakes whatnot in the name of her so-called experiments. Her dad may call her a 'mad Scientist' but that is a direct indication of self harm.

And she calls Jinshi a Masochist.

I mean, think about it! The amount of anxiety she gives to Jinshi! She came prepared with a vomit inducing medicine but even she had no idea whether it would work or not. She was just hoping it would work in the salt chapter.

And the same goes for her hand, on which she has conducted countless experiments. One flower even burned her skin and its marks never left her skin. She said it was all for her hobby. What kind of weird hobby is that? Maybe, our little adorable mad scientist is just like that.

One brands his own skin, while the other takes heavenly pleasure in consuming poison.

So my point is, Jinshi and MaoMao are not that different as one might think they are and that's why their dynamic works so well.

Let's look at the excerpts from volume 5:

She didn’t know how long they sat that way. All she knew was that Jinshi was looking down at her with a faintly triumphant expression, as if he saw that the breath had reached every corner of her body now. He wiped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes as she struggled to breathe. It was then that Maomao felt a flash of intense anger. “I said that if you were going to kill me, you should do it with poison,” she told him. “I refuse to let you poison yourself,” Jinshi said, his fingers tracing her lips. “You can’t pretend you didn’t know that you were one of the candidates. As much as I’m sure you’d like to.” He wasn’t done, either: “Who was that man, anyway? I’m sure you’re not a dancer.” So he had been watching them! “I was just paying for my drink,” Maomao said. “It didn’t cost much.” She tried to look away, but with his hand on her head, she really couldn’t.

Jinshi just choked her and yet he refuses to let MaoMao poison herself. A lot of people misinterpret this scene, and don't like it all that much, saying it was just fanservice stuff but this is how I see it: Jinshi wasn't trying to kill MaoMao, he was just trying to make MaoMao submit to him for once (even if the way he did it was very wrong, but guess he's kinky like that). MaoMao is actively trying to harm herself and Jinshi loves MaoMao a lot, he cannot just let her kill herself.

It was more about him trying to exert his dominance in their weirdish - complicated relationship and that also backfires on him as we see in the next volume that MaoMao escapes Jinshi's grasps using Pairin's techniques.

And then they both continue to avoid each other in the entire next volume! Because they both realised that they have crossed boundaries.

They both are hypocrites.

And they both refuse to accept their feelings.

In one of the later volumes, she gives Jinshi a piece of her mind on how he should tell her everything clearly, unequivocally, what he feels, and he literally declares that "he will make her his wife", which is nice and all but look at the wording MaoMao used here....

Excerpts from LN Vol 7, chapter 19 called "A man and a woman play the game"

"You’re forever telling me I need to use my words, Master Jinshi, but are you in any position to criticize? Everything you say to me, everything you do, it’s like it’s calculated to save you from ever having to actually say what you mean! To make me figure it all out! You know, you remind me of someone. You act exactly like a man who used to come by our brothel all the time. He was in love with one of the girls, but he would never just come out and say it. He thought it should be obvious from the way he acted. He was so sure he had a good thing going with this woman that he never sent her so much as a letter. I remember how forlorn he looked when someone else swooped in and snatched her away! He kept coming to the brothel after that—to get drunk and whine to the ladies. Well, in my opinion, he could have avoided all that heartbreak if he’d told the woman how he felt. Clearly, unequivocally, so that she knew where they stood. It was the least he could have done!”

Everything came out in a torrent. She felt like she’d said it all in one breath. It was strange, she thought, to hear so many words come out of her own mouth. She was mystified. Jinshi was no less startled, but the shock soon left his face, replaced by something else. He got up off the bed and stared down at Maomao.

Shit. Now I’ve done it. She’d given him a piece of her mind, and he was about to give her one back.

“So I should be clear, should I? Unequivocal? I should say what I mean? If I did, would you actually listen to me? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m going to hold you to that! Right this minute. I’ll say it all. Don’t plug your ears—listen to me!” He grabbed her hands as she was in the process of trying to put her fingers in her ears. He took a breath. He was looking at Maomao, but somehow he seemed almost embarrassed. Finally he managed, “Now listen to me, y—I mean, Maomao! Listen close! I am going to make you my wife!”

It's one heck of a chapter and I suggest you give it a go! The title of the chapter says "A man and a woman play the game" as if to emphasize the very fact that both Jinshi and MaoMao are playing the game.

Jinshi has never confessed his true feelings before this chapter and only implied that he wanted to make MaoMao his wife.

The implications were heavy though on Jinshi's part, and as smart as MaoMao is, anyone would have guessed that MaoMao was one of the candidates for Jinshi's consort. Even the clothes she received (the ones she wore to the banquet) were also provided by Jinshi along with the hairpin. It is never stated outright but seeing as the hairpin was from Jinshi, the clothes are also implied to be the same.

More or less she's always deliberately ignoring the possibility of having anything to do with him, that is more than professional. Some may call it denial, I call it dense. Maybe, to some extent, she herself is not aware of her feelings because she never lets herself feel anything.

Even Suiren pointed it out pretty early in the manga, that maybe it's MaoMao's way of being reserved. We need to keep in mind that MaoMao is an unreliable narrator and it's more of what she does, rather than what she says that makes a difference.

Even in the chapter that I have quoted above, she had every reason to leave Jinshi, she wasn't working for him after all. But she stayed to make tea for him, even after the fact that she had a long day too. She was almost just as exhausted as Jinshi and yet she was there preparing medicinal tea, so that he could get a better sleep.

Maybe she herself is yet to realise just how deep her feelings run. Till vol 12 she seems to have accepted them, but she still is yet to acknowledge their depth. Maybe it's because of her childhood.

It's not a traumatic backstory but MaoMao had a sad childhood nonetheless....

She was raised by her grand uncle and her real father was eccentric, who scared her. Her mother must also appear to be kind of demonic to her, since she was desperate enough to cut MaoMao's Pinky finger and send it to Lahan. So it's safe to say that MaoMao never received proper parental affection. And adding to the fact that, a brothel is not exactly an ideal place for raising a child.... especially when the birth of MaoMao was the one thing that brought the brothel to its knees...even if being born wasn't her choice.

Plus MaoMao stated it herself that when she was a baby, no one would come to sooth her until their work was finished, implying that even if MaoMao and her brothel sisters are close, they are not that close. A mother's love is different and she never received it. No one can love you more than your mother and MaoMao was deprived of that. She soon realised that no one was coming. Life is hard and she has no choice but to face it!

So, she got interested in poison.

Maybe she doesn't love herself or her life as much as she says / pretends she does. She's always like "yeah, I would very much like my head to be with my body" and "if I stay low profile maybe I can survive here" etc but maybe deep down that's not the case. Maybe that's why she loves poison so much. The implications are crazy.

And to break MaoMao's shell, Jinshi has no choice but to be a bit more forceful at times? At least that's how I interpret that choking scene. Jinshi was angry at MaoMao because she deliberately suggested him to marry consort Rishu and danced with Rikuson.

Even if Jinshi never said it outright, he was giving hints the entire time.

But well the tables turned and MaoMao topped him instead, lol (vol 7) and later we even see that our little stray cat has accepted Jinshi and she's ready to be in a relationship with him (vol 12).

Plus she is intrigued by the process of birth (she wants to eat her baby's placenta, it's kind of uggghhh.... but anyways, that MaoMao we're talking about, she's just weird that way)

Maybe not after too long she'll realise that if she has to give birth, she can only have it with Jinshi and no one else.

~Sunshine

[sunniepoo]

Omg imagine this rafe x Reader but its a love Island USA au rafe character is like rob and readers well she's like herself shy and awkward different to the confident baddies since reader is only in it for the money since she's a college student (probably round the age of 18-19 or 20) and of course this is gonna contain smut maybe when there in their assigned room.I'm not sure if you've watched it or not so its okay if you don't wanna write it. ❤️

how i imagine love island!rafe

shut up!!!! you match my freak because whenever i watch love island (uk cause your girl is a british babe) i always think about how the obx boys would go about things

ahhh this is less of a drabble but more word vomit but i might do one for each of the boys cause i love this!!

rafe is definitely a bombshell who comes in like within the first couple of weeks. he is immediately very drawn to you just because of your calming presence is such a refresher in the high intensity atmosphere so it really relaxes him and just helps him breathe

i feel like he wouldn’t really get to know anyone beside a couple of chats here and there when he comes in initially but he already knows his head is with you, so he chooses you at a recoupling and it’s very smooth sailing in there

the only time an issue really comes about is in the beginning of your situation, when he starts getting annoyed at you for speaking to any new male bombshell even though you’d only been coupled up for a little while HOWEVER it gets squashed very very easily and you both set boundaries with each other

you both gain a reputation for being the horniest in the villa (think tasha and andrew s8) because all the islanders come out saying you guys are soooo loud in bed, mainly just oral - a mix of some light fingering and handjobs

this causes you guys to be picked for the hideaway very quickly and you of course you go the full way - the sex is very typical in rafe cameron style, hard rough thrusts that have your eyes rolling back. the public love you for the most part, just worry about rafe’s attitude when he’s angry

rafe is many things but a cheater is not one of them, so casa is very very hard for him because he misses you so bad, def just sleeps on the daybeds and looks at pictures of you and obviously vice versa, you’re recoupling is so so cute and just boosts the love for you guys from the public more

he skips all the exclusive stuff and just goes straight into asking you to be his girlfriend, he doesn’t do it in an overly grand way but he does make it very very special

i feel like you guys wouldn’t win just because some people are worried that rafe is too intense for you but that’s a small minority, so you end up placing 2nd or 3rd but it’s fine cause rafe’s loaded anyways

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie woke up with a pounding headache and an intense sense of dread. He groaned as he sat up, shutting his eyes to block out the searing light from the window.

He took a deep breath before opening them again, letting out a sigh of relief when he realized he was in his own room, safe in their apartment. But that wasn't stopping his pounding headache.

God, what the fuck happened last night? He remembered going to Gareth’s party, getting cross-faded. Then, just pure white-boy wasted as the night went on and someone brought out tequila shots. He remembered whining about missing Steve to some guy-

Oh god. The guy. It came screaming back to him, blurry and unfocused but there.

I can be your boyfriend for the night.

How the fuck had the line worked on him? Eddie didn't know, but he knew that it had. He remembered kissing him, whimpering into his mouth while moaning Steve’s name. How good it felt.

What the fuck had he done?

Pure panic was starting to set in. He cheated on Steve. He actually cheated on Steve. And for what? Because he hadn't seen him for a few weeks? It only took one vacation with Robin for him to destroy the trust they built? Was he that pathetic? That selfish? That idiotic?

He didn't even remember how far they'd gone. He didn't even know how he got home. Or if the guy came with him. The idea of him fucking someone else in their bed made him feel physically ill. Ill enough to have Eddie jumping out of bed, frantic as he looked around for any clues. But there was nothing. Just the evidence of the life he'd built with his boyfriend. The one that he had single handedly ruined.

Maybe he could just not tell him. Keep it secret for the rest of his fucking life. Track down anyone who did know and blackmail them to be quiet. That seemed more sane then coming clean. Sane enough to have Eddie stumbling out of his room in a hurry.

But before he could call Gareth to insanely demand the names of anyone who could have seen him, he smelled it. The scent of coffee brewing, plus the sound of a happy hum.

Steve was home. A whole day early.

Holy shit, Eddie was going to be sick. He was actually going to puke. The feeling bad enough to make his legs weak, so bad he crashed right into the wall.

Loud enough to have Steve calling after him, "Babe, is that you?"

Eddie opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Not when Steve was rounding the corner, smiling at him like that. All soft and loving, "There you are. Rough night?"

Was that the last time he would look at him like that?

"Eddie?" Steve asked, frowning at his lack of answer, "Are you okay?"

Eddie wanted to die. He actually wanted to die. Why had he done this? But he couldn't lie to him. Not with the sweet, trusting way Steve was looking at him. He just couldn't.

"I need to tell you something," Eddie finally managed to choke out, his heart beating so fast he was scared Steve could hear it. Maybe he'd have a heart attack it he was lucky. Avoid this whole shit show through almost dying.

But he wasn't that lucky.

Steve cocked his head at him, "What's wrong?"

"I'm so sorry, Stevie," Eddie said, letting his first thought come out, "I'm so fucking sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"I kissed someone," Eddie blurted out, his hands shaking as he started to word vomit, "Last night. A-At the party I told you about."

Steve just stared at him.

"I-I was drunk!" Eddie went on, his voice coming out wet, "It didnt mean anything, I don't even know why I did it."

Steve still wasn't saying anything. He was just looking at him, his expression unreadable. It just made Eddie feel more desperate.

"Please say something," Eddie begged, "I know this is bad. I do. But I dont even know who he is. I-I won't do it again!"

Steve still had his head cocked as he looked at him, something in his eyes that Eddie didn't understand, "Is that all?"

Fuck no that wasn't all. Not when Steve was looking at him like that. Eddie didn't even think about it as he sunk to his knees, fully fucking ready to beg at Steve’s feet.

"I love you," Eddie tried, the tears he was holding back finally starting to fall, "I fucked up. I know I fucked up but please don't leave me. Please. I can make up for this. I can. Please."

It was hard to see him through the tears in his eyes, hard to comprehend anything through how fucking bad Eddie felt, the sheer amount of self-loathing nearly drowning him completely. His vision was cloudy enough to almost make it look like Steve was... smiling at him?

Steve reached down, grabbing Eddie underneath the armpits to help lift him back onto his feet. Strong in a way that still made Eddie's heart skip a beat whenever he saw it in action. He led a still sniffling Eddie to the couch, grabbing for his hand when they sat down.

"Baby, how do you think you got home last night?" Steve asked.

Eddie frowned, "I-I don't know. I don't remember."

"Do you remember what the guy looked like?"

Eddie swallowed, so nervous he was still kind of afraid he was going to puke. And he highly doubted that puking on Steve would help his case for him to stay, "I don't remember fully."

"What do you remember?"

Eddie sighed, looking down into his lap, "I remember missing you. And then a point where I got drunk enough to say it to anyone who would listen. Then this guy showed up and he said-"

"I can be your boyfriend for the night?"

Eddie snapped his head up, staring at Steve with his mouth open. How the fuck did he know that?

"And then did he do this?" Steve asked as he brought his hand up, cupping Eddie's cheek. Looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world before placing his thumb on Eddie's bottom lip, teasing it with a smile, "Before saying you were beautiful?"

"I-yes? But how-"

"Honey," Steve sighed, a touch exasperated but mostly fond, "I got back last night. Then went to go find you when I remembered about the party."

Oh god, did that mean Steve saw the whole thing? Was this the calm before he kicked Eddie out? Was he about to be dumped-

"I can see your brain working babe, but it's working in the wrong direction."

"Huh?" Eddie asked, completely lost on why Steve was smiling at him instead of cursing his name.

"Eddie, it was me," Steve said calmly, though his face said he was holding back a laugh, "You made out with me. Before I took us home and you failed at trying to give me road head on the way home. Twice."

"I-what?" Eddie asked, shellshocked.

"You cheated on me with me, babe," Steve laughed, his calm face finally breaking, "Then when we got home, you cried about missing me to me. You're adorable when you're wasted. Stupid, but adorable."

"Oh my fucking God," Eddie breathed out, the reality of the situation hitting him. He groaned, hiding his face in his hands while Steve cackled next to him. He had never felt like a bigger fucking moron, Jesus Christ, "I am never drinking tequila again."

"Good idea," Steve chuckled as he pried Eddie's hands away from his face. He brought one to his mouth, kissing his fingers as he grinned, "But I love the honesty, sweetheart. 10/10. And the begging? Kind of hot."

"I was terrified!" Eddie moaned, staring up at the ceiling as a blush climbed up his neck, "You scared the shit out of me."

"You scared yourself!" Steve laughed, grabbing for Eddie's chin to force his head back down to look at him. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "My favorite little drama queen."

"You're a bastard," Eddie grumbled, like he wasn't smiling when Steve leaned in to kiss him on the lips, "Evil."

"But wasn't I a good boyfriend for the night?" Steve asked, laughing even harder when Eddie pinched his side. Eddie leaned in to kiss him again, effectively shutting him up as the last of his anxiety drained away.

But one thing was for sure. Tequila would be his worst enemy until the day he died.

Purely inspired by this post by @hawkinsbnbg

[starswallowingsea]

okay i decided to do a random number generator and some tarot cards so uhm. lets see. this is just spitballing ideas under the cut btw not an actual fic

for the characters i got yuzuru and mao, and i pulled the chariot, the three of swords, and the magician. so i think this is a deviation from the canon of the game in the ! era, at least in my mind, though i'd need to read more trickstar and fine stories to really do this idea justice and clean it up so just take this as me word vomiting a plot onto a post.

there are minor parallels between mao and yuzuru and their roles in their respective units, given that both of them take on more work than they should and are in the student council, combined with yuzuru's being tori's butler. they get along well enough and mao calls yuzuru by his given name now so its not like they get along poorly. this is all i have gathered just from quickly skimming mao's wiki page and their section on the relationships page.

i think...this fic would be a deviation from the canon in that trickstar doesnt come out on top and are defeated by fine and their counterparts from it (ie hokuto and eichi, wataru and subaru?, mao and yuzuru and i guess that leaves makoto and tori but i am not versed in trickstar lore very well so take this with a mountain of salt i never said this was going to be good) but which happens after they have developed this relationship where at least mao consideres yuzuru a friend and now that's just. shattered.

yuzuru doesn't necessarily realize in the moment what their relationship was to him until its broken before him on the stage as he pushes forward with fine until the very end, and it sinks in a little afterwards, maybe a few days, when mao is suddenly very very cold to him at the student council meetings. whatever amiability there had been before is gone, and there's no getting it back any time soon.

[ittybitttybunny]

Being babied to chase away the anxious and intrusive thoughts>>>>

[bamboozledbird]

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Word Count: 8.9k Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood to friends to lovers Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.

A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic. 

And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you. 

There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be. 

But they aren’t you. 

A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start. 

So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.

Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car. 

He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue. 

You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow. 

“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something. 

Fuck, what if you know? 

You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense. 

“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”

Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.

He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it. 

“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin. 

You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days. 

“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder. 

Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt. 

“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.” 

Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you. 

You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”

He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love. 

Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life? 

He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing. 

You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you. 

“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment. 

You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen. 

“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”

“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.” 

“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.” 

You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.” 

“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.” 

“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.” 

Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem. 

“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again. 

“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”

Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip. 

He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.” 

You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”

Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats. 

“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”

“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”

“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?” 

“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip. 

Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.

Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture. 

You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.” 

“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”

You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated. 

Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him. 

Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse. 

You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.” 

Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense. 

“Work?”

Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard. 

Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”

“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.” 

That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him. 

Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth. 

Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.

You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply. 

That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face. 

It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have. 

Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles. 

You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you? 

And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter. 

You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”

You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling. 

He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship. 

Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say. 

He remembers falling in love with you. 

The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues. 

Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?” 

Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there. 

He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’

Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead. 

“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. 

You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”

You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”

Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.

“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.  

You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy. 

You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?” 

Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission.  “No gin.” 

You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”

Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.” 

You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. ) 

“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.” 

Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”

“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”

He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?” 

You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.” 

You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.

Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses. 

You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”

Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway. 

You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers. 

Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either. 

“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly. 

You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”

Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”

You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.

Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons. 

All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image. 

So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something. 

Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”

“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”

He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.” 

There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”

Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”

You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to. 

“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”

He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”

You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”

Good. God.

Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours. 

You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.  

Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”

He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence. 

But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating. 

“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.” 

His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”

You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”

Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk. 

Who’s to say, really?

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight. 

Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count. 

It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.

Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life. 

For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window. 

“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”

You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.” 

Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts. 

You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?” 

You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake. 

Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless. 

He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long. 

And then, he’d kiss you. 

He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'

'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'

But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.

You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing. 

Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”

“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.  

You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly. 

There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.

You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”

“Not like this!” 

Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him. 

You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”

Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him. 

“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.

Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.

The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.

Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand. 

And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.

“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.

“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below. 

Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”

“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.  

You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”

Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass. 

The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously. 

Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.

Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”

Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned. 

It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration. 

Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”

Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”

“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”

Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there. 

Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.

“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion. 

You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline. 

Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”

Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand. 

“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”

Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same. 

Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint. 

Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles. 

You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day. 

The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage. 

It doesn’t come. 

You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.  

You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet. 

“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.” 

Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”

The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?

Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.

You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.” 

Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.” 

“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”

Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth. 

Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours. 

“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely. 

Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.” 

“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly. 

Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.” 

“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”

Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends. 

It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.

Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”  

Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek. 

The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow. 

Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?” 

You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever. 

Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.” 

Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth. 

You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”

Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—

You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his. 

Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else. 

He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.

It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe. 

Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs. 

Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 9

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Accidental Baby Procurement

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

"He'll be fine," Esmeray said evenly.

Zahra couldn't help but flinch, her eyes fixed outside the window. She didn't get to see anything, there was nothing to see, but…"How do you know that?" Zahra demanded sharply.

Esmeray didn't seem the least bit surprised at the harsh question."Because my son will always do whatever he has to do to survive," she said drily. "Just as he should. He'll come home to you." Her words were blunt, straightforward and to the point and Zahra felt the sudden tightness in her throat ease slightly.

Azriel was going to come home…it wasn’t like he was walking into…enemy territory right? He had survived two wars…he could survive dinner with his family…

“But normally his enemies aren’t his own brothers,” she whispered. Regardless of her own personal feelings about Cassian and Rhys…she didn’t doubt for a moment that…they were both exceptionally powerful.

Esmeray said nothing for a moment, her face pensive. She watched Zahra with an intense gaze, the silence drawing on as Zahra tried not to fidget under her scrutiny, her own gaze meeting Esmeray’s as the older woman tilted her head.

“Has Azriel told you what happened to his hands?” Esmeray finally asked her.

That…wasn't what Zahra had expected to hear. Zahra blinked as she stared at Esmeray, her mouth opening uselessly for a few seconds as she tried to form words. But in the end, she couldn’t find the words and settled for a shake of her head, her eyes wide as she stared at Esmeray.

She had seen the violent scars. Of course she had. They were impossible to miss. And she knew how they had pained him…though the useless golden glow of hers seemed to at least have eased that particular agony. It hadn’t seemed like they had bothered him again. 

“Or where he spent the first few years of his life?” Esmeray continued.

"No," Zahra admitted, her voice small.

She had an inkling that whatever had happened to Azriel as a child...it must have been bad. Really bad.

“I was 17 when a Azriel was born. One of the Lords at a War Camp fathered him,” Esmeray said, her voice quiet. “I was young…I was stupid…and my family had too many mouths to feed. So…I became his mistress. He took my son from me, when he was still a babe. And he kept him from me…for the years that followed. I was allowed to only see him an hour a week. My own son,” she spat out these words

Zahra stared at Esmeray.

She felt...sick. Sick and furious and heartbroken all at the same time as she listened to Esmeray's admission."Any other child...They wouldn't have survived these years locked away in that dungeon. And if they had....they would have been angry at the world and ready to watch it all burn," Esmeray continued softly. "But not Azriel. Not him. Not my son… He got the scars on his hands when his half brother’s decided to see how fire and oil would mix. The scars… were the result."

She wanted to vomit. 

The pain and heartbreak in Esmeray's eyes spoke of horrors that she couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

"The shadows came to him after that...And his father...he realised how dangerous Azriel would be in the future. So he send him away. To train. And for one decade, I thought I was never going to see my son again," she recounted, shaking her head. "I thought that if the years in the darkness hadn't killed him...then the training would. Illyrian start training young. He was already 11. He couldn’t even fly, Zahra. They had bound his wings to his back since he was a baby."

Zahra stared at Esmeray, her eyes wide.

She swallowed. It sounded like torture. Plain and simple. 

She hadn’t been treated…well as a child... hadn’t slept in the same nursery as her sisters, but instead in the servants quarter on a lumpy mattress with some mice to keep her company…but she hadn’t been…she hadn’t been locked in the darkness. She had gotten food…not the food the family ate but what the servants ate. She had been ignored…but even if Nesta hated her…she had never put her hands on fire. 

And Azriel…

"But he survived," Esmeray continued. "He survived. With these shadows of his. And he became a Carynthian, he touched the sacred peak of Ramiel...and then he came back for me," Esmeray said with a shake of her head and a shaky sort of laugh. "He came back for you?" Zahra repeated, her heart twisting in her chest as she listened to Esmeray’s words.

She couldn't even begin to imagine the love and loyalty Azriel must feel for his mother, to survive all that, and return for her.

"He did," Esmeray said softly. "He had every right to forget I even existed...but he didn't. He killed one of his half- brother during that Blood Rite...and he killed his father the moment he set a foot in that training camp where he was born. And then he came for me and brought me here," Esmeray said softly. "This is what he did for me, his mother. For his mate? I can promise you one thing, Zahra, with absolute certainty: As long as there is breath left in my son, he'll return home to you."

The words sounded almost like a promise and Zahra felt the tightness in her chest ease. Hearing the conviction in Esmeray's voice, the absolute belief in her son...made Zahra believe, just for a moment.

"His father wasn't a...good man. He was a monster," Esmeray said softly. "And he did...horrible things to me. But I'll never regret having Azriel. He's the only good thing that male ever created."

Zahra felt her throat close up at those words. At the unwavering and fierce love in Esmeray's voice, even as she spoke of the monster...and her son.

Zahra thought about herself. She didn't know if she could have...if she could have loved a child created from what had been done to her. Wouldn't know if she could have...if she would have been...able to love them as fiercely and beautifully as Esmeray clearly loved Azriel. 

"He’ll come home to you," Esmeray repeated. "Don't borrow troubles."

It was easier said than done. 

"I never wanted him to fight with his family for me," Zahra said weakly.

"It's your family too, is it not? Your sister is married to Rhysand…your other to Cassian," Esmeray pointed out reasonably. "What happened?"

Zahra felt her face heat up in shame as she avoided Esmeray's gaze.

"My sisters don't particularly like me," she said weakly. "I am a constant reminder of our father's...infidelity."

"And what does that have to do with you?" Esmeray asked, voice sharp.

Zahra flinched back in surprise at the sharp tone and how direct the question was.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Esmeray snorted derisively. "Your father's infidelity...is exactly what it says on the tin: your father's sin," she snapped. "Not yours. You are your own person, not an object created solely to hurt your half-sisters or their mother. Who do they think they are, to decide who you are based on their father's mistakes?"

She could just blink at Esmeray as she felt a knot in her throat. Zahra swallowed past it tightly. She had always just been a bastard created by her father’s infidelity. That was the one thing…that she would never get away from. 

But there was also…

"... I had an affair with a married man," she admitted weakly. "While I was human."

Esmeray fell silent, the only sound echoing the quiet.

Zahra didn't meet Esmeray's gaze, her hands curled into tight fists on her lap as she waited for the older woman to speak.

She was waiting for judgment. 

“Do you really think, you’ll get judgment from  me, when I did the same?” Esmeray asked her, her voice quiet. “Azriel is the result of that, Zahra. So were you…But you must have been…awfully young?” Esmeray said softly. “You are what? 20 now?”

"24," Zahra corrected her weakly. "I was 15. When it started."

Esmeray's face twisted in fury when Zahra answered her question. It was clear that she already put the pieces together, even before hearing the young woman's answer.

"You were a child," Esmeray snapped. "How much older than you was he? A few decades, l imagine?"

"Eighteen years older," Zahra responded quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "...Feyre was sick. He owned the apothecary. We had no money and she needed medicine and I..."

Zahra swallowed back the bile rising in her throat as she recalled the fear of those days, the pain and terror as she desperately tried to protect her sister.

She remembered how he used her. How he took advantage of her when she had no one else to turn to, no one else to rely on.

"In what world would you call this an affair, sweetheart?" Esmeray asked her weakly. "How long did it go on?"

Zahra took a shuddering breath as she stared at the ground.

"Six years," she answered, voice shaking. “I would rather call it an affair than call myself a whore,” she said weakly. 

Esmeray reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "He hurt you." It was said flatly. Not a question.

"Yes," Zahra choked out, forcing the words passed the knot in her throat. "He hurt me." The words tasted like ash as they left her lips, the pain and shame they came with making her feel sick to her stomach.

She didn't want to think about it, about him, or the pain he made her feel.

She never wanted to think about it again, she didn't want to recall the things he did to her. There was no escaping the pain the memories brought, or the pain he caused for all those years. And still to this day. 

"I won't be able to have kids," she whispered. "He took that from me too."

Esmeray reached forward, a shaky hand resting in the younger woman's.

"Oh, sweetheart," Esmeray muttered, her voice shaking in sympathy and fury. And then..."There were two pregnancies after Azriel," she said softly. "I miscarried the first...the second...he beat me so badly that...the baby was too small to survive," Esmeray said softly. "Not anymore after that. He took that from me too."

Tears welled in Zahra's eyes as she listened to Esmeray's soft words.

"I'm so sorry," Zahra whispered. The pain Esmeray felt was so evident in those words, and Zahra couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

She couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel, to lose children the way she did.

"Don't be," Esmeray reassured her, voice shaking. "It was a long time ago...and I love my son. I love Azriel. He's more than enough for me. Why mess with perfection?" she asked, her voice firm. Zahra couldn't help a weak laugh that escaped her.

"And if you and Azriel decide that you want children one day...there are ways to have children that aren't the traditional way," Esmeray continued. "There are plenty of illyrian children that are simply...thrown away. Not here in Rosehall but in some of the more traditional camps. Not enough food for too many mouth to feed...bastards themselves...physical disabilities...plenty of reasons," she said with a shudder.

Zahra blinked in surprise at the words.

She...she hadn't had the chance to think about anything beyond surviving yet, let alone how...how she and Azriel would have children some day in the future, if they wanted. after everything that happened.

But children, a family...she had always wanted a family. A family of her own. She just...hadn't even considered how that could ever happen to her.

There were children like her, thrown away as unwanted, but she hadn't known that it was such a... common occurrence.

"That's horrible," she whispered under her breath.

To think that those children were left behind, abandoned, or thrown out when they were too young to even take care of themselves... It filled her with rage. How could an entire society treat people like that?

"Sometimes it's something as simple that they are girls," Esmeray said, her voice bitter. "Girls are useless in their eyes."

Zahra felt her heart twist in fury at the words.

The fact that an entire society could think that girls were useless enough to throw them aside...it sickened her.

"Azriel will come home," Emeray promised her with a squeeze of her hand once more as she pulled back to go back to her cooking. "Could you set the table?"

Zahra nodded quietly, her words stuck in her throat as she swallowed her tears.

She stood and slowly went over to the kitchen, gathering the things necessary to set the table for dinner.

But she couldn't get one thing out of her head. "Do you...Do you keep an eye on his half brother?" She asked the shadows softly. "So he'll never hurt Azriel again?"

The shadows writhed in the air, twisting around on themselves for a few moments as if in agitation.

Zahra swallowed slightly at the sight of the shadows reacting like that.

"Could you?" Zahra requested. "please? Just for my own sake of mind?"

The shadows writhed a little more before they seemed to quiet down, only a gentle shift in movement now, as if the shadows had accepted her request.

"Thank you," she said softly.

You're welcome, the voice was as soft as a breath, as otherworldly as that as well.

Zahra couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine at the voice that echoed in her head.

It was as otherworldly as it was strangely soothing.

***

Azriel was tired. Tired and exhausted and hurting and furious and hungry, his rage and exhaustion leaving him on a hair trigger.

His shadows writhed in the air around him, agitation and fury rolling off of

It was done. He had had that talk. It had gone...better than he thought it would. Which was something, he supposed. But it left him tired...

His exhaustion was seeping into his bones, settling deep and leaving him heavy and...worn. He was exhausted deep in his marrow, all the way down to his very soul.

He didn't like to fight. He had never liked to fight. Especially not this kind of fighting. Fighting with knifes and swords was one thing...this kind of emotional bloodletting was another thing entirely.

It hurt so much more, to be vulnerable, to lay his emotions, his deepest secrets and insecurities, bare and have others know them. Have others be able to twist and use those things against him if they so desired.

And even when this had needed to have happened...needed to be done...this didn't make it any easier.

It had made him feel horrible to use…Zahra’s most traumatic moments as pressure points. 

He just needed...he just needed to see Zahra. Jsut needed to know that she was safe.

That need rose like a crashing wave.

He could feel it now, the need to get to his mate, to know that she was safe, to see her and feel it.

So he winnowed. The wards around Rosehall bent to his will...and just seconds later, he got to walk through his mother’s front door.

He heard voices, his mother's low murmur and Zahra's soft responses to the older woman, the words a quiet hum in the air that carried him further into the small home.

The smell of food rose in the air, the rich scent of stew and bread wafting through the hallway as he followed the voices and the scent of food into the dining room.

„Azriel!" and then Zahra was already throwing herself at him and he caught her instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder. Not a scratch on her. Nothing. Just the warm scent of her.

Honeysuckle and something he never could quite place. 

His mate was safe. She was whole and unharmed and right there...in his arms.

“She was worried for you," his mother said drily.

He ignored the words for a few moments longer, clinging to his mate.

Azriel took another deep breath, the scent of his mate so close easing the tension in his body little by little.

He finally pulled back, his hands moving to frame her face, just to feel her warm skin against his palms.

Their gazes met, the green of her eyes familiar and safe and comforting and Azriel felt some of his exhaustion and tension bleed away.

Being in her presence always felt like he could simply...breathe, no matter the circumstances.

In her presence, he could breathe.

"All is well," he promised Zahra who leaned into his touch, her eyes misted with tears. But she simply nodded.

She believed him. 

That small, simple gesture. The way she nodded and trusted his word, was enough to make him lean in and press a kiss against her forehead.

"Are you hungry? We made stew. Esmeray was nice enough to teach me how to make Illyrian flatbread." She asked him and he nodded. His stomach twisted a little at the reminder.

Yeah, he was hungry. Starving actually.

"Food and then bed for both of you," his mother said with some amusement as she filled his plate for him.

He huffed out a breath, his hands still in a gentle grip around Zahra as if to ensure she wouldn't slip away from his grasp.

For once, he couldn't bring himself to complain about his mother's bossy attitude.

The idea of food and then sleeping in a warm bed with his mate curled up against his chest, her steady heartbeat and slow breathing a reminder that she was there, safe and whole beside him...it sounded like perfection.

He cleared two plates of stew and then curled up in the guest bedroom with Zahra, tucked safely and warmly underneath his mother’s quilt.

"How did it really go?" Zahra asked him in the darkness of the room, drawing random patterns onto his naked chest. 

"Both better and worse than I thought it would," Azriel answered honestly. Then he grimaced. "...I told them. About what happened to you."

"Oh," she said, voice quiet even as she shifted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "How did they…..take it?"

He had expected anger. Expected…something.  "You aren't angry?" He checked and Zahra just weakly shrugged. "They wouldn't have understood without, would they?" She forced out, her voice trembling.

She was right. He wished they didn't need to use her trauma as a shield but...

She was right.

He hated it. But he couldn't deny the truth in her words.

"Your sisters were distraught," he said delicately. "Elain wants your forgiveness… Feyre wanted to know where you are."

He heard Zahra take a shuddering breath, felt the way her chest rose as she tensed.

"Why?" she muttered, sounding more tired than angry.

He didn’t need to be Rhys to be able to read her thoughts. Why did Feyre care now?

"She wanted to apologize," he answered softly as he felt the tension in her body, rubbing her should gently. 

"And Nesta?" Zahra asked weakly.

"Let's just say, I am pretty certain that Cassian and her are going to have a screaming match sometime soon."

"Why?" she asked, her voice so quiet and small that it made his chest ache. 

His hand moved to gently brush over her waist, slowly stroking along her side in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Let's just say that she didn't take the news of our mating bond well, and leave it at that," Azriel said with a snort. "It doesn't matter what she thinks."

Zahra huffed a small amount of breath, the tiniest of laughs.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed, body leaning more heavily against his as the tension slowly drained from her. "Your mother is lovely, by the way," Zahra said softly.

That made him smile a little bit, warmth flooding him at the mention of his mother. He was so glad Zahra and Esmeray seemed to get on as well. He couldn't quite put it word, the relief and happiness he felt at the knowledge that the two people he loved seemed to get on so well. And the shadows... well they were already enamored with Zahra as well.

He felt the shadows curl and twist around his waist in fond affection and he couldn't help but smile faintly.

They had been fond of Zahra since the beginning, but now..they were practically in love with her.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead and closed his eyes. 

Between one breath and the next Azriel fell asleep. 

Only to be roughly awakened by his shadows what seemed like seconds later.

Master. Master, you need to wake up. He was awake immediately, thrown back to the last time they had done the very same thing to him. But there was no iron-rich scent of blood in his nose. Nothing of that sort. And Zahra was peacefully slumbering away next to him, looking younger in her sleep than she did awake…nothing out of the ordinary. 

What's wrong? he demanded immediately. He could hear his mother's quiet heartbeat down the hall, nothing seemed to be amiss with her either.

Something… happened, his shadows whispered hesitantly and the sound of it made him sit upright in bed, his grip tight around Zahra, shielding her from danger as he stared into the darkness of the bedroom. We…maybe broke a rule, Master.

A rule.

There were only very few rules the shadows had gotten from him. Mostly to not outright starting to murder anybody unless he allowed it.

What did you do? he asked with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Had they gone back to their habit of gambling a truly ridiculous amount of money all at once? He had gotten them to do it more often but with smaller sums of money so it wasn't as obvious as it once had been centuries ago.

Esmeray told her about what happened to your hands, Master, the shadows admitted softly. And that you went to get her after the Blood Rite... Our Mate asked if the shadows kept an eye on…*him*. 

Oh, he breathed out, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. What did you do? he asked with a sigh. Did he want to know? If they had killed his half-brother that would be...well there were worse things they could have done, he supposed...He just hoped they made it look like an accident if they did murder him. 

The shadows stayed silent for a moment.

He's still using the dungeon, the shadows said softly. But the warding is...broken. The warding that had kept him contained. Now it would be nothing but a blink of an eye to break...but for a weak 8 year old...it had been impossible to escape.

What did you find? he asked, swallowing.

We may have...taken her, the shadows admitted quickly. But if we hadn't, who knows how long she would have survived down there!

Azriel stared into the darkness, taking a breath at the word.

Who exactly is *she*? he demanded sharply.

His bastard daughter, the shadows said quickly. She's just a baby!

You kidnapped a baby?!?!

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔮𝔲𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰

Summary: Your relationship with Farleigh Start has always precariously walked the line between friends and enemies for years.

But maybe there's something else there, too.

Warnings: 18+ content; MDI. AFAB, Oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex (this is fiction, please use protection in rl), hints at s and d dynamics; brief, barely there choking, outdoor/technically public sex. Sex while under the influence (takes place during Oliver's party, so drugs for Farleigh and alcohol for the reader). Farleigh being an a*s, but what's new. Reader is American. Heavy denial of feelings in the beginning.

Notes: 14.6 k words. There is an abhorrent lack of Farleigh content on this site, so I thought I'd contribute. Not proofread, divider by @saradika-graphics

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Honestly, it's a wonder how you always manage to forget the sheer opulence of the Saltburn Estate - even when it wasn't in the throes of a celebration that costs more than your yearly salary. It's like some sort of dream almost. While you're in it the details are all startingly intense. Overbearingly so. Flaunting in front of you with all of its details and sights; like a kaleidoscope. The memories never do the estate any true justice. The soft, rolling lush fields; the crystal blue skies that loom over the tall gray spires. It's all painted behind your eyelids with a haunting clarity. But as soon as you leave - as soon as you wake up - the entire experience never truly feels real. Bits and pieces slip through your fingers. It loses its tangibility somehow and you can't help but wonder if you had imaged the whole thing, even with Felix's number programed into your phone; a physical reminder that Saltburn is indeed a real, tactile place. 

But even here tonight, while walking the halls and strolling through the courtyard, it doesn't feel like reality. It seems as though you've stepped into a fever dream, crossed some imaginary threshold and entered some mirroring realm. The air is charged. Electrifying. And you swear you could feel the magnetic net of adrenaline and excitement prickling at your fingertips. A cocktail of emotions amplified by alcohol and drugs and endorphins. 

Everywhere you looked there were jovial, writhing bodies. People dancing and laughing. Some full on making out - and others dangerously close to toeing the line of having public sex - and others were having a less enjoyable time by collapsing in exhaustion or blacking out in an inebriated haze. One unfortunate soul had thrown up all over the floor boards of the foyer, and you had just narrowly missed being sprayed by the projectile vomit as you had passed. It was like the Exorcist. 

Thank God it hadn't been on one of the Persian rugs. 

It was someone's birthday, it seemed. A little impromptu. Not initially planned. Oliver's - at least that's what you believed it was. The same Oliver that Felix had mentioned during one of your phone calls. He had spoken of him fondly, but when Felix had rushed outside this evening to greet you from your taxi and help you gather up your bags, he had seemed less interested and even a little irritated in the mention of his newest companion - or as harsh as it sounds, charity case (he seems to have a new one each summer). And he had been quick to divert your line of questioning, stopping you with a somewhat curt, "he's just a friend from Oxford. That's all." And that was that. You knew not to press him over it. 

But your time with Felix was cut short when he was pulled aside by an excited Elspeth, who had spared you a quick glance and a "hello, darling," before eagerly trying to get his advice on the party preparations. Which he didn't seem particularly enthused about being dragged into. And it left you to stand awkwardly on your on in the middle of the foyer, trying to force your bleary eyes open. Jet lagged with your will to live paper thin from only having a rough five hours of sleep to back it up. And for a moment you had feared that you might actually pass out on your feet but luckily Venetia had sought you out and saved you from feeling too awkward amongst the others. Occupying the time by gossiping and interrogating you about your time back in the States. All of which, you had confessed have been rather boring. Filled with exams and dead-end dates and careless flings. And even though the initial arrival always leaves you feeling like a fish out of water, you were thankful to have been invited back over to Saltburn. The sprawling, golden fields and fresh crisp air always a welcome reprieve from the loud, chaotic clamoring and the smog blanketed horizon of Los Angeles. 

Even though the wild, scattered throng of sweating bodies that were bumping into you honestly weren't all that different from the clubs you frequent back home. Of course, the sheer show of wealth and splendor that had been rolled out for Oliver was nothing that you had ever seen before with the only thing to rival it (and surpass it, probably) being Felix's very own birthday party that you had been able to take part of a few years back. One that had been themed after a strange but no less entertaining amalgamation of cowboys, space and disco, and the costumes and decorations then had left you in a state of awe, much like tonight. 

Everywhere you looked there was something else to gawk at. Glittering lights, a hired contortionist and at one point you had even seen a swan rush past you out on the courtyard - which you had only felt sad and a little angry for. 

It was pure, unbridled pandemonium. Noisy and cloying with the scent of perfumes and marijuana and alcohol; and you couldn't escape it. Not even when you had gone outside to take advantage of the dark, balmy summer breeze to cleanse your lungs. And everything had been going well until a drunk man had lunged out of the crowd towards you. Wobbling on his feet with a loud wail akin to a war cry as he aimed a narrow tube directly at you. And you only had a fleeting second to wish that it was one of those party canisters full of tensile when he had set it off with a loud pop! And a large, shimmering cloud of glitter had burst over you like a mist, layering across your hair, and costume and skin like a sheen of sweat. You didn't even have time to yell at him before he was scurrying off into the crowd with a demented cackle, probably on his way to find some other unfortunate person to glitter bomb. 

And even worse a quick glance downward had revealed that the drink in your champagne glass had been tainted by a thin coat of sparkling silver. Even if you wanted to be lazy and drink around the floaters, the amount drifting around in the champagne was too much. You probably would have ended up choking on all of it. It was with a defeated sigh that you tossed out the remainder of your drink onto the trampled lawn. 

For the first time tonight you're actually thankful that Venetia had chosen to leave you for some tall, dark, and handsome stranger that she had met near the beginning of the party. You hadn't seen her since, but maybe it's a blessing in disguise. You would hate for her to see the state of her dress. It is just glitter, easy to wash off in the grand scheme of things, and too be fair she had said that she didn't even like the garment. It was just some random piece from another one of the Catton's wild parties - themed after Renaissance art and fables, you think. And she had sifted it out from the depths of her closet with little fanfare.  "It's just some old thing, " she had told you plainly, even though the dress probably cost more than your monthly rent. Clearly, she wouldn't be distressed over some glitter, but you were still having a hard time fighting the sinking feeling in your gut. It was borrowed. She was letting you wear it. And now it was covered in a dust of silver because some guy decided to be a dick. 

It could be worse though. It could have been a glass full of wine that he had dunked on you instead. You suppose you should take your wins where you could get them. 

A part of you thinks about returning inside the manor and calling it a night. Taking a much-needed bath to clean off the layer of glitter from your skin and just going to bed. But really, you aren't sure if you'll even be able to manage falling asleep with the sheer volume of the music playing throughout various sections of the house, and the sound of the raucous cheering and laughter. And you could imagine what Venetia or Felix would tell you, to quit being so reclusive and to get out and socialize. 

You did fly all the way over here. Planned this trip for a few weeks and made preparations with your job and roommate when Felix had called to invite you over for the summer. It would be a complete waste to turn in for the night and huddle yourself up in your quarters. 

And with the fog of alcohol draping over your body you know you should probably put a pause on it for a bit but fuck it, it's a party and you need another drink. 

 You glance around the courtyard, hoping to spy one of that servants that have been forced to parade platers of alcohol around for the many guests but all you see are the scattered throngs of people dressed in fairy wings, strange animal masks, and plastic swords. Honestly, it never amazes you how many people get invited to these events. Even with all of the family members combined, there's no way they all know every individual here directly. There's probably enough to fill a damn stadium. 

In your search your gaze sweeps over the steady bonfires, the temporary lovers grinding against each other and a pair talking amongst themselves - wait. That catches your attention. You feel heat prickling at your chest; irritation rising in some subconscious sort of reaction and as if they have a mind of their own your eyes skitter back over to them to confirm if what you thought you saw was true. And lo and behold, there he is. The bane of your existence. Farleigh Start. 

Your eyes flicker across him from his head to his old-fashioned boots. He's holding some sort of mask in one of his hands. A big bulky thing with long protruding ears and an equine shaped face and you have to squint to come to the concussion that it appears to be a donkey.

 He seems to be talking to someone. A person that you don't recognize but they both seemed to be engaged in some sort of heated stare off from near a rotating pig on a stick. It looks like he's found another unfortunate victim to prod at and humiliate. Not that it was difficult for Farleigh. He was always eager to find someone to harass and belittle. And the more that someone fought back, the more interested he seems to become. He's been a personal thorn in your side for longer than you'd like to admit. 

Of course, you knew he would be here, but that didn't necessarily mean that actually seeing him made it any easier. It had to have close to a year since you've last interacted with him, which had to have been during that awful Christmas party back in the States. Why Graham had invited both of you when he knew that neither of you get along is a mystery. It could have been some lame attempt to get two of his closest friends to finally clear up whatever animosity was between them, but in all actuality it had just made worse. All of the passive aggressive barbs and thinly veiled sneers had nearly reached a boiling point that night when Farleigh wouldn't just leave you alone. Seeming to make it his mission to antagonize you at every turn with childish insults. But as childish as they might have been, they added up over time until you were giving him what he wanted, lashing out in response to his nasty little comments. 

And to think at one point you had actually been excited to meet him. As Graham's close friend and roommate, you were interested in getting to know the guy that he couldn't stop gushing about. The one who he had praised nearly nonstop. Farleigh had been nice enough in the beginning. And you even enjoyed his company for a time. His humor had always been a bit snarky, and the jokes he told were usually at another's expense. But he had been - as much as you hate to admit it, fun. And at one point, you had even considered him a friend of sorts. Or at the very least an acquaintance whose company you enjoyed while you both rambled on about nothing and everything, often gossiping about others. 

It had all been fine between you. That was until Felix had come down to L.A. to visit. He had gone out with Farleigh and Graham to go and sightseeing, which eventually steered into hopping from club to club as the day wanned into night. And when the invitation had extended to you, your relationship with Farleigh had taken a turn. For whatever reason talking to Felix was easy. But that was just Felix you suppose; always able to make friends with just about anyone in the room. And the closer that the two of you had become, the more strained your association with Farleigh had grown until it was filled with nothing but sardonic remarks and passive hostility. And instead of being a sort of surface level confidant, he gradually became a presence that you detested. And your relationship had gone from a mutual respect and cordial conversations to some sort of strange cat and mouse game. The both of you exchanging snarky jabs in an attempt to see if the other would crack. 

You would be lying if you didn't admit that some part of you enjoyed your little spats. And maybe you had hoped that he would be here tonight. Not that you'd ever tell him that. You'd rather trip onto the sharp end of a knife. 

Suddenly Farleigh is stepping towards the stranger, shoulders rigid and body pulled taught, seeping with irritation. And he takes ahold of their face, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes in some sort of intimidation tactic.  Farleigh's nearly seething. And his expression is firm with an apparent frustration. You don't think you've seen him so visibly aggravated before. You can't help but wonder what the mystery guy may have done to warrant such a response from him. 

And then Farleigh is pulling away, releasing the stranger from his grip with a smug smile. But on him it looks more like a sneer with the way his lips are stretched and showing off his teeth. He's moving towards your direction now, probably intending to head back to the house, and he's yet to notice you. You contemplate leaving. Of slipping back under the cover of the scattered crowd and disappearing before he sees you, but your body doesn't move. Instead, you're stock still.  There's some awful feeling in your gut that seems horrendously akin to anticipation; fluttering and soft and nauseating. 

You should just leave. You could leave if you'd just move. But it's too late. You swear there's some awful full body reaction that occurs when Farleigh's gaze meets yours and he stops in place to assess you. For a moment it's like you've been sucked into a black hole. It's like time has dilated and shrunk down around you until it's frozen solid and suddenly the lively chaos around you falls quiet, muffling down into an insignificant hum in the background. Recognition flickers in his eyes and something else crosses his face too. Something that you don't quite recognize but regardless, it feels as though the both of you are engaged in some sort of wordless exchange. There's another smile growing on his face. It's mischievous but still much more relaxed and familiar than the previous one that he had worn, and you can't help but return one of your own. 

It's then that you're finally able to gain control of your own body, walking backward a few steps before you twist around to slip amongst a gaggle of passing girls with something that is suspiciously close to excitement bubbling in your gut. You briefly use them as cover to get you closer to the house entrance, and they're all too occupied with giggling and gossiping to notice your presence. But you're able to remove yourself from the cluster when one of them drunkenly trips on her skirt, and she saves herself by latching onto the shoulder of one of her friends with a wild laugh. The others all gather around her to jokingly reprimand her as they assist her in righting herself but you're already stepping through the back threshold of the manor, and you're thrown headfirst into the alcohol infused, neon casted mayhem. Party streamers, glow sticks and blaring upbeat music. It's complete madness. You can hardly hear yourself think and trying to work yourself through the tight gaps between people's swaying bodies proves to be a challenge of its own and it's a heavy reminder as to why you had even gone outside in the first place. 

The atmosphere is cloying and thick; you feel as though you might actually be able to choke on it like it's a physical thing. As otherworldly and exciting as this party is, it's another experience entirely when you're being elbowed in the ribs by an oblivious drunk girl who isn't aware of her windmilling arms and all the intoxicated men who think that you're trying to feel them up and flirt with them when in reality you're just trying to get by. And for a split second you feel as though you may never make it out of the tumultuous sea of bodies. That you'll be cursed to wander around aimlessly in the wild, dancing masses for eternity. Subjected to the ear shattering music and scent of spilt wine and bourbon and sweat. 

But then you hear something that sounds suspiciously like your name. It's distant and damp as though your ears are plugged and for a second you had thought that you imagined it before you hear it again. This time louder and there's no mistake that someone is calling you. It has you pausing for a moment to analyze your surroundings and then you catch sight of someone familiar at the far end of the room and for a moment you think that your eyes might be lying to you with the aid of the dim lighting. The deep, saturated, shifting hues of purple and blue and red tinting the chaotic space doing very little to aid you. But someone is waving their arm up the air for you to spot them better and a long glance confirms that you were right in your assumption. The relief that sweeps across your bones is insurmountable and the glimpse of a hand raised up in the air to beckon over you is even more incentive to press forward. And you have to shoulder past people until you enter a small break in the crowd. 

"There you are!" Venetia shouts triumphantly, swaying to the rhythm of the song playing at full blast. "I've been looking all over for you!" 

You don't bother refuting her. Of countering that she was the one who had wondered off without any plans to meet up afterwards. Instead, you just move up closer to her, doing your best to match her movements and energy but you're entirely too self-conscious to actually meet her. And you feel the fleeting sense of relief that she has yet to notice all of the glitter covering her dress or doesn't care. 

"I had to go outside and get some fresh air, " you confess and even underneath the low lighting you can see the way that she nearly rolls her eyes at you, but even then, there's a well-meaning smile on her face. 

"You're at a once in a lifetime party, and you were spending it outside?" 

"Just for a minute." But she looks completely unamused by your apparently flimsy defense and suddenly she's grabbing you by the shoulders and leaning towards you like it might seal in her words better. 

"Well, you're supposed to be inside. Dancing and partying and getting drunk." She squeezes her hands against your skin. "Seriously, it's like you're allergic to fun." 

Okay, a little bit rude. And you try to remind yourself that she's just saying it because she's probably drunk. For the most part, all of the younger Catton's (Farleigh included) have a tendency to be social butterflies and party animals. It was something that you had struggled to keep up with when you had officially become friends with Felix. Luckily, he was typically the most understanding out of all of them, and he was aware enough to take notice when you were burning out. It was something that you had thought that Venetia had come to terms with as well, but every now and again she always makes sure to voice her objections. 

And you open your mouth to protest but you hardly get anything out. "That's not tru-" 

"And as your friend it's my duty to ensure that you do exactly all of the above!" She pulls away with a smirk that is entirely all too satisfied, and it immediately has the alarm bells inside your head blaring. "And maybe even a bit more." 

You don't like that last bit. 

"There's someone who I think you'd love to meet!" And you swear you can feel your stomach drop at those words but exasperation bleeds through the discomfort until you're holding back an irritated sigh as she practically gushes some stranger's name. "Reuben!" 

And at the call of his name, the guy seems to appear from the darkness and shifting bodies like some sort of spirit. It takes you completely off guard how closely and quickly he moves, and you have to physically keep yourself from flinching back. The entire situation is jarring, and you feel like an insect pinned to a corkboard with how both Venetia and this stranger - Reuben are watching you expectantly. And it takes everything to muster up a smile that you know must look strained and unnatural. "Hi," you greet lamely, but he doesn't seem to be the least bit deterred or put off. 

And he is cute, you'll admit. Kind, joyful eyes that you think are hazel but it's honestly impossible to tell in this lighting and there's a dusting of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He seems inviting enough if first impressions are anything to go by, but for whatever reason you don't find yourself gravitating towards him or longing for any sort of conversation with him. 

"It's nice to meet you!" He returns, loudly projecting to be heard over the stereo system. "Venetia's told me a bit about you." 

"Uh-huh, " you nod for him to continue or maybe divulge, but he doesn't. He just stands there silently without removing his gaze and you can't tell if it's because he's just oblivious or if maybe he's just socially awkward, but it has you shuffling on your feet all the same, desperate to move or do anything to make this less weird. And you glance over at Venetia who still has that hopeful expression on her face, doing your best to telegraph your discomfort without tipping Reuben off. And she does seem to notice but she doesn't tell him to leave or direct him somewhere else like you had wanted. 

"Reuben said that he's been to America before," she reveals. Apparently trying to salvage this little interaction and cultivate it into something more. 

"Oh, really?" You perk up a bit, or at least try to. "Where did you visit?" 

"Uh, New York. City, " he clarifies at the end before his demeanor shifts into something a bit sheepish and playful and the gold plastic crown perched atop his head glints in the lights. "It was a bit of a bore, I won't lie. But that was probably because I was there on a business trip and not on holiday, so feel free to put the blame on me." 

His attempt at joking does thaw at some of the unpleasant tension that had burdened the air, but even with the initial ice broken there's still just a simple, straightforward uninterest underneath it all. You aren't stupid. It's obvious why Venetia had pressed to introduce him to you, it's obvious why he had agreed. And you don't fault him for trying to get lucky at what might just be the party of the decade (for you at least) but keeping him here and stringing him along is a complete waste of everyone's time. You aren't going to sleep with him. Not tonight or any other night. And then you go to tell him as much, parting your lips to just get to the point and lay all of your cards out on the table but then Venetia is tapping on your shoulder, making you pause to look over at her. 

She has this strange, delighted smile on her lips that's even worse than the one she was wearing when she had invited Reuben over. She nods her chin over to your right, watching eyes trained on something or someone. "Your shadow's here." 

You nearly break your neck to follow her line of sight and your heart skips a beat when you see Farleigh standing several feet away from a gap in the crowd and you have to wonder just how long he's been standing there for. And you don't know why you suddenly feel as though you've been caught doing something wrong. Why your body flushes and prickles with shame and you feel like cringing. Maybe it's because of the way that he's looking at you. How his eyes dart from you to Reuben like he's assessing something. Most of the emotions flickering across his face are unreadable. But for second you think that you catch glimpses or what might be anger or irritation and worst of all betrayal before it leans into something neutral and flat. And then just as you had, he's turning on his heels and vanishing. But unlike you, he doesn't smile as he leaves. He doesn't walk away with a silent invitation to follow. 

And then Venetia is turning to Reuben with a sweet smile and tilting her head. "Alright, you can go now." 

He looks just as confused as you do, and he turns to look at you like he's expecting you to jump in to defend him or at the very least offer an explanation, but you don't have one to give.  You're just as lost as he is and when you don't speak and tell him to stay, he backs away, spreading his arms out in a sort of silent 'what the fuck?' gesture and vanishes back into the throng of bodies. 

"What . . . was that?" You ask, tense with a mutated type of bewilderment and anger. 

"I just wanted to see it." She says cryptically and irritatingly, begins to dance in place before finally disclosing on that little comment. "The look on his face." 

"What?" You snap. 

"Please, the way you two dance around each other is getting dreadfully old. It's boring and tired. I just did something to get the ball rolling." 

This in particular isn't new by any means. You had heard it all before from the two Catton siblings. Their vehement insistence that you and Farleigh had some unspoken attraction for the other that you both refused to act or speak on. It had nearly become a joke for the both of them. To prod and poke at you and Farleigh with to their hearts content. It was something that the both of you had learned to accept over time - somewhat - and ignore. But this. This new and entirely strange. 

"So, what? You were trying to make him jealous?" Your forehead crinkles as you watch her; incredulous and perplexed. 

"Trying?" She echoes amusedly." I succeeded. Did you see the way that he was looking at you? He was practically seething." 

You almost scoff. He wouldn't be jealous; he had no reason to be. And you don't know why Venetia's little ruse has pissed you off, or why that strange look on Farleigh's face had made your heart drop, but it did. 

"The two of you are so dense that it's honestly as frustrating as it is entertaining," she says with pure exasperation. "I mean, whenever you're here, you're practically fused at the hip. Bickering like cats and dogs like we can't all see the truth." She laughs but it's more of a scoff really. "He speaks about you. All the time. Always whining and complaining about something you've done. But it's different. He practically has hearts in his eyes while does it. And it's exhausting." And then she's backing away from you, leaving you to settle and drown in the disarray of your own thoughts and come to terms with that. Does he really speak about you like that? Surely, there's no way. 

 "So can the two of you, for all of our sake's, sort whatever mess you've got going on between you and just fuck already? " 

And then she's spinning away her heels, sending you a wink over her shoulder and the silver chains wrapping around her body in a delicate draped halter glint and twinkle underneath the lights; showcasing that elaborate weblike shape that they've been constructed in. And she just leaves you. Abandoning you in the middle of the temporary dancefloor while you fight with an upstream of odd emotions. You just standing there while you tussle with the urge to find Farleigh and apologize (apologize for what?) and tell him that it was just some weird joke from Venetia (why does that matter?). You don't know why you feel the need to go and try to repair whatever damage Venetia may have just done. What that said 'damage' may even be, you don't know. And you also don't know why you're suddenly heading off in the direction that Farleigh had disappeared in, scanning the crowd for him with some ugly sense of desperation that you don't want to unpack and analyze. Not even as you yield to it.  

You aren't even sure how long you search for; your gaze jumping over every face and person that you see in the hopes that you find him. But the room is packed to say the least, and the odds of you actually stumbling across him must be low. He might not even be in this specific room anymore. And if that's case then you might as well as give up now. The estate is sprawling; if he doesn't want to be found, then he won't be. And you think about giving up. Of turning in for the night and trying to talk to him in the morning when you inevitably see him at the breakfast table. 

But then you see him. Only this time there's no double take or reason to reconfirm that it is him, this time you spot him immediately.

He seemed to have shed his doublet at some point, leaving him in his pale undershirt. His mask is gone as well. And it takes your mind a second to realize that he's not alone. That he's pressed against some girl like he might kiss her. There's a smile on his face; inviting and flirtatious and the tips of their noses brush together as they lean in close. 

You're an unintended observer. You shouldn't be here watching them in a moment that clearly isn't meant for you but it's as though your feet are glued to the floor. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to look; you don't want to be here but some awful part of you is making you stay. Your muscles have gone still from something prickling and cold and disarming. You can feel it in your chest too. It's making your lungs seize and for one long, paralyzing moment it's almost like you can't breathe. But you don't have a right to be bothered by this. Farleigh's entitled to have one-night stands or flings or to go on dates with people if he wants to. There's no reason why he can't. And there's no reason why you should be feeling shame and betrayal and hurt right now. Absolutely no reason. You wonder if this is what he had felt just a few moments before while you were standing with Reuben and that odd little side of you hopes that he had. 

God, what if Venetia had been right? What if - 

Their lips brush together. 

They're going to kiss, some hideous part of your brain whispers and even worse your body tenses and coils like it's bracing for some sort of dreadfully anticipated impact. This is it. The moment the car crashes and erupts into burning flames. 

But then Farleigh goes still. Pausing as though someone had called his name or he's remembered something. The girl that he's pressed up against leans back with a confused furrow pinched between her eyebrows when he turns his head and his eyes land on you. 

Your mouth goes dry, and your tongue seems thick and useless, and you try to swallow around it. Now that you're here you don't even know what to do with yourself. You aren't even sure what you had gone after Farleigh for. You didn't have a plan to begin with; you didn't know what to say. You have to internally curse yourself for following after him and putting yourself in this situation. It's strange and awkward and it takes everything for you to even manage a smile. To try and look casual and pretend that maybe you had just stumbled across them and hadn't intentionally tracked him down. And you lift a hand up in a lax wave while your mind ceaselessly chants for you to leave. To just go. 

You can feel Farleigh's gaze searing into you, drilling holes into your head even as the girl that he's with leans towards him and you can't hear over the distance or the music, but she appears to be saying something if the way that her mouth is moving is any indication. 

You're quick to turn on your heels and all but nearly speed walk away from the both of them, eager to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You don't feel like you're apart from your body. It's like you're disconnected from it, uncomfortably aware of your limbs and movements as you rush away. And it's like your emotions are stuffing your body full and threatening to tear it at the seams. Emotions that you don't recognize; that you don't want to recognize. 

A warmth and pressure suddenly encircles around your wrist, much like a hand would and for a moment you think that you've imaged it. But then you're being pulled back gently by the strength of someone's grip, and it forces you to stop. You know who it is before you turn to look at them. You can smell the burn of tobacco from his cigarette habit on his clothes, and it blended with the delicate musk of his cologne. The woody notes of amber joining along with vanilla and bergamot and cardamom made your mouth water in some horrid Pavlovian response. It was humiliating. 

Then your eyes are meeting his; dark and glimmering underneath the flashing, sweeping lights dancing about the room. And for one agonizing moment neither of you say anything. It's like you're both simultaneously drifting away and stuck in place. The energy looming over the both of you is foreign and strange, and Farleigh can feel it too if the blank, unsure expression on his face gives away as much. 

And then he's releasing your wrist and you let your arm drop down at your side. He shifts on his feet and the weird tension in his shoulders drop as easily as if it were a piece of clothing and a smirk takes shape on his face. This is the Farleigh that you're more familiar with, with the condescending look in his eyes and a prideful tilt to his head. It puts you at ease. Dulling the nervous butterflies in your gut and allowing you to settle underneath his presence. 

"Well, if it isn't Felix's favorite little pet." It's meant to be an insult. Most would read it as such, but for you it brings nothing but relief. It feels like a consolation almost. That whatever these strange little interactions have been they haven't damaged your relationship with Farleigh (what relationship?) and made things odd. He glances around the room and all of the festivities, the swaying crowd and streamers and flowing alcohol. He wrinkles his nose in a way that comes off as falsely apologetic. "Or I guess I should say second favorite now." 

"Then it's a good thing that I didn't come here for him," you respond easily enough. Internally thankful that the last remaining remnants of tension in your throat hasn't prohibited your ability to speak. "I just know how thrilled you always are to see me, and so I couldn't possibly bring myself to skip out on the trip."  

"Thrilled," he echoes with a scoff. "Is that what you think? Because personally I feel like drowning myself in the pond right about now." 

"No one's stopping you, " you quip back easily, finally slipping back into your old dynamic. 

His forehead scrunches as he pins you with an incredulous look, tilting his head as he moves in closer towards you. "And leave you here all alone? What would you do without me?" 

"Thrive. Live. Experience peace." 

"Sounds boring." 

But you don't have time to respond. He's leaning back on his feet and stepping away from you while he digs one of his hands into the pocket of his costume's pants. And when he removes his hand, it comes out clutching a packet of cigarettes, which he's quick to ruffle around in. "Come on, I wanna smoke." 

You don't ask any questions as he moves, leading you out from the dancefloor and throughout the house. Every so often he glances back over his shoulder like he's reconfirming that you haven't wandered off and left. He guides you up a set of staircases, past the couple planted by the first step who are openly making out and grinding on each other and up into the twisting, changing hallways. 

"Where are we going?" You ask, nearly getting shoulder checked by a pair of girls who rush down the corridor in a fit of giggles. 

"I told you, " he replies and hardly looks back. " I want to smoke." 

You want to press him about. About how suddenly he's unable to smoke inside when you've seen him do at least a thousand times. Even at the breakfast table. He probably does it on the toilet too. It wouldn't be a surprise. You aren't sure how long the two of you walk for, higher up into the highest floors of the house until he's finally stopping and opening a door at the end of the hall. He pauses in the threshold, dipping his head in and looking in like he's checking to see if it's occupied. He could have just knocked. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for the people inside if it actually had been unavailable. But the coast must be clear because he's slipping inside and nodding his head for you to follow after. He shuts the door behind you, closing it with a click and gives you a passing smirk when you shoot him a curious glance. 

You follow him into the room, vacant apart from some paintings and a few pieces of furniture - an old office maybe, and he leads you across the floors towards a pair of large glass double doors.

He tugs on one of the handles, swinging it open, revealing what appears to be one of the balconies. He's outside before you. And by the time you slide up beside him he's already leaning against the chiseled stone railing on his elbows and the cigarette perched between his lips is lit and smoldering. 

The air outside is still warm, sweet and earthy with the scent of moister in the air, like some distant, unseeable storm is brewing. And you can see so much of the estate from this high up. The frolicking people down below in their costumes and those massive, glowing lotus lamps drifting in the pond. But even with all of the guests down on the courtyard engaging in various kinds of trouble; drinking and shouting and singing amongst themselves, up here their voices can harldy reach you. It sounds like a faint murmur on the soft summer wind. And for maybe the first time tonight you actually feel a sense of calm. 

"He's a selfish lover, " Farleigh says randomly, flicking the butt of his cigarette to sprinkle the dead ash onto the far grounds beneath. "And a notoriously fast one too. Eliana Merrick said he busted as soon as he put it in." 

He notices the lost look on your face and sighs, twisting around on his feet to lean his back against the railing instead. "Your little boytoy from earlier. Reuben Amory." He spits his name out with something that sounds suspiciously like contempt. Venomous and irritated and he lifts the cigarette up to take another drag. "His father's a friend of the family. To James specifically. That's how he always manages to weasel his way into our parties." 

"I guess I dodged a bullet then." You joke, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the elaborate pearl earrings dangling from your ear. 

"What? He didn't scratch your itch?" 

"No," you shake your head with a light shrug. "He was fine. It's just . . . I don't know, I wasn't interested." 

Farleigh snorts, making you glare at him, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing." But his tone is a little sarcastic, and unconvincing and the nasty smile on his lips reveals as much. "He just seemed to fit the bill of your type pretty well. Well-meaning, polite and a little pathetic." 

You nearly laugh but it comes out as more of a scoff. "That is not my type." 

"Oh, really?" He challenges, moving closer towards you and you can smell his cologne again. The vanilla sticks out the most this time. Delicate and sweet. "What about that guy you used to flirt with at IHop? " 

"He was a server. It's literally his job to be nice-" 

"And then there was your neighbor back at the apartment. The one across the hall with the abysmal amout of plants. And then who could possibly forget, what was his name? Adrian? Who you dated for all of four weeks." 

It has you falling silent, unable to counter his argument even though you have a remark waiting on the tip of your tongue. You've never realized that Farleigh had ever paid that much attention to you and your affairs. It has that syrupy, fuzzy feeling pooling in the center of your chest despite that fact that you're actively telling yourself that it doesn't actually mean anything. It's normal for people to notice things about people that they're forced into proximity with. 

"Wow, I never knew you were so interested in my love life, " you say, gripping onto the rough texture of the railing. Stroking your fingers over the soft groves and bumps. "Maybe you should get one of your own." 

"But yours is always so entertaining," he snuffs out the cigarette and carelessly drops the butt onto the ground near his feet. "You know, with the way that it always seems to crash and burn." 

It probably would have stung to hear if you weren't able to say that you were the one to end all of the relationships that you had been in. That you were always the one to take the first step in severing ties. Even with Adrian you had been the one to sit him down and explain that you just hadn't been able to see it progressing anywhere. The both of you were too different. Your goals and wants in life were polarizing and the only things that had brought you together were superficial at best. You just weren't built to last. 

"Please, like yours has ever been any better." But he doesn't look the least bit offended. Instead, there's a satisfied quality to his expression. Your lips purse and something akin to defeat weighs down your shoulders. "Besides, they were all too sweet anyway. A little too nice. They could never keep up. I'd always end up saying something to hurt their feelings on accident and they would think that I meant it and then I'd get the silent treatment." 

"Not like us, huh?" Farleigh responds a little softly. And he was right. There was always something about your dynamic with Farleigh that you had never been able to achieve in your relationships. The constant push and pull. The competition of your endless banter and insults. The way that you could be completely bare and unrestrained with your words without putting your standing with him at risk. There was . . . an intimacy in it that couldn't compare with anyone else. You had seen the worst of Farleigh. The sneers and jabs and heated sarcasm. And in turn he had gotten the brunt of your own ire and jokes, but it still didn't change a thing. Neither of you ran from it. Instead, you both seemed to revel in it. To seek it out even. It was a type of security that you had never found with any other friend or lover. 

And you don't know what it is, but some invisible element shifts and rises between the both of you. Something that's always been there. Simmering and quiet, building up underneath your every interaction like water boiling on a hot stove. 

"No. Not like us," you admit in a near whisper like if you spoke to loudly that it might disrupt whatever magnetic thrum has fallen over you both. So low that he might not have heard you. But then you see something flash in his eyes. Something hungry and eager and he's moving closer until you can feel his body heat pouring over your skin, seeping underneath the delicate fabric of your dress and into your bones. 

"I hated all of them," he says it like a confession. Hushed and passionate. And you suppose that it is one. Told in total confidence, with a certain fervor like a sinner tucked away in a confessional booth. "I hated them because they should have been me." 

It makes you gasp lowly. And your fingers squeeze around the banister like it might ground you and keep you from floating away. And suddenly Venetia's previous statements are echoing around in your skull; mocking and satisfied. You feel slightly stupid now. Blind. But never in a million years would you have guessed that Farleigh had actually ever been jealous of the men that you had dated. It seems like such a silly concept. Or else it would have in the past, but now here he is confirming the very thing that the two Catton sibling's have been vehemently trying to drill into your head for years. And you like it. God, you actually like it. Some nasty little side of you is completely satisfied and even elated that he's been seething over all of your old flings and exes. It feels good because you've been doing the same thing you suddenly realize. Every time that stinging burn had caught up in your chest at the sight of him curled up with some other person - it hadn't been irritation for Farleigh. It was jealousy. You had actually been jealous. 

"Can I tell you something?" You ask. 

He just hums, low and soft. You can't even glance away from him. Not even if you wanted to. Not with the way that he's looking at you. His stare is heavy and intense, and it feels like you're being held by the throat, forced to maintain eye contact with your breath steadily being stolen from your lungs. "I wished they were you, too." 

It's like something breaks free from you when you say it. It was heavy, oppressive and suffocating and in its absence, it's replaced by a sense of ease and a freedom that makes you want to laugh and maybe even cry. And maybe if you weren't preoccupied with the entirety of your attention zoned in on Farleigh you might would have.

Now he's stepping even closer than before, and now you can actually feel the press of his body against yours. The pressure of it has your lips parting, and you have to angle your head to maintain your shared gaze without breaking it. Then his hand is tucking underneath your chin; the pad of his thumb lifts to brush over you, tracing the shape of your bottom lip with something that feels close to reverence. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

Something inside of you breaks apart at the question, crumbling and washing away like sand underneath the crashing power of a wave. You nod before you even fully register it, and your body is buzzing with a honeyed heat. And you understand that if you do this then whatever relationship you have with Farleigh is going to fundamentally altered. It will be the point of no return and the consequences, positive or negative, will be unavoidable. Maybe tomorrow things will go sour. Maybe by then you'll be back to hating each other, even worse than before. But you want this. Consequences and all. 

"God, yes. Please." 

His lips are soft and warm, and they taste sugary and faintly floral with what might have been the flavors of some beverage that he had drank earlier. There's the bite of tobacco on his skin too, sharp and smoky. It's usually something that you had never enjoyed when kissing people in the past, but right now it hardly even registers. You're too busy getting lost in the feel of him. The warmth of his hands framing your face, the way that he shifts you on your feet and nudges you back against the railing of the balcony. Your hands are everywhere that they can reach, stroking down his chest and dipping down to grip his hips, pulling them flush against you like any amount of space left between you might kill you. 

He groans into your mouth at the gesture, nipping at you lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. It has heat, liquid and thick building between the cradle of your thighs. And you know that it's just kissing, but you can't help but internally berate yourself, because if the both of you hadn't been so horribly bullheaded you could have been doing this the entire time. 

And he pulls away from you all too soon, making an embarrassing whimper bubble up from your throat, but he's hushing you with a soft coo, snickering lightly under his breath when he ducks his head beneath your chin to suck at the skin there. Taking it between his teeth and lips and you can't help to soft, breathless pants that start to leave your chest in response. It's purely possessive and you're sure that he's trying to leave marks there, and you can't find it in yourself to tell him not to. It's like your muscles are melting, going boneless at the sensation of his tongue tasting your skin, licking up the salt from it. You can feel the shape of his smug smile against your throat, and it makes you want to slap him. But instead, you're reaching a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, keeping him close to you. 

You're wet already, soaking through your underwear. It's something that you would have been awfully conscious of in the past with another partner, but here and now you can hardly think around the red fog that's beginning to cloud your brain. And then he's shifting, sweeping a hand underneath the silk skirt of your dress to clasp around your thigh so that he could pull it to the side, allowing him to nudge his leg between the both of yours. 

"Farleigh," you gasp, and he cruelly grinds his thigh against the heat of you, steadily feeding the pressure thrumming there but not letting it build towards anything more. It's frustrating. Mean. And it has you clawing at his shoulders impatiently. 

"Yeah? What is it?" He asks, nipping at the sensitive skin on your ear, making sure to be mindful of your earring. You don't respond at first, unable to with the way that he's still steadily moving his thigh against you. It's simple, but with the way that you're already so pathetically worked up, it feels like agony. "Come on, you can tell me." 

And to make it worse, that hand that had been gripped around your leg is now moving further underneath your dress, slipping between the press of your bodies to settle above where you want him. His fingers play with the elastic band of your panties, teasing, implying more. But then he hooks it in the crook of his fingers and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. The sting is dull, but it has you gasping regardless. You mindlessly reach for his hand that's still underneath your skirt, taking it into your own. And you briefly fear that he'll pull it from your grip. But he allows you to guide him. He removes his head from your neck to look into your eyes, watching your expression when you finally slip his hand underneath your underwear, and you can feel the shocking chill of his signet ring trailing across your heated skin. He takes over from there and you can't help the way that you arch into him when his fingers finally move down to where you need him the most. His face pinches when he spreads you open, and he nearly groans at the feel of you. "Jesus, baby, you're fucking soaking already." 

Your eyes flutter from the drag of one of his knuckles brushing over your clit and it's like it's directly connected to every individual nerve in your body, making you squirm and moan raggedly. 

"Is this all for me?" He asks, dipping one of his fingers lower, teasingly circling the entrance of your cunt but he doesn't go any further. 

"Yes." Your lungs feel tight and your nipples brush against his chest with each breath that you take, doing little to help ease the tension and desire threatening to tear you apart. "Yes, it's 'cause of you. Please, Farleigh. C'mon." 

"What's the rush?" He taunts, angling his head to take your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. "The night's still young. " 

He rocks his thumb against your clit, smirking at you with pure arrogant satisfaction from the way that you shudder underneath his touch. You know that he's absolutely delighting in the way that you've been practically turned into mush by what is essentially some heavy petting. Especially after all of the years of trying one up each other, you're sure that this is doing wonders for his ego. Like it needs to get any bigger. That little prickle of irritation peeks out from underneath the saccharine haze shrouded over you, and you can't keep it down. "I fucking swear, Farleigh, " you nearly hiss, nudging your hips in the hopes that it'll drag the pressure of his fingers closer. "If you don't do something, I swear I'll-" 

"You'll what?" Comes his immediate reply, the low rasp of his voice sounds completely unbothered. 

"I'll leave, " you say firmly. Or as firmly as you possibly can with the way that the knuckle of his thumb has begun to rotate around your clit in tight, but soft sweeping brushes. But he doesn't appear to be worried in the slightest. He just grins at you. And shakes his head as he lowers it to nudge his nose against yours. 

"No, you won't." He says it so certainly. Like he's omnipresent and has already seen the decided future. Like your fate is already sealed. And he's right as much as it pisses you off to admit it. You won't leave. But you don't want to tell him that and give him the satisfaction. " 'Cause you need me don't you, baby? Need me to make you cum." 

You're nodding in agreement before you even realize it, throwing whatever semblance of control that you had right out of the window. 

"Yeah? Gonna let me taste you?" Just the words alone nearly makes you keen aloud like some desperate slut, and you just barely swallow the sound down. But he must see it in your eyes. The sheer want and desperation that you feel coursing through your body like a drug. The need possessing you might actually be debilitating and you're back to clawing at his shoulders and arms in an attempt to just do something. To pin your focus on something other than the heavy ache between your legs. And you can just distantly hear yourself chanting a string of 'yes' like a broken record. 

He tugs his hand from your underwear, and you can't help but mourn the loss, even when he's lowering himself down on his knees and planting kisses down across the expanse of your body as he goes. But then he's rucking the skirt of your dress up over your hips and tucking his fingers back into your underwear like he's getting ready to pull them down. Instead, he's just staring, and his eyebrows are pinched together almost like he's pained. 

"You really are soaked," he says with a sort of awe. A thrum of embarrassment rings through you when you realize that he's probably admiring the noticeable wet spot that has dampened the crotch of your underwear from your arousal. You try to close your legs, mostly out of reflex but the sharp, reprimanding smack on the outside of your thigh that you get in response makes you freeze in place. He glares up at you and you have to reach behind you to grip the railing to keep from collapsing from underneath the intensity smoldering in his gaze. 

"Keep them open," is his only warning before he all but rips your panties down your hips. Guiding one of your legs up with a hand for you to step out of them, but he leaves your lace underwear to hang from the high heel on your opposite foot; apparently too impatient to fully remove them. And he barely gives you time to think or breathe before he's taking ahold of you by your waist and swinging both of your thighs over his shoulders. 

The feel of his tongue laving over the heat of your pussy in a long, greedy swipe makes you scream, completely uncaring for all of the guests down below. And all some distant, buried part of you can do is hope that you're up too high for anyone to hear you. That no one happens to glance up and see you clutching onto the railing for dear life. There's no build up to it. He's completely unrestrained, apparently having the goal to make you cum as quickly as possible with the way that he's working his mouth on you. Swirling his tongue over the swollen, sensitive nerves of your clit and lapping at the dripping entrance of your cunt like a man possessed. 

You mouth drops open with heavy pants, and your hands scramble across the cool chiseled stone for something to ground you and keep you pinned to reality. You can see the glint of your arousal smearing across his lips and cheeks and the look in his eyes is a blend of determination and a dazed kind of contentment, and you can feel him groaning against your pussy, amplifying your pleasure. And if it wasn't for the way that you could barely stop whimpering and crying out, you'd nearly think that he was enjoying this more than you with his pleased hums thrumming throughout your body. 

He takes your clit into the cradle of his mouth and sucks, and you think that you actually sob but you feel miles away from your body and also helplessly, deliciously trapped inside of it. "Farleigh, " you keen, humping against his face in a debauched display of hedonism. One of your hands reaches down, gripping onto his hair when your eyes roll back from the hot suction of his mouth. 

"You taste so good, baby, " he huffs, lapping at the entrance of your cunt with firm, maddening strokes. "So fucking good." 

It's too much. You feel like you're on fire. Like he's pulling you apart with each swipe of his tongue and putting you back together again one agonizing piece at a time. It feels cruel but it's also utter bliss. Your thighs are shaking from how tightly they're seized, clamped around his head in a tight squeeze. But he doesn't seem to be bothered about it, because when you try to be mindful and spread them open, he just takes them into his hold and presses them back up against his ears again like he wants to be suffocated. And the thought of that alone has something sharp and electric zipping through you. You file that little theory away for later. 

And that familiar ache is rising up like a high, simmering tide. Building and rushing towards you with a quickness that takes you by surprise and you can feel your entire body winding up and coiling tight in anticipation. He drags you closer to his mouth, scooting you down lower against the railing. You're pretty sure that your back is going to be covered in scratches from the rough texture digging across your skin, but as of right now you couldn't give less of a shit. You let your head loll back on the stone, unable to find the concentration or strength to keep it up yourself. You stare up at the sky sightlessly, just barely taking in the winking glow of the scattered stars above while pure, liquid heaven seeps across your limbs. 

That overwhelming looming pleasure is right over you now, just a few good strokes off. And with the way that he's licking and sucking at you with his mouth it won't be long before you're breaking apart for him. 

"Farleigh," you whimper, choking around a wanton moan, trying to warn him. 

He doesn't give you any verbal indication that he hears you. But the grip on your thigh's tense in response, and he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before dipping it down inside of you; fucking you with it. You can't help the way you're grinding against him, crying out breathlessly when the point of his nose nudges against that swollen bundle of nerves, urging your orgasm to rush towards you at a breakneck speed that you can't brace for. 

"Farleigh!" You nearly shriek this time while that wild, rush of pleasure crashes down on you with the intensity of torrential downpour. It tears through your body in a way that's almost violent, making you twist under the heat of his mouth and the iron grip that he still has secured around your legs like you've been jabbed with an electrical current. You sob through the brunt of it, probably alarming the entirety of the Saltburn Estate of your current position. And even after the most of it has made its way across your body, he doesn't stop lapping at you, determined to make sure that he wrings every ounce of your pleasure out of you. It isn't until you're weakly nudging his head away from your sensitive cunt that he pulls his mouth away, but he occupies it by kissing at the inner stretch of your thighs. He massages your hips gently and the sensation works to help guide you back into your own body and return a sense of coherence to you. 

All you can do is just sit there and catch your breath, panting raggedly into the night air. You stare up at the stars with complete disbelief while your brain tries to catch up with the fact that Farleigh had just casually sucked your soul out of your body. Sure, you had heard stories of his sexual prowess from some of his past flings before. Heard all of the people gushing and praising his technique in the bedroom, and you had never not believed them per se, you had just never imagined that he was actually this good. 

"You doing alright up there?" He asks and his voice is ragged and a little raspy like he was the one screaming and not you. 

"Yeah," you confirm after a brief pause. "Just give me a minute and I'm gonna suck your dick." 

You can feel him chuckle against you, playful and more than a little cocky but he's more than earned the right to be. "Take your time." 

Thankfully, the strength has begun to come back to your body. And even though your limbs are still a little bit shaky you're more than determined and able to ignore it and push through. You raise your head up look at him, using your arms to shift and lift yourself up. He looks up at you expectedly, eyebrows raising with amusement while he aids you in removing your wobbling legs from his shoulders. 

He must notice something in your gaze; desperation, want, determination, because he just moves to lean back on his elbows with a relaxed smirk. 

"Right here?" He asks. You just nod wordlessly as you lower yourself down on your knees. You could go inside. You probably should. There wasn't a bed in the room that you had entered the balcony from, but there was a couch. Hell, even the floor in there would probably be more comfortable for the both of you than the harsh rock underneath you right now, but you don't want to wait. Not even with the room being so close. Your knees are going to absolutely hate you tomorrow but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care.  

He parts his legs for you to settle between them and you're fast to crawl over him while he lifts himself up to kiss you. Your lips connect with teeth and tongue, and you moan into each other's mouths when you reach down to cup the length of him from over his pants. He's hot and heavy, even with the layer of fabric covering him. You're still sensitive from your recent orgasm but when you feel the weight of him against your palm, your pussy flutters and tinge of heat settles in the base of your abdomen. 

"Baby please, just take it out, " he whines. His voice is petulant and quivering. On any other night you would have used it as an excuse to tease him, but as of right now, you don't have the heart (or patience) to. The urgency in his tone has you thumbing at the buttons closing his pants, but it doesn't help that they're so small and that its dark. You have to squint underneath the dim moonlight to find them and your fingers slip more than once. But luckily you manage to pop all of them through their opening in the fabric; even with the way that Farleigh impatiently grinds into the air, trying to use your hand and forearm as something to grind his cock against. 

It's so desperate and dirty but it's also so fucking hot. Seeing him all laid out and begging has a heavy anticipation fizzling underneath your skin, prompting you to grip at the edge of his pants. He's eagerly lifting his hips up, aiding you as you tug the fabric down, working it around the swell of his ass and his hips. And he audibly groans in relief when his cock springs free from the restraint of his clothes. It's so hard that it looks like must be uncomfortable, and there's a steady stream of precum pouring from the tip and trailing down along a thick, throbbing vein in a pearlescent sheen.  

Your mouth waters at the sight, and you have to swallow it in the fear that you might actually drool if you don't. He catches the way you're admiring him, and something smug bleeds into his dazed expression. A reversal from the way that he had outright begged for you earlier. You really want to wipe that look off of his face. 

Then you're giving into your basest desires and leaning forward to lick at the head of his cock with long, steady sweeps, scooping up the salt of him into your mouth. He's rewarding you as soon as you touch him, breathing out a strained, "fuck," while his fingers come up to grip your hair, already knocking a few of the fake flowers clipped along your updo free; honeysuckles and pink camellias. He doesn't force your head down, but he doesn't remove his hold either, gently urging you to keep going and you can't help but concede. Stretching your jaw open further to slip him inside your mouth before slowly pulling off of him with a firm suck, lapping at the slit of his cock when you do. 

He isn't the biggest you've taken, but he's still thick enough for you to feel a slight strain at the hinges of your jaw, but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. You nod your head down to take him in your throat, making sure to be mindful of your teeth as you go and luckily, you're aided by the lubrication of your saliva. You don't stop until you feel the faintest hint of your gag reflex and even then, you have to push off the thought to just keep going, to let yourself gag on him. You'll save that for some other time. As of right now, you want to be able to savor every little movement and twitch and whimper. 

You've just started and it's already so sloppy, wet with the way that your drool smears around your lips and chin, and Farleigh seems to be struggling to keep his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck your mouth. His thighs are tense underneath the palms of your hands, muscles flexing and twitching with frayed restraint and each jerky hitch of his hips is punctuated by airy sighs and moans. 

A glance up from your place between his legs has you appreciating the way that his back is already arching. He looks gorgeous like this, all splayed out with the thick of his eyelashes fluttering against the jut of his cheek bones. You've always had the sneaking suspicion that Farleigh would lean a bit on the submissive side in bed. Always overcompensating with his arrogant attitude and sarcasm, but you didn't think that he'd be this sensitive. You aren't sure if it's just because he might have already been so worked up from eating you out, or if he's naturally just responsive, but either way the way that he's acting is doing wonders for your ego. The power that you're getting from seeing him already so pleased and dazed is filling your head full of a syrupy sort of satisfaction. 

You pull off of his cock with a pop, delighting in the way that he whimpers in protest. You just hum in response, smirking at him while you nuzzle your nose down the line of his shaft and all of his complaints die out once you take one of his balls into the warm cradle of your tongue, reaching up to grip him in your hand while your mouth is occupied. 

He moans raggedly, a string of whispered, "so good, don't stop - please, don't stop." Like you'd ever do that now that you've got him underneath you. And not to sound dramatic, but the sky could split open with brimstone and hellfire and the apocalypse could reign down on Saltburn and you still wouldn't pull away from him. Not when he sounds so sweet. Not while he tastes so good. Salty and earthy across your pallet. And the way that he pants into the balmy night air, already breathless has the heat between the apex of your thighs back with a vengence; burning and wet, and you have to rub them together in an attempt to ease the tension there. 

You can't help the way that you moan around him, lightly sucking at the sensitive point between his balls and the base of his cock while you smear your thumb over his slit. You the use the fluid to aid in few more pumps from your hand before you're licking back up his shaft again, swallowing him back down while your hand switches places to fondle his sack and the cry that he lets out in response is heavenly. Urging you to bob you head down on him in a steady rhythm. You try to remember to breathe through your nose but in your fervor, you often find yourself neglecting to take in lungfulls of air and as a result an oxygen deprived haze has begun to fizzle over your head. But you can't bring yourself to be worried over it. It feels good. The fuzzy, drunken buzz stuffing your skull full while you work his cock is stupidly addictive. 

He must notice the glazed over look in your eyes because he's smiling at you from around the way that his lips have dropped open to release a bout of heavy pants. He drops the hand that had been clutching your hair to sweep his fingers across your face in a gesture that's way too sweet for a guy who's getting head. And it has something soft and sweet blossoming in your chest when he strokes your cheek with his thumb; it makes you feel delicate and adored even while your chin is smeared with spit and cum and your jaw is starting to ache. 

"You're already a little fucked out aren't you?" It's rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself moaning in response regardless. "You look so georgous like this." 

Liar. There's absolutely you look even remotely attractive right now. You can feel the prickle of tears threatening to slip past your water line and down your face, and you're sure that your lashes have begun to clamp together from the damp. Your lips are swollen and there's a sheen of sweat glittering on your forehead. You probably look like a wreck but it still has you melting, and you begin to lick and suck at him with even more passion than before. 

And it must have felt good for him because his head is rolling back on his shoulders and his elbows nearly collapse, leaving him to drop onto his back with a gutted groan. His eyes roll back, and his thighs seize. His white undershirt has ridden up around his ribs, showing off the stretch of his abdomen and you can see the way that his muscles flex and tense with the same pulse of his hips. He's close and it only has you doubling your efforts with even more vigor, desperate to taste him on your tongue, to feel the heat of him in your mouth and throat. The sound of his gasping has changed in pitch, rising into something that sounds close to a sob. 

But then you're being torn off of him without warning and you can't contain your mournful whimper when the weight of him leaves your mouth. Irritation and betrayal flares and you can't keep yourself from glaring at him even while he looks close to wrecked, rambling underneath his breath something that sounds like, "I'm sorry baby, I need to feel you, " as he hauls you onto his lap. 

And your scattered brain is still able to grab onto what he wants. You gather up your skirt to settle your knees on either side of his hips and you're quick to grab ahold of his cock to line it up with your entrance. Neither of you have the mental capacity to tease or draw the process out longer than it needs to be, and you're thankful that he had already ate you out earlier, giving you some semblance of prep. And without any fanfare you're sinking down onto his cock, and your pussy flutters around his girth, stretching until he's buried in at the hilt. 

The shared groans that you let out are ones of relief and pure bliss. Your body shudders at the fullness nestled within the apex of your thighs and Farleigh impatiently grinds his hips up into yours, rocking his pelvis into your clit with a petulant huff. "Come on baby, ride me, " he urges. "Fucking take it." 

You can't find it in yourself to deny him. Or yourself. And he lets you plant your hands onto his chest for support when you lift yourself up with your thighs to begin wildly bouncing on his cock, grinding and swiveling your hips with each downstroke. That thick, heated pleasure is already building up near the base of your spine, and you already know that you aren't going to last long. Not with how worked up you are. And you don't think that he's going to be able to hold off either. 

He's watching you with something akin to wonder in his eyes and his lips are snagged between his teeth like he might be trying to quiet himself. Like he's trying to selfishly hide those punched out little moans. And you don't know why he tried to be hushed now after he's been groaning and whimpering this entire time but that petulant expression on his face tells you all you need to know. He's doing it on purpose, the brat. It has you leaning over him to pepper soft kisses over his cheeks, nipping at his chin and jaw sweetly, before you squeeze your pussy around his cock like a vice and you place your hand around the base of his throat. You don't tighten your fingers around it, but let him feel the pressure of your grip, testing the waters to see if your earlier theory had been right. 

And his body goes taut underneath you while his hips thrust into you with a harsh twitch. A gutted moan follows closely behind, and he grips onto your thighs like he needs it to ground himself and keep himself present. 

"Feel good?" It's admittedly a little condescending but even then, you can't help the softness that bleeds through your tone. He nods his head drunkenly, tilting his head back to bare his throat to you. The way that he's melting underneath the ceaseless roll of your hips and mindlessly fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts is already driving you towards that tide of heat and ecstasy, and they way that you openly keen reveals as much. 

Your knees are already stinging from the harsh stone floor digging into them and your thighs are already burning with exertion from the ruthless pace that you had set. But you have no desire to stop yet. To switch positions or ask him to take over, not with how beautiful and fucked out he looks beneath you.  

You're both already messy and incoherent, chasing after your pleasure desperately. The noises coming from the place where your bodies are joined is filthy with the repetitive smack of skin on skin and the crude squelching of your cum echoing off of the rock walls around you. And maybe if your brain wasn't practically mush you might would have had the capacity to care, but you just can't find it within yourself while you watch every minute, rapturous expression flit across Farleigh's face. Not while his plush lips are parted for him to gasp, and his eyes have nearly gone cross. 

"Baby, " he whines brokenly. A warning for the way that he's quickly hurdling towards his release from the constant rock of your hips. Yours isn't far off either, simmering and curling within the pit of your abdomen and you can already tell that your orgasm is going to destroy you. It's so close. So, so, so close and you find yourself nodding shakily in response to him. 

"I know, I know, " your jaw goes lax at a partially hard thrust from his hips, muscles spasming around the drag of his cock. 

"Where - where can I- " 

"Inside," you answer, choking on your breath." I'm on the pill - it's safe, you can- " 

He cuts you off with a gutted, shredded groan of your name and his entire body seizes up from the power of his orgasm. The warmth of his release spreads throughout your lower stomach and another choppy, wild thrust from Farleigh grinds his pelvis into the tender nerves of your clit. It just sneaks up on you. Sweeping you up and dragging you down before you can even register that it's ravaging your body and making you scream. For a second you completely forget what it means to have a physical body. You don't have hands, or feet, or a mind. You don't have a favorite song and there aren't any bills to pay, or an apartment back home in America, and the chaotic party downstairs doesn't exist. The cold stone floor beneath your knees isn't there. You're just floating. Suspended in a state of bliss and pleasure. 

For a moment you just are. 

And then your lungs are gasping, filling up with oxygen. Clarity comes back to you in pulses and the feeling in your limbs follows behind. Sensation returns to your toes and fingertips and then your eyes are fluttering open. The first thing you hear is the rapid pulse of a heartbeat and when you breathe the scent of something like vanilla and cigarette smoke nestles within your lungs. It has you rubbing your cheek against the heat of their chest - Farleigh's chest, your brain supplies sluggishly. You don't remember collapsing on top of him but apparently you had. 

"God damn," he slurs, prompting an amused, tired laugh from you. For a moment the two of you just lay there, taking the time to return to yourselves and grasp your senses. And with it, reality rises up too. That you're laying here with Farleigh on an open balcony with his cum dripping from between your thighs. And apart from his confession earlier there's some small insecure part of you that's worried that he hadn't fully meant it. That this was just a simple fling. Something to ease the tension that's been brewing between the both of you for the past few years. But you don't get to wallow in your fears for long before he's tapping on your thigh and shuffling up onto his elbows. 

You just hum at him questioningly, not yet trusting your voice. 

"Need a cigarette," he answers. 

That has you moving, lifting yourself from his hips and you both hiss, sensitive and raw when he slips from you. Your knees are tender too, aching and you inelegantly plop yourself on your rump beside Farleigh to give them some relief. And you briefly occupy yourself with your underwear, slipping it back underneath your dress and smoothing out your skirt as best as you can. 

He works on slipping his pants and tights back over his hips, digging into his pocket as soon they've been righted for a cigarette and his lighter. You watch him with something nervous in your gut. And you tell yourself that you're being stupid and overdramatic. So, what if this was just a one-time thing? It was an amazing time. And if this turned out to be some random fling then that would just make it even more special, right? And he said that he was jealous of your past exes but that didn't necessarily mean that he had feelings for you. You had been the one to jump to conclusions and assume. 

And even if by tomorrow he pretends that this never happened then that would be fine. You'd make do. You'd survive. It won't be the end of the world. 

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" 

The question tears you from your thoughts. Saves you from them really and pulls your attention onto Farleigh. His eyes are glimmering from the burning embers at the end of his cigarette, laying some strange quality in his gaze bare. But whatever it is looks uncertain and hesitant. And it serves as reminder that this is new territory for him as well. That he's just as unsure as you are. It gives you a little boost of confidence that you aren't alone in your self-induced doubts. It makes you smile; soft and relaxed and you hope that it helps whatever thoughts he may have running around in his own head. 

"Sure," you say. "But I want to rewatch House of Wax. " 

His face scrunches up in response, but he's already rising up to his feet and holding a hand out for you to take, helping to pull you up on your wobbling feet. "That movie is shit." 

"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell with the way that you wouldn't stop talking the last time that we all watched it." You grip onto his forearms while you find your balance, lowly cursing your heels and unsteady ankles. The energy has shifted into place, as easily as breathing; thawing all of the worries and insecurities that had initially clattered around in your brain as though they hadn't been there at all. 

"That's because the characters were nothing but cliches and one note, " he scoffs and promptly drops his cigarette on the balcony, snuffing it out by grinding it with his shoe. 

"I also need a bath." 

A smile curls on his lips, a little teasing. " Want to share?" 

You stare at him, a little disbelieving. There's absolutely no way that you could do that again tonight. At least not so soon. You're exhausted, barley holding yourself up as it is and you're still clinging to one of Farleigh's arms for support. 

"Really? After that?" You question, eyebrows raising, but you can't keep yourself from trying to joke despite your surprise. "You're terrible." 

Farleigh chuckles, guiding you towards the double doors gently, "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, purely amused. "I wasn't suggesting another round, you're the one with your head in the gutter." 

You don't reply. Too caught up in the fuzzy way that it makes you feel; his request to share a bath with you. A small gesture maybe, but it also feels wonderfully domestic and intimate. It has you leaning into his side as you step into the adjacent room, breathing in the scent of his cologne, soaking up the body heat that radiates from his skin. Whatever new chapter between the both of you has opened has still left you two with a lot of unsaid questions and answers. You still don't know what you two are. If there's a label to apply to you both of it was just a one-night stand, but you don't have to get those answers right this second. For now, you can just bask in his company and come morning, once you've both had time to think and adjust you can sit him down and have a conversation. And maybe (hopefully) your relationship will finally become something more. 

But as for now, you don't mind spending the night in his room. Of cuddling up underneath the covers of his bed after a nice bath and watching a movie together, even though you know that the duration of it is going to be spent with him criticizing every line of bad dialogue and griping over plot holes, no matter how insignificant they may be. 

It sounds like the perfect night, honestly. 

But still there is still one burning question that's searing at your brain like a hot coal, and you can't keep yourself from voicing it. 

"Do you think anybody heard us?" 

And his answer is blunt and honest. 

"Oh, yeah, there's no way they didn't." 

[thewidowsledger]

Look Out For That Rage

© thewidowsledger 2024 - DO NOT REPUBLISH AND PLAGIARISE

Pairings: Avenger Natasha Romanoff x Agent Female Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Tags | Warnings: +18, pregnant reader, pregnancy rage, emotional wreck r, sleepy r, jealousy, puking, weird food cravings, weird pregnancy cravings in general not just with food👀 r being obsessed in watching Natasha eat🥴 watching you eat…is so exciting ‘cause nobody else does- S.J.

Author's Note: This part can be boring, just highlights the weird pregnancy cravings that were actually referenced by my cousin's weird cravings and needs when she was pregnant. And I also watched and researched some pregnancy experiences on TikTok so if you find them weird, just scroll away. If I would have a weird food craving it will definitely be vanilla ice-cream and I will dip nuggies and fries to it, what's yours? xD

MINI SERIES: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

⧗

“Aunt Y/N wants Uncle Thor in her bedroom.” Morgan mumbled innocently and everyone's attention honed in on her.

Natasha immediately tensed, her eyes widening with disbelief and possessiveness.

“Why on earth does she want Uncle Thor in our bedroom?”

⧗

You abruptly woke up, feeling a wave of nausea wash over you. Your stomach churned uncomfortably, and the overwhelming sensation of being sick forced you to scramble out of bed and rush to the bathroom. You barely made it to the toilet in time, hunching over and vomiting repeatedly.

The absence of Natasha only heightened your emotions, and tears welled up in your eyes. You clutched the edge of the toilet, the solitude only adding to your already distressed state.

You looked back in the bedroom in desperation, searching for any sign of your girlfriend, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Natty?” you called out for her, weak and nauseous, your voice growing more desperate with each hoarse call. “Nat?”

“Lybov?” Wanda called on the door. She heard you call for Natasha with a hoarse voice, panic instantly shot through her and she flung open the door to the bathroom, only to find you hunched over the toilet retching and weeping.

Kneeling beside you, she gathered your hair away from your face and held it in a ponytail, gently rubbing soothing circles to soothe your upset stomach.

After what felt like an eternity, the last wave of nausea finally subsided, and you collapsed against Wanda, your body weak and shaky. She held you close, her arms wrapping around you protectively as she murmured soothing words into your ear.

“It's alright, I’m here.”

Wanda gently took a tissue from the nearby countertop and carefully wiped your mouth, gently removing any remaining vomit. The overwhelming smell of your own vomit caused your stomach to churn once more. She looked down at you as you looked up at her. For a brief moment, you suddenly broke down, a sob escaping your lips, raw and uncontrollable. Your tears spilled from your eyes, and you huddled against your best friend, your body shaking with the force of your crying. Your sobbing grew more intense, Wanda's panic rose, her heart aching at the sight of your distress. She held you tighter, her arms wrapping around you protectively as she tried to soothe your anguish.

“Shh, shh, it's alright,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “I've got you, lyubov. I've got you.”

Wanda eased you back onto the bed, her gentle touch guiding you carefully. Just as you leaned against the pillows, the door creaked open, and Natasha appeared, a tray in her hands. She carried a plate of freshly cooked pancakes, topped with a generous dollop of strawberry jam, the aroma of sweetness filling the room. It was your favorite that she always made but right now you fought hard not to want to eat it.

“I want to sleep.”

Natasha, despite the tension in the air, gently insisted, “Detka, you need to eat.”

Wanda remained standing awkwardly in the room, caught in the middle of the tense exchange between you and Natasha. Her eyes darted between the two of you, unsure of what to do or say to ease the mounting tension. But one thing for sure is that she likes how you’re being stubborn and hard with your girlfriend, as you should, she said in her mind.

Natasha picked up the plate of pancakes, but you only huffed in response trying to fight the sweet aroma wafting through the air as she held it out towards you.

“No!” you tucked yourself back in the bed covering your whole body so you wouldn't get the smell of the freshly cooked pancakes.

“Give it to me.” Natasha's grip on the plate of pancakes tightened at Wanda's words. She despised the idea of you listening to Wanda instead of her, she’s your girlfriend for god’s sake. But knowing that this is the only way to ensure you'll eat, she reluctantly handed over the plate to Wanda, her expression betraying her frustration and jealousy.

“I think Y/N would appreciate it if you go out that door right now,” she tried to soften the blow with a gentle smile, but Natasha knew that the witch was really trying to get into her. It took all her self-control to suppress her initial reaction of anger. Instead, she simply nodded tight lipped, biting back any biting retorts that threatened to spill from her lips.

Natasha looked at the comforter you're hiding from, “Detka, please eat. I’ll be right back.” You only huffed, rolling your eyes beneath the thick blanket.

As soon as your girlfriend was out of the door. Wanda sat on your bed, she made sure that she's not sitting on your leg. “Lyubov, I know you're hungry.”

“No, I’m sleepy. I don't want to eat.” You groggily respond, trying your best to keep yourself awake.

“I know you're sleepy, I know you're tired, but that's all the more reason to eat something. You need to keep your strength up, especially now that you're pregnant. Think of the baby. The baby needs you to eat and be healthy.”

“Lyubov?” Wanda called again, as she waited for a response. But when she heard nothing, she carefully peeked over the blankets. There she saw you, fast asleep, your face relaxed and peaceful in slumber. She let out a sigh and carefully, she tucked the comforter around you, making sure to leave your head free from its cozy confines.

Wanda gently set the plate back down on the tray beside your bed and covered it. She looked at you for a moment, her heart filled with affection as she watched you sleep. Without a sound, she then quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

“Did she eat?” Natasha inquired as soon as she saw Wanda, she was actually waiting for her but Wanda remained silent, her expression betraying nothing. Natasha took that as a sign and a smug look at her face, confirming her suspicion that you also didn't listen even to your best friend. Wanda saw the look on Natasha's face and immediately felt the need to defend herself.

“She fell asleep immediately,” Wanda finally spoke up, annoyed by Natasha's reaction.

A heavy silence fell over the two of them after Wanda's words. Natasha fidgeted nervously, her eyes darting around the room while Wanda was preparing herself some orange juice. The weight of the silence became unbearable and finally, Natasha broke it.

“Wanda, I know I messed up with Y/N and I know you're upset about it. I want to fix things and make it up to her, but I can't do that if you're constantly standing in my way.”

Natasha continued, her voice growing more earnest and frustrated. “Please, Wanda. I apologize for hurting your friend, let me fix my mistake. I care about your best friend deeply, and I don't want to lose her love because I was a stupid. I know I screwed up, but I promise I'll do better. Just give me a chance.”

Wanda's gaze softened just a bit as she saw the sincerity in Natasha's eyes, but she still wasn't fully convinced. As your friend or best friend, she needed to look out for you and make sure you weren't hurt again.

“Do you remember what I said to you through comms?” the witch asked.

“I do,” Natasha replied, “you'd kill me if anything happened to Y/N and the baby.”

Wanda hummed, “Good, you remember. I want you to keep that in mind,” she firmly reiterated before exiting the kitchen leaving your girlfriend alone.

⧗

After an hour of peaceful sleep, you finally stirred, slowly opening your eyes. This time, there was no lingering dizziness or nausea, but a nagging hunger pang made itself known in your stomach. You sat up in bed, groggily rubbing your eyes, your thoughts immediately turning to the need to satisfy your appetite.

You remembered the pancakes your girlfriend made for you. There, you noticed the tray that Natasha had brought earlier, adorned with the pancakes still waiting for you.

Hungry and eager, you picked up the plate of pancakes and began devouring the.. The taste of sweetness and warmth filled your mouth with each bite, each mouthful satisfying the ache in your stomach. You could feel the texture of the pancakes, the sticky sweetness of the fresh strawberry with the syrup mingling with the fluffy softness as you hurriedly finished each bite. Within a matter of minutes, you had nearly cleaned the whole plate, no crumbs and syrup marks remaining.

Natasha slowly eased open the door, peeking her head into the room. You glanced up at her briefly, your expression flat as you remained in bed. Your bad mood was evident, and you made no attempt to acknowledge her presence. She entered the room quietly, sensing your mood but still approaching you anyway.

Natasha tried to engage you in conversation, her voice gentle and careful.

“Hey, detka. Did you have a good sleep?”

You don't know why you are being like this, but you cannot actually stand the presence of your girlfriend. Is it because of the other night? Maybe. Is it because earlier that she was nowhere to be found when she literally said that she'll be here for you? Maybe.

Your cold attitude was evident as you placed the plate back on the tray with a loud thud, the sound so forceful and sharp that one might worry it had been broken.

Natasha flinched at the noise, her eyes widening slightly as she watched you set the plate down. Your irritation was palpable, and even the harsh sound you made didn't seem to bring you any satisfaction.

“You finished the pancake, I see,” she winced. You met her gaze with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms, your expression unamused and aloof.

“Can you not talk?” you demanded.

Natasha tried to soothe you, but she was quickly cut off by your next outburst.

“Det—”

“Can you not breathe?” you continued, your voice getting louder to Natasha's liking. Your girlfriend was taken aback by your demand but held her breath instinctively.

“Can you just…just leave?!” you finally shouted as you flail your hands, your demand and mood only worsening.

And with that your girlfriend hurriedly made her way out of the room. Natasha gasped for air, her breaths coming out shaky and fast. The redhead was terrified to do anything that might only fan the flames of your mood.

“Hey Auntie Nat.”

“Fuck!” Natasha hissed in surprise as she heard a small voice call her name. She looked down to see Morgan standing in front of her, startled by the unexpected presence of the child. Her heart was still racing from your mood swings and the sight of Morgan only made her gasp for air once more.

Natasha took a deep breath to calm herself, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she looked down at her goddaughter. “Hey, kid whatchu here for?”

Morgan's small voice piped up, “I wan’ see Aunt Y/N.”

Natasha quickly shifted gears, determined not to let the kid witness your moodiness. So the redhead found herself awkwardly explaining to Morgan that you are not in a good mood right now, trying to skirt around the truth in a way that the kid would understand. But Morgan, being a curious and innocent kid, kept firing off questions.

“Aunt Y/N is resting now.” Natasha started.

“Is she sick?” the kid asked, her voice full of innocent confusion. “I really wan’ see her.” she pouts.

“No, no, she's not sick,” Natasha replied immediately, “Well, she was.”

“She was sick?” Morgan repeated Natasha's words, still puzzled and now worried for you.

Natasha bit her lip, mentally sighing at the kid's persistence. She’s trying to remain patient despite the barrage of questions.

“Okay…” Natasha sighed kneeling in front of the kid, “You see, your Aunt Y/N is sick, but she's getting better,” Natasha said, she pushed some hair on the kid’s face using her slender fingers, “but she's very sensitive right now, and seeing people might stress her out. So it's best if we don't disturb her…for now.”

Natasha paused, Morgan always wanted to go to the compound’s gym but her father didn't want her to see the team training and sparring there. The redhead was quick to ask the little Morgan, “What about we go to the gym?”

The kid thought about it for a brief moment, her enthusiasm momentarily diminished as she thought of you. She had brought lots of hair ties, ribbons and hair brushes to play with you, and she’s really excited to see you. So when the kid hesitantly nodded Natasha smiled at her, and she reached out to pinch her cheek affectionately before she took Morgan's hand in hers, her small fingers intertwining the redhead’s.

As the two were making their way to the gym, they happened to bump into Maria.

“Nat!” Maria called. “How are you? How's Y/N and the little bean?”

“We’re all okay, how's your shoulder?” Natasha asked her partner, inquiring about her injury that she had during the last mission.

The two fell into a deep conversation, neither of them noticed Morgan carefully slipping away from Natasha’s grasp. She quietly tiptoed down the hallway, her small feet barely making a sound as she moved towards your room.

You were lying on your bed, your mind in a storm of mixed emotions, when you heard the distinct sound of the door handle turning. At first, you only saw the door opening with no one at the entrance. But then, your gaze shifted downward and your eyes landed on the small figure of Morgan, standing at the doorway.

Immediately, a warm smile spread across your face as you saw Morgan standing at the door. You sat up in bed, your expression softening.

“Hi little girl,” you said in a gentle voice as if you didn't sound like a dragon shouting at your girlfriend earlier. You patted the spot on the bed next to you. “What are you doing here?”

Morgan, who's very excited to see you eagerly trotted into the room, her small feet pattering against the floor. She climbed up onto the bed and sat next to you. The kid looked up at you, her small frame barely taking up any space on the bed. “I wanted to see you,” she said, her voice filled with eagerness.

Morgan's simple but heartfelt confession touched your heart, melting away some of the storm emotions you're feeling a while ago. You smiled at her, your eyes softening as you looked down at the sweet little kid sitting beside you.

“Aww, that's really sweet of you. I'm glad you came to see me. Whatchu got there, Morgan?” You reached out and ruffled her hair affectionately.

Morgan's eyes lit up as she showed you the set of cute ties, a variety of ribbons, glittered hairpins and mini scrunchies and hair brushes she had brought with her.

“I brought it so we can play salon,” she said, her tone filled with innocent eagerness.

“Want me to tie your hair?” You asked and the kid’s small head nodded enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

With a gentle smile, you patted your lap, she quickly moved to settle onto your lap comfortably. You began to sift through the hair ties and brushes that she had laid out before you, asking her which one to use first and the ones she likes.

You started to tie Morgan's hair, she couldn't help but giggle with excitement. Every now and then, she would let out a small gasp or a squeal as you pulled a lock of hair into place. She occasionally turned her head to look up at you with a big smile on her face, expressing her joy at the play time you were having together.

After completing the hairstyle, you reached over to your bedside table and pulled out a small compact mirror. You handed the mirror to the little girl sitting on your lap, a smile on your lips.

“Look at that!” You beamed, “You look so beautiful, little miss Potts!”

Morgan took the mirror and looked at her reflection, her eyes widening with delight. She admired the hairstyle you had just done for her, her hand touching the butterfly clips curiously.

“Thanks aunt Y/N!”

“You're welcome,” you squeak, poking Morgan’s cheek that made her giggle, “Can you call uncle Thor for me? Love?”

The kid eagerly nodded and immediately sprinted towards the door.

“Careful love!” You yelled out to her.

⧗

“So? What's up with Y/N?”

“She doesn't want me to breathe,” Natasha sighed plopping herself to the sofa and that made the team burst into laughter.

Natasha's face scrunched up slightly as she spoke, “I didn't know that being angry when your partner is breathing was included in the package deal of pregnancy.”

Clint held his hands up, trying to contain his laughter, “Ah, pregnancy rage. It's a thing alright.”

“Laura, you know,” he started, laughing between his words, “One minute, she would be laughing uncontrollably at my joke, and the next, she would be yelling at me for forgetting to put the toilet seat down. I swear, I slept on the couch more during those nine months than I ever did!”

Thor clapped a hand on Natasha's shoulder, his voice filled with booming Asguardian laugh. “That’s not pregnancy rage, it's the joys of pregnancy!”

Maria smiled warmly at her partner, “Just be patient with her,” she suggested gently.

“I won't get tired, I don't have the reason to,” she asserted. A slight smile tugged at her lips as she continued, “In fact, I find it cute and scary. I can handle it.”

“Oh wait until she makes you sleep on the floor or couch, I’m here when you have back pains already.”

As the conversation continued, the group's attention was abruptly interrupted and it was none other than Morgan, who came charging into the room with a big smile on her face.

“Uncle Thor, Uncle Thor!”

Thor chuckled as Morgan practically threw herself at him, his strong arms effortlessly catching the little girl.

“Morgan, you ditched Auntie Nat, where did you go?” she asked, pouting at the girl. Then, noticing the girl's hair, she added, “And your hair looks so beautiful!”

“Auntie Y/N did my hair!” the little girl announced proudly, her face lit up with a bright smile.

Clint suddenly spoke up, a puzzled look on his face. “Wait, Nat,” he began. “I thought Y/N is in a bad mood and doesn't wanna see people. How come she did Morgan's hair?”

“Oh no, I think Y/N only doesn't wanna see Nat…” she whispered, her teeth grazing her lower lip as she looked at her partner.

“Aunt Y/N want Uncle Thor in her bedroom.” Morgan mumbled innocently and everyone's attention honed in on her.

Natasha immediately tensed, her eyes widening with disbelief and possessiveness.

“Why on earth does she want Uncle Thor in our bedroom?” She leaned forward, her voice sharp as she repeated the question, emphasizing the word “our.”

The little girl shrugged innocently. She then promptly hopped off Thor's lap, her small hand gripping his fingers with surprising strength. Her voice carried a tone of innocent excitement as she tugged gently on his hand.

“C'mon, Uncle Thor,” she urged, her small figure already setting off in the direction of your shared bedroom.

Thor's eyes shifted nervously to Natasha, seeking her approval before proceeding. After all, she was your girlfriend, and he wasn't sure why you had specifically requested his presence in your room, and your girlfriend has no idea too which is making her crazy.

Natasha released an exasperated sigh, she crossed her arms before Clint spoke up, breaking the palpable tension in the room with his words.

“Guys, you really think Y/N would do something immoral?” Clint asked in disbelief. After a brief pause he told Thor to go.

Thor nodded slowly, his expression contemplative as his eyes darted towards Natasha who was looking at the ceiling, her frustration evident in the way she chewed on her lower lip and crossing her arms together tightly. Before anyone could say anything else, Morgan impatiently tugged on Thor's hand, her young energy fueling her impatience.

As the little girl pushed open the door to your room, Thor followed closely behind her. The door closed quietly behind them as Morgan led Thor further inside, her small hand still wrapped around his calloused fingers.

“What's up, Asguardian?” you greeted, your arms crossed, cocking your brows at him playfully.

“I’m good and delighted to be here, how about you? How are you feeling Y/N?” Thor replied with his usual charm.

His voice seemed to have a profound effect on you, causing your cheeks to flush lightly, and you responded softly, “I'm doing good, Thor. Well, thank you for accepting my invite.”

Morgan quickly ran towards your bed and in a moment, she plopped down in your lap, a giggle escaping her. The little girl snuggled against you, her small frame feeling warm and soft against your own.

You gestured gently and patted the edge of the bed, silently inviting Thor to take a seat.

“Y/N…” he called out your name very carefully, “I don't think Natasha will like—” but you cut him off mid-sentence. Without giving him a chance to finish, you retorted, “She's not here, is she?”

The Asguardian froze in place, he knew better than to deny you. He has heard your girlfriend rant about your mood swings and he has no intention of provoking or triggering your pregnancy rage which he calls joys of pregnancy and he’s now taking it back.

“I think you can sit on the floor while I sit at the edge of the bed,” you smiled innocently pointing at the floor between your legs.

Thor slowly settled himself between your legs, the metal components of his armor clinking against each other. His broad back was facing you and his heart was beating fast calling all the gods he knew, to his surprise you began to run your fingers through his hair, gently fixing the locks and neatening his usually unruly mane. Then, you requested Morgan to hand you the biggest brush with glitter and ribbon resins on it.

And that to set Thor at ease. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that you were just simply intending to do his hair.

As you continued to brush through Thor's hair, you found yourself admiring its beauty and thickness. The golden locks felt soft and smooth under your touch, and you couldn't help but marvel at the healthy and radiant appearance of his hair.

“I hope my baby will have your hair.” You whispered and Thor just nervously chuckled. “Can you ask the goddesses you know if they can make my baby's hair like this?” you peeked at his side.

Thor took a deep breath, choosing his words with extreme caution, “I know some of the goddesses of my realm,” he repeated, his voice laced with nervousness. He knew he was treading on thin ice, both literally and figuratively, as he tried to find the right words to explain.

“But I cannot guarantee that they can grant such a boon,” he continued, his voice softer. “You understand, right? These things are…not completely within my control.”

“Blah, blah, blah…”

Thor's heart thumped loudly in his chest, he cannot believe that a human is making him feel dangerously scared and nervous!

“You could have said no, Thor,” You handed him a mirror, “Okay your hair is all done and pretty.” Thor held the mirror, taking a moment to regard his freshly braided locks with a lot of pink ribbons and sparkly pins in there, he then saw you at the mirror behind him with a small grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“The payment is my baby having your hair, if that really is not possible I guess I’ll just have to settle with another redhead,” you said as the Asguardian stood. Right now you only have two choices, making Thor ask for a goddess that can grant your wish or just accept the fact that your baby will have the same hair as your girlfriend, your hair is not even on the choices.

As Thor stepped towards the door, a thought crossed your mind and you called out to him, “Oh, and Thor,” to which he turned back to face you. You added cheerfully, “Tell Jane I said hi!”

Thor nodded with a smile on his face and waved at you before disappearing in your room. You now turned your focus on Morgan behind you who’s too focused on placing the hair ties on the bed, “So, who's our next client?”

Natasha has been staring at Thor, Yelena and Wanda who’s in a kitchen laughing and admiring each other’s hair. You also called Yelena and Wanda for you to have their hair done with glittery ribbons and hairpins.

“I want my hair done like that too!” Natasha whined as she was unable to contain her jealousy, she actually doesn't know if she wants her hair done like that or she was more interested in getting your attention than the actual hairstyle itself.

Clint couldn't help but chuckle as he looked at Natasha's pouty expression. He reached over and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, a knowing smirk on his face.

“Maybe you can ask Morgan if they accept walk-ins.”

⧗

It had been three weeks since the initial pregnancy was revealed, and now you found yourself in the fifteenth week of your pregnancy. Over time, your baby bump has grown more prominent, a visible evidence of the life growing inside you. The symptoms such as morning sickness and cravings had lessened slightly, but a new set of discomforts had taken their place. Your body felt heavier, your feet were swollen, and there were times when you felt exhausted and sluggish.

As for Natasha, Clint had been true to his warnings, and you had banished Natasha to the couch. Your irritation and mood swings were becoming more and more intense as your pregnancy progressed, and you found it increasingly difficult to tolerate even the smallest actions from your girlfriend. Although Natasha was being nothing but loving and supportive, your pregnancy hormones had rendered you quite irritable, causing you to snap at her often…and grew distant to her.

There are also specifically weird things that grew into you like you being not able to go a day without touching Thor’s silky golden locks, which made your girlfriend extremely jealous whenever you ask for Thor and whenever she had to watch you get to play with his hair.

And the food cravings had taken a strange and unexpected turn. There was this one time, you had a hankering for a mango, but it couldn't just be any mango; it had to be from India and you want Natasha to get it, not anyone. Tony, always eager to appease you, even if it meant borrowing one of his jets he arranged for Natasha to go to India to get you those specific mangos you wanted. And the moment Natasha returned, you just placed the mangos in the refrigerator and simply stared at them. Every time you opened the fridge, you made sure the mangos were there, almost as if they were a security blanket.

Sam, who just came back from a mission, was unaware of your mango situation and he accidentally ate one. When you checked the fridge and noticed that one mango was missing, you lost your temper and stormed through the compound, determined to find the culprit who had dared to touch your sacred mangos. Thanks to Natasha for saving Sam from your raging wrath, she immediately replaced it and told you that it just fell god knows where in the fridge but you immediately bought it though.

Today, your pregnancy cravings had struck again, like always and this time, you found yourself craving Wanda's famous paprikash. The thought of the rich, spicy dish made your stomach growl. Wanda, upon hearing of your desire, was absolutely delighted. She was thrilled to cook her speciality for you.

Your eyes lit up as Wanda approached, she carried a steaming plate of paprikash, the rich red sauce clinging to the edges and the golden, tender vegetables visible within. You could almost taste the dish already, your mouth watering in anticipation. Wanda reached the table, placing the plate in front of you with a radiant smile on her face.

You smiled up at your bestfriend, thanking her for the meal before taking a spoonful of the dish. The spicy, fragrant flavors exploded on your taste buds, the warmth of the food coating your tongue. After a moment of pure satisfaction, you placed the spoon back down, once again just staring at the food. Wanda, who had resumed her cleaning at the kitchen counter noticed you not touching your food, furrowing her brow in confusion at your lack of enthusiasm for the food. She knew how much you had been craving it, so why weren't you eating more?

“Lyubov? Is there something wrong?” Wanda asked, worried that you didn't like her cooking. But she always cooks her paprikash the same way so nothing could go wrong.

You quickly reassured her, the words tumbling out of your mouth. “No, Wanda, it's perfect, but I think it's not that spicy for me.”

Wanda chuckled at your comment. “Y/N, I actually reduced the spice because I know you're quite sensitive to spicy foods,” she explained.

“Well it's not that spicy to me.” You said flatly which made Wanda freeze in place, your attitude shifting from being ecstatic about the food and being cold about it.

Your actions seemed almost frenzied as you suddenly stood up, rummaging through the cabinets to find a hot sauce. With a splash, you poured almost half an amount of hot sauce onto the plate of paprikash, the vibrant red sauce mixing with the redder colors of the dish.

Wanda watched all of this in stunned silence, her mind racing to make sense of your behavior. Weird pregnancy cravings, she thought to herself.

You took a spoonful of the food again, now satisfied at the level of spiciness of the food.

“I’m full,” You announced as you pushed the plate away.

“Y/N, you've only had two spoons.” Wanda scolded, placing her hands at her waist. She glanced at the barely touched food on the plate, confusion etched on her face. How could you possibly be full after eating such a small amount, especially when you had just drenched it with hot sauce? It seemed like your pregnancy cravings were reaching new heights.

Food cravings, check. Weird food cravings, check.

“Where’s Natnat?” you asked as you tap the table impatiently, when you were about to stand you saw your girlfriend entering the kitchen.

“Hey, I was looking for you. I’m gonna go to the grocery do you want some—”

“Eat,” you cut her off not minding a word coming out of her mouth.

Natasha didn't hesitate and approached you immediately. She enveloped you in a tight hug, planting a tender kiss on the side of your forehead like she always does whenever she sees you. You clung to her for a brief moment before abruptly pulling away, creating a physical and emotional distance. It's no new to Natasha actually, since the incident you grew distant to her but she couldn't pinpoint if it was due to the hormones associated with your pregnancy or if you haven't forgiven her yet.

You haven't been affectionate to her and you haven't been actually intimate to each other and it's been so hard for Natasha…literally.

Natasha took a seat across from you at the table, you pushed the bowl of paprikash to her, “Here, eat.”

“Oh, okay.”

When Natasha took a bite she immediately felt the burning sensation on her tongue. Her eyes water as she tries to suppress the urge to cough. She didn't want to let on that the food was too spicy, not wanting to dampen your efforts in making her eat.

Wanda, however, simply tightened her lips, saying nothing as she watched Natasha try to maintain her composure.

You watched Natasha struggling with the food, completely oblivious to the fact that it was too spicy for her. You asked, “Good?”

Natasha, just responded with a tight smile, her eyes watering from the spiciness. “Y-yeah, it is,” she forced herself to say, hoping to avoid further questions. She looked back to Wanda who just gave her an awkward smile.

“Wanda cooked it. But I contributed by adding some generous amount of hot sauce.” You said plainly as you watch her like a hawk watching its prey eat.

“Thanks, Wanda,” your girlfriend managed to say between coughs, “Generous amount of hot sauce, huh,” she added, as she wiped her forehead that began to gleam with sweat as she took another bite.

Yelena entered the kitchen and saw Wanda watching you and your girlfriend, “So what are we watching?” the blonde asked.

“Let's just say that Y/N craved my paprikash, had two bites and she made her girlfriend eat it and now she's having some fun watching her girlfriend finish the food.”

“Did you notice that she has been watching Natasha eat for like a week now?” Yelena whispered to the redhead.

“Yeah, we bring in her favorite foods or Natasha gets them herself, only for her to end up consuming almost all of it while Y/N watches her, because if she won't, it's the end for your sister.”

The blonde's voice dropped to a murmur, when an intriguing theory just came up in her mind, “Is it like a... kink thing or something? Y'know watching your partner eat brings you pleasure...” she then stopped when she saw Wanda staring at her in disbelief.

“Seriously, Yelena?” she snapped as she crossed her arms, “I doubt it's that. Y/N is pregnant, hormones and cravings do weird things.”

Yelena, never one to back down, pointed another idea she had in mind, “And horny things.” Wanda could only let out an exasperated sigh.

“Why in the hell Natasha is all red?” Yelena whispered as she looked at her sister who looked like a tomato, she then let out a gasp as she spotted a familiar hot sauce bottle at the table.

“Is that my hot sauce?!”

Next

[kylestfs]

Room 214

Albert Summers had been driving for hours, he was absolutely exhausted and needed to stop somewhere. At 45, he didn’t have the ability to drive as much as he did before. He found a nice Motel on the side of the highway. It wasn't much, but it would do for the night.

As he went to check in, the receptionist said

"Room 214, sleep well” as she handed him the keys.

Walking upstairs, Albert dragged his suitcase to the hallway, which was dimly lit as he found his room and unlocked the door. He found a standard hotel room, with a bed, a small desk, a chair and…a pile of dirty looking clothes in the corner, obviously left by the previous occupant of room 214.

His first thought was to return them to the lobby, but as he grabbed them to do so, he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust…the pile contained socks, a weird looking underwear which he’d later find to be a jockstrap, tight gym shorts and a stained shirt which were all unwashed and absolutely filthy. They smelled so bad they stunk up the entire room and left a weird aura.

Albert decided to call a hotel receptionist to get rid of the clothes, and almost immediately heard knocking on the door. Opening it, he found a huge 6’2 young man with bulging muscles, wearing similar clothes to the ones left in the room. The man also smelled the same as the clothes, but Albert wasn’t sure if it was coming from the room or the jock. Before he could say anything, the jock engaged.

“Yo man, I’m Andrew, lemme check on these for you.”

He said, with a confident and lowkey dumb tone. The jock. entered the room and looked at the clothes, confused.

“Bro, these are yours!” Andrew said, leaving Albert confused.

“No they’re not! They were here when I came in, and you can tell I obviously wouldn’t even fit in them”

Andrew smirked then replied “Nah man, those are definetly yours…you wore them for a week straight.”

“What? No t-“

Before Albert could finish his sentence, Andrew shoved the smelly shirt directly on his face.

The pungent, musky odor filled his nostrils, making his eyes water. Albert tried to pull away, but Andrew's grip was obviously really strong, he just got a glimpse of his bulging muscles as he kept the shirt on him.

"Breathe it in, man. Really take it in," Andrew commanded, his voice low and hypnotic.

Albert felt a weird feeling he needed to obey him, and he did. He inhaled deeply, the overpowering scent clouding his mind as he started feeling a tingling sensation spreading through his body. His mind started to feel foggy, his thoughts slowing down.

"See? Starting to remember now, huh? That’s my boy!" Andrew said, his tone almost teasing.

Andrew now lowered the shirt with his left hand and took a sock with his right one, then held it to Albert's face.

"Smell this one. It's yours, dude."

He said, shoving it deeper in Albert’s nose, making the foot funk absolutely vomit worthy and making him unable to think straight, but he found himself leaning in, taking another deep breath. The smell was even stronger, more intense. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. His body felt hot, his skin prickling with heat and starting to become mattered with sweat.

Andrew's voice became a steady rhythm, guiding Albert deeper into the haze. "You love that smell, don't you?

It's who you are. You're a jock, bro. Just like me."

Albert's resistance was fading. He nodded slowly, his eyes glazing over.

The words were starting to make sense, the truth sinking into his mind permanently.

"Yeah, you get it. Now, check this out."

Andrew lifted his own arm, exposing his hairy, sweat mattered armpit. The smell was overwhelming, a mix of musk and sweat that filled the room and showed an obvious lack of any kind of hygiene.

"Take a whiff, man. Smell what it's like to be a real jock."

Albert leaned in, almost involuntarily, and inhaled deeply. The scent was intoxicating, filling his lungs and clouding his thoughts completely. His body began to change, muscles swelling, skin tightening. His clothes felt tight as his frame grew larger, more muscular.

His feet lengthened, filling out his shoes until they felt snug. The odor from his feet mingled with the room, becoming a powerful mix of French cheese, melted butter and salty sweat. His height shot up, now matching Andrew's at 6'2". His rear became a firm, round bubble butt, perfect in its shape and size, making his shorts stretch and almost snap. His digestive system took a turn as it was now ready to sprout gas every 5 minutes or so.

As his transformation continued, his thoughts became simpler, focused on physical desires and sensations. His IQ dropped, his mind becoming that of a dumb jock, carefree and confident. His age quickly regressed, reaching 20 years old. His skin becoming smooth and youthful.

"Bro, you're looking sick," Andrew said, grinning.

"Now, flex for me. Let's see those muscles."

Albert-now fully Parker flexed his new, bulging biceps, a goofy grin spreading across his face. "Hell yeah dude”

His personality had shifted completely.

He was loud, arrogant, and loved his new body. His pits were hairy and strong-smelling, his face chiseled and handsome. His breath was hot and slightly stale, a testament to his new careless attitude towards hygiene as he brushed his teeth less frequently, adding to his raw, primal appeal.

Sexuality was no longer a question. He was 100% straight, but was also was irresistibly drawn to his own body, admiring his muscles, his scent, and his raw masculinity. His kinks emerged quickly-enjoying his own smell, flexing in the mirror, and reveling in his own farts. His package was impressive, soft at 10 cm and swelling to 20 cm, with fat hairy balls underneath, barely fitting in regular underwear’s.

Andrew clapped him on the back, the sound echoing in the room. "Welcome back to the team, bro. Let's hit the gym tomorrow and show off those gains."

Parker laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

"You got it, man.” Then sprouted a massive fart that Andrew couldn’t help but sniff.

As they left the room and walked down the hallway, the scent of sweat, dirty feet and farts was trailing behind them, soon to be smelled by all kinds of chicks who’ll spend the night at room 214.

[moosesarecute]

Missing mates

Rhys couldn’t breathe.

He felt completely lost in his world. Because he had lost his world.

Or, he hadn’t lost her completely, but at the moment he didn’t know when he would get his High Lady home and the wait felt like forever.

With Feyre in the Spring Court, Rhys could vomit at the thought, he didn’t feel like himself.

He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep and he felt like he couldn’t breathe either.

To think that his mate was in a different court. To think that she didn’t think highly enough of herself to think that she was a part of their family. That she could sacrifice herself to go back to a place she withered away.

He almost cried at the thought alone. Ignoring the primal urge to go to the Spring Court and bring her home got harder for every minute that went by.

He stood in their shared room and watched the bed. How was he going to sleep in it without Feyre?

A careful knock on the door pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Knock, break, knock knock, break, knock.

Not even his sister’s childish knocks could make him smile.

His sister.

Rhys rushed to the door and opened it.

“Is he awake?” He asked immediately.

“You actually think I would have left his side if he was awake?” You asked sounding annoyed.

The exhaustion was visible on your body. Both in your posture and the bags under your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you continued. “I’m exhausted, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Rhys opened the door wider and you walked in. He sat down on the bed and you sat in a chair.

“How are you holding up?” He asked you.

You couldn’t help but sigh as you leaned back into the chair. Your eyes were closed.

“I feel empty and lost,” you answered honestly. “The usual when the bond is quiet. You?”

“I’m okay,” Rhys lied. He didn’t want to put his emotions on you when you already looked so exhausted.

You opened your left eye and gave him a knowing look before you closed it again.

“I feel like I’m dying,” Rhys changed his answer and let out an exhausted laugh. “How do you do this? Azriel is on a mission like every other day.”

You sat up and opened both your eyes this time.

“You get used to it in a way. It gets less overwhelming after a few years.”

“Years!? I thought it only lasted a few weeks before it started to get less intense.” Rhys was actually shocked.

You smiled as you thought back at the first years being mated to Azriel. Even though it was overwhelming and sometimes also annoying, you loved to think back to the time when you two were clinging together at every time. At the time when being even a room away from each other made you feel like dying.

“It gets a little better after the Frenzy, but after that you have to build up endurance to be away from each other for longer periods without the instincts taking over. I don’t know how to explain it, it just works.” You were deep in your own thoughts as you spoke. Your eyes were focused on the wall behind Rhys.

“I still don’t understand how you didn’t grow crazy. You hate it when Azriel is protective.”

His words pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Firstly, I don’t mind Azriel being protective, but after accepting the mating bond it was way too much. Secondly, I wouldn’t call walking around and spraying my mate with a bottle of water ‘not going crazy’.”

It sprung upon him. He hadn’t smiled in over three days and suddenly he was laughing.

And with his laugh, you also started laughing.

It was hysterical. Tears ran from your eyes from laughing to much.

“I had forgotten about that,” Rhys said in between laughs. “You are crazy.”

When the laughter died down you both went back to your tired stares.

“Have you slept yet?”

The way you spoke made him understand that you already knew the answer.

His gaze turned to the bed he sat on and you spoke again before he could say anything.

“Sleepover in the living room?”

“We must have been under sixty the last time we did this just the two of us,” you said as you laid down. “Feels like forever ago.”

“Because it was.”

You laid in comfortable silence.

“Can I ask you something, little one?”

“Of course, Rhysie.”

You turned towards him. He drew a nervous breath.

“You spent fifty years apart and I can’t even do three days without absolutely losing it. What am I going to do?”

He felt like his life had stopped. That he couldn’t move on.

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself. Azriel and I had been mated for over 400 years when we ended up under the Mountain. You two have barely been mated for two weeks. You could still be ravishing each other in the Frenzy right now and no one would bat an eye. You’ll be just fine!”

He listened to the words you said, but he still couldn’t understand a way forward.

“But how do you to that? How do you live through this?”

It wasn’t like him to be this self conscious, but nothing in his mind felt right.

“You don’t live through it,” you started. He could see on your face that he had brought up uncomfortable memories. “You do what you need to do to survive it. Sometimes that might be to pretend you’re someone else and that there isn’t anyone to miss. Other times that means you’re struggling to get out of bed, even to go to the bathroom, because everything seems pointless without him. Sometimes you just have to cry and scream and other times you have to sit in the quiet.”

The more you spoke the more distant he could see you become. You were lost in your thoughts.

He carefully moved his hand and nudged yours carefully.

You looked towards him.

“The point is, you just have to do what gives you the courage to get to the next day. The rest of us will help you through it. And when all of this is over, you two are going to take at least a month to yourself. You have deserved it.”

He could do that. One day at the time. One day. And even though currently a day lasted longer than a month usually would, he could do it.

“Thank you.”

“Believe it or not, being mates for centuries have actually taught me something,” you said with a smug smile.

“Maybe I should start listening more to my little sister.”

You both turn to look at each other.

“Nah,” both of you said.

Rhysand was alone in the living room when he woke. The ache in his heart was a little smaller than the past days.

Seeing your mattress empty beside him gave him hope.

He got up and immediately made his way to his sister’s old bedroom. The room Azriel was currently healing in.

The door was open and as he peeked inside he saw what he needed to see.

Azriel sat up in bed with a cup of tea in his left hand, his right was occupied brushing through your hair.

“How long have you been awake?” Rhys asked his brother.

“A couple of hours,” he answered silently, not looking away from you. “She hasn’t slept much, has she?”

“I’d say about three hours the past three days,” Rhys answered. “It’s good to see you alive and awake.”

“You too,” Azriel answered.

Rhysand made his way back to his and Feyre’s room. Suddenly, life seemed easier. He felt hopeful for a good ending. And he was very much looking forwards to holding Feyre as she slept on his chest.

[flowerandblood]

The Lost Haven (6/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: uprotected sex, incest obviously, smut, the angst, injection of a sleeping drug, violence, bad, bad things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She had felt the closeness of his body all night: his arms locked her in his embrace every time she rolled over on the bed, with a murmur of satisfaction finding with her a new position in which he could snuggle into her.

Although he kept his hand on her bare buttock, desperately wanting to feel her skin, she did not perceive this touch as sexual per se: there was a need for physical affection in him that only another living, warm body could give.

He smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, mint gum and intense, masculine perfume. This combination dulled her and relaxed her making her fall asleep again immediately even when she woke up, his touch, his presence, their bodies entwined together soothed her.

She was sure that in the morning he would wake up horrified by everything that had happened, begging her to go to the pharmacy to get the pill that would prevent any unplanned pregnancy, the effects of their ill-considered excess.

He, however, took her again, more tenderly and slowly, making her feel so good, too good, because, after all, it should feel bad, it should be disgusting, it should hurt.

But it didn't.

She was too wet, he slid into her too easily, he was trying too hard to rub against the spot from which shivers of pleasure ran through her, making her womanhood twitch with convulsions of sweet ecstasy.

She felt remorse for not standing up to him, for opening her thighs to him twice even though she had promised herself that it would never happen, that it was just her hideous deviation that she would keep to herself forever.

"Are you taking pills?" He asked when it was all over, and she froze, snapped out of her reverie.

"No." She muttered, knowing what he meant, what he was going to say.

She felt like vomiting at the thought.

He surprised her when his lips placed a warm, gentle kiss on her cheek.

"It's your body. But know that I'd like to be the father of your child. Someday. You decide when. If ever." He whispered in her ear and she froze completely, shocked.

I'd like to be the father of your child.

Someday.

If ever.

How could he say something like that?

She felt a twinge of regret towards herself that something in his words brought her a strange relief.

He couldn't be her boyfriend, her husband, but he could be the father of her children.

"I…I don't know what I'll do yet. I need to think about it." She mumbled, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, not knowing what she was supposed to respond to his words.

She heard him swallow hard, as if something hurt him in what she said.

"Let me know when you've made your decision about...you know. Please." He whispered, and she felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought that he wanted to know what she was going to do.

Whether or not she would buy the pill in the pharmacy.

She pressed her lips together at the thought that even if she complied with his request, it wouldn't change anything.

"So that you won't answer me?" She asked in a shaky voice, hearing him lift himself on his arm at her words.

"I'll. I swear I'll. Hey. Hey, look at me." He said, but she didn't believe him, because she knew he would hurt her again.

They were destined to do so.

It was just a pleasant dream, nothing more.

"I mean it. I swear. I…" He didn't get to finish because they both flinched and pulled away from each other, terrified when they heard a loud banging on her door.

"Open up." Daemon called out and they both stood up as if burned, dressing quickly.

"Wait a minute!" She said, handing him his shoes and jacket.

"Go to the toilet." She whispered to him, running quickly to the door herself when she heard him lock himself in the room.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

She swallowed loudly, trying to control her panic and opened it, looking at her step-father with big eyes. She opened her mouth, but he spoke up first.

"Get changed, we're leaving immediately." He said dryly, looking her over from top to bottom, his brow furrowed.

Did she overlook something?

Could he see what she had just done?

"But why so sudden? I'd like to have breakfast. Has something happened?" She muttered, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Viserys is dead." He said, and she froze, feeling her heart stuck in her throat.

With a remnant of her strong will she held herself up from looking behind her, towards the toilet.

God, he'd definitely heard that.

"– what? – but –"

"They called the ambulance, Alicent found him dead in his bed. Who was banging on your door last night?" He asked, and she swallowed hard, feeling a cold sweat run down her back.

She couldn't lie, she had to think of something.

"Aemond. We talked about the past." She whispered, looking at him pleadingly, asking him to leave it alone.

"Is he here?" He asked coldly, stepping inside, looking around the room. His step headed towards the toilet, and she stood in his way.

"Y-yes. He was drunk and fell asleep on the floor. You scared me, we didn't know what to do." She muttered, feeling burning tears of shame and horror under her eyelids, the fear that squeezed her lungs made her breathe with difficulty.

One more time, just this one more time let me lie, she thought.

Please, this one more time.

"Get out of there. Now." He directed his words towards the door, which opened a moment later.

Her uncle came out of there pale, trembling all over, though she had no idea whether from fear or because of what he had heard.

"Go to your mother. She needs you now. Your older brother is completely drunk." Her step-father said, and her uncle passed them without a word and left, not even bestowing a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, clenching her thighs together, feeling his semen begin to flow down her leg.

She took a deep breath, trying not to burst into sobs and to keep up appearances that nothing had happened.

When Daemon's hand touched her head and pulled her to him, making her hit his chest, when his arms closed her in a secure embrace, she burst out into a loud, miserable cry.

She was pathetic, she was dirty, she was worthless, a simple whore, a vessel for his seed.

He did what he wanted with her, and she allowed him to.

"We'll go to the pharmacy. We'll sort it out. Don't worry." He said, and she felt both gratitude and horror at his words.

We'll sort it out.

He knew.

Her distraught mother went with Alicent and her siblings, and she, Daemon and her brothers were to return home together. On her way out of the building she spotted her uncle smoking a cigarette, his gaze blank and absent, directed somewhere in the distance.

He heard their footsteps and turned, meeting her gaze – the way he lowered his head in shame, looking away made her feel tears under her eyelids.

Of course it had ended like that.

It was just a dream, nothing more.

"We'll stop at the pharmacy on the way. Your sister is feeling unwell." Communicated Daemon as they set off, driving out of the car park.

She looked at her uncle again through the window and saw that he was looking at her, his eyebrows arched in pain, his lips parted, as if he regretted letting her go without saying goodbye.

She swallowed hard, resting her forehead against the glass, unable to focus on Jace's or Luke's questions, fearing what would now happen to their grandfather's business.

That's what everyone was wondering now, she thought.

As they drove down to the shopping arcade near their house, Daemon stopped in the parking lot and looked at her over his shoulder.

"Are you going to manage on your own or should I come with you?" He asked, and she felt her heart squeeze with pain.

She was afraid.

"Can you come with me?" She muttered, feeling tear after tear begin to run down her cheeks. Jace touched her shoulder, terrified.

"Do you feel that bad? Did you poison yourself with something?" He asked and she nodded, looking straight into her step-father's eyes.

"Yes. Yes, I poisoned myself with something very badly."

The experience of walking into a pharmacy with her step-father to buy a morning-after pill was one of the strangest and most uncomfortable things she had experienced in her life.

The lady pharmacist looked at Daemon grimly, as if she assumed he was responsible for all the fuss, putting her into a state of utter embarrassment.

Even though she tried to stand up to him, Daemon paid up and told her to hide the pack in her backpack as soon as they walked out of there.

"Read the leaflet carefully. Do everything as it says."

"I know." She muttered, for some reason bursting out crying again, wiping her reddened cheeks with her hand, trying not to think about the curious stares of other people around them.

"Everything has consequences. It will be fine. Don't worry. I won't say anything to your mother." He said, and she nodded.

It was the right thing to do, the logical thing to do, the safe thing to do.

This was the right thing to do.

When they got home, she went upstairs to her room and locked herself in, saying she wanted to take a shower. Daemon and her brothers were waiting for a call from her mother, and her stepsisters were in classes, so she had apparent peace and quiet.

For now.

She sat down on her bed and pulled a small packet with one pill inside from her backpack. She unrolled the leaflet and started to read, but couldn't concentrate.

I'd like to be the father of your child.

Why did he say that?

Did he want to have a clear conscience?

She swallowed hard, burying her face in her hands, not understanding why she had doubts.

After all, she was so young, still going to university. How would she explain her pregnancy? What would she tell her mother? That it was casual unprotected sex with a stranger, that she could have taken the morning-after pill but was an idiot?

She wanted to call him, to talk to him, but immediately afterwards she thought that he would tell her anything so that he himself would not feel remorse, the end result being that she would be left with a swollen belly, grief and humiliation alone.

She pressed her lips together and took the tablet out of the packet, grabbing for the bottle of water standing on her bedside table and hesitated, wanting to put it into her mouth.

Yes.

No.

I don't want to.

But it's the right thing to do.

I don't want to.

But I can't do it alone.

I don't want to.

I could love this child.

I have always wanted to be a mother.

I'm scared.

No one will understand.

I don't want to.

She closed her eyes, stood up, went into her bathroom and threw the pill into the toilet, flushing it down, letting it flow along with her certainty that what she had done would have no consequences.

It will be what is meant to be, she thought, sitting down with no strength on the cold tiles, feeling an emptiness in her heart.

When Daemon asked her if she had done the right thing she said yes.

She wasn't sure if he believed her or not, but he stroked her head anyway before walking out and leaving her alone.

By the time their mother got home it was late in the evening: from what she had managed to overhear it appeared that Viserys was really dead, that he had died in his sleep, that he had not suffered and that she was to go to the notary in two days' time to hear his last will.

That was what everyone was worried about.

What share of the estate would go to whom.

She shuddered, feeling the vibration of her phone in her hand, and froze when she looked at the display.

Aemond.

He was calling her.

She swallowed hard, locking herself immediately in her room, panicked, feeling her heart pounding like crazy.

She answered the call and put the phone to her ear, hearing a noise on the other end, as if someone was driving a car.

"Yes?"

She heard him grunt, as if he was afraid of what he was about to say.

"How are you?"

What kind of question was that?

What was she supposed to answer that?

It was great sex, uncle, maybe we'll be parents soon?

"I don't know." She said, walking closer to the window, not wanting anyone in the corridor to hear that she was on the phone.

She heard him swallow hard, feeling involuntarily how difficult it was for him.

Why was she making excuses for him so easily?

"Did you…go to the pharmacy?" He asked finally.

"Yes."

"And?"

"No."

There was silence on the other side for a moment.

"No, what?"

"I wasn't able to do it. I don't expect anything from you." She said in a trembling voice. "I'll manage on my own. If it turns out that…"

She didn't finish, preferring not to say it out loud.

She heard the sound of the key turning on the other side and the silence indicating that he had turned off the engine.

"I want this. If it's going to happen. I want to be a part of it."

"It sounds right only in your head."

"No. I mean it."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, wanting to tell him first that she didn't need his pity, but reminded herself after a moment that this was the day his father had died.

She sighed quietly, looking out the window at the courtyard of her house.

"And you? How do you feel? With everything that's happened."

"Depends on what you ask." He replied, but his tone of voice changed, becoming cool again.

"About your father."

"We knew he was seriously ill. That this was probably his last birthday."

They were quiet for a moment, however there was something warm in that silence, some kind of understanding and comfort.

"You said you didn't regret it." He said finally, and she drew in a loud breath at the memory of what they had done.

She didn't know what she was supposed to answer.

She was sad, bitter, disappointed, but did she regret it?

No.

"I still think so. But I didn't get my hopes up about anything, if that's what you're aiming for. Daemon won't tell anyone about this. He won't…"

"Why was it so right?"

She froze, feeling heat in her lower abdomen at his question.

"Since it was wrong. So fucking wrong." He continued, as if his darkest, most disturbing thoughts were pouring out of him. "Then why it was so pleasant?"

"The forbidden fruit tempts most." She whispered.

She heard him swallow loudly, drawing in air deeply, as if something in her words pained him.

"Is that what it was for you?"

"I don't know. And for you?" She asked angrily, not understanding what he wanted to hear from her after so many years of silence, after he had come to her room in the middle of the night without a word of explanation and fucked her like there was going to be no tomorrow.

"I wanted…nevermind." He hissed.

"No. Say it." She demanded, hearing him twist in his seat.

"For eight years you pretended I didn't exist, I deserve this." She said in pain, feeling a squeeze in her throat so strong that she ran out of breath.

Don't hang up, please don't hang up.

"I want to try." He said at last, so quietly and uncertainly that she barely heard him.

"I don't understand."

"I would like to study archaeology. You wrote me that if I asked you to, you would help me get into university." He mumbled like a small, embarrassed child, startling her completely.

What?

"I…well, but…there are only two months left to submit the documents. What day is today? Thursday. Are you thinking about full-time or part-time studies?" She asked, walking over to her calendar, trying to count in her head how much time they had.

God, there was a desire in him to change something.

She knew that if she discouraged him, she might soon find out that someone had shot him in the head.

"Only part-time classes are an option." He replied finally. "Is it manageable? Do they have any…requirements?"

"Passed final exams in high school, preferably in history or a language." She explained. "There are also entrance exams, but they are not difficult."

"I had the best result in the history final exam in the whole class." He muttered and she nodded, feeling a rush of adrenaline.

"Good. That's very good, Aemond. It can be done. If you want, come to my University tomorrow, we can talk to my professor about whether a personal teaching plan would come into play if you got in."

"Is there such a thing?"

"Yes, for students who are working at the same time."

"Really?" He asked, a note of hope in his voice that made her heart clench.

"Yes. Text me when you can be there, the professor has class until 3 p.m. Okay?"

"Okay."

"See you tomorrow." She said and hung up, looking at her phone screen in disbelief.

She didn't know why she jumped up and down with happiness, why she believed that things would change, that she would really get him back.

She wanted so badly to know that there was still hope for both of them.

Throughout the next day she feared he would give up and not come.

She thought with horror that he was, after all, a complete stranger to her.

What did she know about him?

Despite her doubts, he finally wrote to her.

How did he know where he was supposed to arrive?

She figured he might have looked it up on the internet and went out to meet him, intending to pick him up from the car park. When she saw his car pull into the driveway she approached him, keeping a safe distance. He got out of the car and automatically reached into his jacket for his pack of cigarettes.

"There's no smoking allowed on University premises." She said.

He lowered his hand in a gesture of impatience, furrowing his brow.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes. Let's go. We'll find my professor in the teachers' common room, he's just having a break between lectures." She said, and he moved behind her, looking around at the walls of the large, brick, old building from the 19th century.

"Does he know I'm coming?" He asked uncertainly, clearly tense.

People passing him looked at his face, at his scar.

She felt uncomfortable with the thought, angry for some reason that he couldn't just walk down the corridor in peace.

Was it always like this?

In the shop, in the office, in the restaurant, at school?

Everyone looking at him.

"Yes."

When they got there she knocked on the right door. Her professor, Mr Addams, was a hearty, grey-haired, rather short man with big glasses and a short, elegantly trimmed beard. He was a man of great passion and they immediately found a common language through which he began to take her on his private excavations as a help.

In this way, she managed to collect any savings of her own.

"Professor. This is my friend I mentioned to you." She said, glancing over her shoulder, her uncle's face pale and terrified, his healthy eye wide open.

Good God.

Her professor held out his hand to him, and to her relief he showed any social reflexes and shook it.

"My pleasure. Miss Strong spoke of you in all superlatives. Please, let's go to my office." He said, moving briskly down the corridor with a bundle of keys in his hand, and they moved to follow him.

Mr Addams opened the door to the room and invited them inside into a small study with a high window, all lined with wooden panelled walls, an oak bookcases filled to the brim with books, a desk and several chairs all around it.

The professor sat behind the table, sighing heavily, indicating their seats on the opposite side.

"I'm listening." He said, and she looked at her uncle. He gave her a horrified look, convinced apparently that she would do everything for him.

"So. My friend didn't have the opportunity to study because of his job. I was wondering if there would be the possibility of personal teaching plan or part-time study in that case." She said finally. The man raised his eyebrows and scratched his chin.

"Classes can be studied in part-time, but you have to do a lot of practice hours on excavations, as you know, Miss Strong. They are obligatory." He said.

"Yes, but my friend works at night. He could take part in them during the day. Right?" She asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Her uncle grunted, tense, not knowing where to look, his fingers clenched into fists.

His face then when Jace took his boxers from him, his loud sobs, his hands clenched into fists as he stood up to his waist in water.

"Yes. Yes, that would be possible." He replied lowly, trailing his fingers along the armrest.

The professor nodded.

"Well, if that's the case, then please prepare yourself for the exams. Then we'll see what comes of it." He said and rose, nodding at them.

"Is that it?" Her uncle muttered, looking at her with big eyes, as if he expected to be questioned for hours by this man.

"Yes." She replied. "Thank you, Professor."

When they went outside and said goodbye to Mr Addams they stood in awkward silence, not knowing what to do with themselves.

"If you'd like, I'll wait and drive you home." He offered, not looking at her but somewhere to the side, pretending to read something interesting on a poster hanging on the wall.

"No need. Mum will pick me up." She replied.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned under his breath.

"They pick you up and drop you off like a little girl?" He sneered, making her feel an unpleasant sting in her heart.

"Ever since someone put a rape pill into my drink, yes."

His expression changed, filled with sudden shame and discomfort. He grunted and scratched his chin, embarrassed.

"Do you know who did this? I can take care of it. For your comfort." He added, as if to make amends to her for his ill-considered words.

"Larys Strong." She said, and he looked at her shocked as if he didn't believe she had said that.

"What?"

"I already told you. He was telling me about my father."

"But it wasn't him who put it into your drink, it was one of his people, right?"

"He asked me if I wanted a drink. I said no. Then he ordered water for me. I took a few sips from it and struggled to get to the bathroom."

Her uncle stared at her wide-eyed, breathing loudly through his nose, his lips pressed together in a way from which she felt fear and a cold sweat on her back.

"Son of a bitch." He hissed, running his hand over his face, turning his head away, clearly thinking of something she didn't like.

"Don't interfere. Go home." She said impatiently. He looked at her, surprised.

"And when are you going to teach me?" He muttered.

"What?"

"For the exams. I need you to help me. How do I reconcile what I have to do at night with studying if I don't know where to start?" He asked, and she sighed heavily, burying her face in her hands.

"Okay. Okay, I'll help you. I'll pass you the study books somehow." She said finally, giving in, recognising that she had no choice, that whether she wanted to or not, she had to help him get out of this life that was destroying him every day.

She didn't want him to die.

He stood over her and stared at her, his warm breath enveloping the top of her head.

"Can I touch your hand?"

She lifted her gaze to him and met his eyes, one blank, staring dully ahead, the other red with emotion, his full lips parted involuntarily in an accelerated breath.

She held out her hand towards him, and he took his from the pocket of his trousers, grasping her little fingers in his.

There was something frighteningly natural about the way they intertwined, how perfectly they fit together, how right they looked in a tender embrace.

"Walk me out."

And off they went together, walking down the University's sidewalks, holding hands as if they were a couple.

There was something childlike and naïve about it, about how tightly their fingers clasped together, how close the embrace was, how much they needed proof that nothing was over between them.

She thought it was a pathetic attempt to reclaim their lost childhood.

She let go of his hand as they stopped at his car and watched as he got in without a word, only to drive away a moment later without even bestowing a single glance on her.

She spent the rest of the day during class unable to focus on what she was hearing, pondering how she was going to fool Daemon and her mother into thinking she was spending time with someone else while she was actually helping him study.

She concluded, when she saw her stepfather's face behind the wheel and not her mother's, that it might be worth it to just stop lying.

When she got into the passenger side of the car and Daemon set off, she began to speak at once.

"I'm helping Aemond get into University."

Daemon snorted at her words, surprised, frustrated and intrigued all at the same time. She clamped her hands on the fabric of the backpack lying on her lap, dreading his answer.

"Interesting."

Is that all?

"I want to help him prepare for his exams. He has very little time."

"No."

She swallowed hard hearing him say the word coldly and confidently.

"Why?"

Daemon switched on his indicator and turned at the crossroads even though he should have been driving straight, leaving her stunned.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" She muttered, feeling her heart start to pound like crazy with terror.

"You'll see."

They stopped in one of the busiest streets in the city: her stepfather had told her to get off, so she did, moving a moment later right behind him towards one of the pubs.

"Not open yet, mate." Said a tall, stocky man in a black suit stopping him with his hand.

"For me it is. Mate." He scoffed.

The man wanted to say something, but someone from downstairs called out to let them in.

A woman.

They went down the stairs inside: apart from them and the bartender, who was mopping the floor, a beautiful black-haired woman was sitting at one of the tables, bent over a laptop. Seeing her stepfather she stood up and approached them with a smile that was both seductive and disturbing.

Her eyes were unnaturally green.

"Well, well. Fucking Alys Rivers. The world is small." Daemon said and shook her hand in a gesture as if they had once been partners.

"What brings you here?" She asked softly, directing the gaze of her bright eyes at her, her voice melodious and deep.

The woman examined her figure from top to bottom, as if she had just been looking at something tasty.

"I came to show my step-daughter the brutality of life." He explained, glancing at her over his shoulder with some kind of pride, as if he was just about to teach his son some very manly and important things.

Alys Rivers cocked her head at his words, glancing at her with a look that frightened her.

As if she had heard of her before.

"Oh. I see. Well, I won't disturb you. It was good to see you. Give my regards to your wife." She said and returned to her seat, clicking something on her laptop again.

Daemon moved forward and sat a table at the other end of the room. She sat next to him, tense, and after a moment a man came out of the back room who had not noticed them, walking straight towards the black-haired woman.

It was only when she saw his face that she understood why her stepfather had taken her there.

He had three long scars on the left side of his face.

The man only noticed them when the woman pointed her finger at them. He nodded at them and Daemon reciprocated the gesture, looking at her.

"Guess who left him such a beautiful reminder."

On the way back home, she was silent, because that was also the state of her mind: it was empty. No thought, no feeling, no sound or word flowed through her: images from outside the window flashed before her eyes, as if she were watching a film.

A passive observer of someone else's life.

"Robert wasn't the only one. There are seven others. Most recently Tyland. They were in arrears, and Otto is very much on his word. I worked for him, just like your one-eyed uncle." He said, and she looked at him shocked.

"What?" She muttered.

"I slammed them with a baseball bat until they looked like a red tomato. They had all their facial bones broken. They looked like completely different people afterwards." He said, and she lowered her gaze, feeling discomfort, horror, disbelief.

She rarely thought about what they did to people who didn't pay them on time because she knew that if she started doing it, she wouldn't get a single peaceful night again.

"Your uncle is now his dog. The faithful hound he has raised for himself for eight years. Even if some part of him would like to run away, he knows he cannot bite the hand that feeds him. A dog can only have one owner, and that is his grandfather, even if you wish it were otherwise."

"Don't speak about him like that. As if he wasn't human." She exclaimed in pain, looking at him in disbelief. Daemon shook his head.

"You don't understand. He's brainwashed. He's trapped in his big cage and he thinks he's free. But as soon as he tries to take a step too far, Otto will react and you'll get the message from him that he's not going to university and he'll never see you again. If it was just about fucking, I'd be able to understand it. I also did… reckless things when I was your age, but you get involved, naively mistaking his euphoria at meeting you after eight years for affection that could change anything."

Each successive word from him was like needles that, one by one, drove into her heart, a bucket of cold water that made her begin to quiver, red with shame, sadness and regret.

Some part of her knew he was right.

She closed her eyes, seeing in her mind the face of a man with three scars.

He had done this to him.

How could the hands that touched her so tenderly, so softly, do such a thing?

A dog can only have one owner, and that is his grandfather, even if you wish it were otherwise.

She knew that the comparison her step-father used was cruel and derogatory, but she understood in a way what he was warning her about.

Her uncle was lonely and manipulated by his grandfather, full of complexes and insecurities that made him cling to what was safe and familiar, which if there was too much risk would cause him to withdraw.

She realised that he would never choose her.

What happened between them was pure coincidence, the result of their collision in a place and time beyond their control.

A desperate attempt to connect again.

She spent the rest of the day in the garden, watering the flowers and weeding around them, trying to calm and soothe herself. The sight of them, those beautiful, vibrant colours of their petals gave her pleasure, comfort in a state where she felt she would never experience any other joys in her life again.

The next day her mother and Daemon went to the notary to hear her grandfather's last will. Everyone was tense and sullen from the morning, knowing what it meant.

A war of influence was looming over what Viserys had left behind, pubs, clubs, businesses, more than half of their entire family's source of income.

Jace and Luke were restless, looking out of the windows once in a while, talking loudly about the fact that whatever their mother was getting, Otto would surely want to take from them by force, and they would never agree to that.

"Stop it." She muttered, sighing heavily. Baela, who was sitting next to her, squeezed her hand in hers, sensing her uncertainty.

"They're coming back!" Jace called out as he ran out into the driveway and they followed him, looking with big eyes at Daemon's and his security guards' cars.

Her stepfather stepped out of the car with a broad smile as if he was the winner of some world championship, however, her mother was pale and her face expressed horror.

"Everything. Viserys bequeathed everything to your mother in his will." He said spreading his hands as if he had received a blessing from God himself.

Jace and Luke ran up to him and hugged him as if it was the best day of their lives, but she and her step-sisters felt exactly the same as her mother.

Terror.

Everything.

Her uncles, her aunt, his second wife got nothing.

"How can this be?" She mumbled, shaking her head.

"He left them some big estates by the sea and in the city. I don't give a shit. Tonight we're celebrating, my dears, we're having a banquet!" Daemon exclaimed as he walked into their house, but she approached her mother, who was barely on her feet.

"Mom?" She muttered.

Rhaenyra looked at her and shook her head, following her husband into the house.

She knew what she was thinking about.

Otto will never leave it like this.

"Each of you will have a bodyguard assigned to you from today. We are reinforcing the security of our home, each of us can now be a target. You do not speak to anyone from that part of the family without consulting me or your mother." Said her stepfather, holding a glass of champagne in his hand, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, giving her a protracted, uneasy look.

She lowered her gaze, feeling discomfort in her stomach, having the impression that she had forgotten how to breathe.

Taking advantage of the fact that Daemon was in euphoria and he, along the other men who worked with them had made a party, she went back to her room. She lay down in bed hearing their laughter and loud conversations downstairs, not understanding where their reason for joy came from.

Did they love killing each other so much?

She shuddered as her display lit up – she reached for her phone with her hand and unlocked the screen as soon as she saw that he had texted her.

She swallowed hard, looking around, wondering if she should do this.

Everyone was downstairs, the security guards were drunk.

Maybe she could sneak out?

She knew the code to the gate, maybe no one would notice her if she went out the back door.

Uncertainty, fear and trepidation squeezed her heart, but some part of her wanted to believe that he really cared, that in a situation where all seemed lost he was willing to reach for the one thing that gave him hope.

Today he lost everything, she thought.

Can I take more away from him?

So she packed her books from her first year into her backpack and left the room quietly in her sweatshirt and shorts, not even trying to go for her shoes, heading for the stairs. Apart from one drunk, sleeping security guard and two men talking in the kitchen, she didn't see anyone.

She lay down on the floor and began to crawl forward, feeling like a commando on an important mission, seeing from a distance that they didn't hear her. She rose as she entered the dark hallway and quietly opened the door.

She lifted her gaze up to the camera facing the exit and cursed under her breath, stopping halfway.

She had completely forgotten about it.

What now?

She looked around, trying to remember exactly what the image from the cameras she had seen once looked like when she and Daemon were searching for something on the recordings.

One, two, three, four she started counting and spotted an area she was sure the range of none of the cameras included. She ran in that direction, propped a bucket lying next to her feet and struggled to climb the wall, pulling herself up with a groan of effort, leaping over to the other side, almost breaking her legs.

She hissed, falling onto her hands – when she lifted them she saw that she had scraped her skin there and on her knees.

She sighed heavily, recognising that she would survive such injuries and that they would be nothing compared to what Daemon would do to her if he found out she had escaped.

She'll just give him the books and go back home.

She breathed out loud when she saw his car around the corner, its engine and lights on. He opened the door from his side, looking at her with big eyes, and she quickly pulled off her backpack, giving it to him.

"Take this and get out of here." She muttered, but his hand grasped her wrist.

"– come here –"

"– I have to –"

"– come –"

She stared at him, panting hard, knowing involuntarily what he wanted, feeling the squeeze between her thighs at the thought that she wanted it too.

Comfort.

"– I –"

"– it won't take long –"

He closed the door behind her as she let his arm pull her around the waist – she clumsily sat on top of him, trying to make herself comfortable on his lap in such a tight space. She lifted herself up on her knees to slide her shorts off while he looked at her with a misty gaze, unfastening the belt to his trousers.

"– good girl – such a good girl –" He breathed out, releasing his erection immediately, throbbing and dripping with desire, ready to give her what she needed.

There was no time for any other kind of caress, so she positioned herself over him, lowering herself slowly onto his thick, smooth tip, feeling how wonderfully he opened her for himself, stretching her warm, moist walls.

"– fuck – fuck, baby –" He muttered, clamping his hands over her firm buttocks, panting and moaning loudly along with her, sliding into her in one, deep thrust.

The feeling of him deep inside her was full of tension, her interior suddenly stretched to the limit on his throbbing erection, which he began to thrust slowly into her with trembling, tentative slaps full of impatience.

"– ah – G-God –" She mumbled, feeling how her slickness helped him to force his way into her body again and again, filling her so wonderfully.

Why it felt so right when it was so wrong?

Her hands embraced his neck, their foreheads touched each other as his palms on her waist forced a quick, sharp, violent pace on her from which her nipples hardened, the pleasant tickle in her lower abdomen caused by him rubbing her where she needed it made her gasp.

"– Aemond –" She mewled, trying to find a rhythm with his body, rolling her hips back and forth, filling herself again and again with his swollen, hot manhood, feeling pleasant, warm tickle in her belly.

"– do you hear it? – do you hear how well you take me? – only you – fuck –" He gasped, pounding into her with loud, wet slaps of their hips, listening how her twitching cunt clicked with his every push. His hand sank into her hair as his moist lips brushed hers, inviting her into the warm, sticky kiss full of their saliva.

Their tongues licked and teased each other, intensifying their sensation, building a swift path to their fulfilment, their bodies slammed against each other greedily with their embarrassingly loud moans of pleasure.

It seemed to her that they were too ashamed and shocked by the situation, by what they were doing, and how pleasurable it was, how liberating it was, to fuck in his car against everyone and everything, the sticky juices of their forbidden fruit running down their thighs each time his cock sank into her weeping pussy again.

She was terrified that, despite the speed and brutality of his thrusts, his hands caressed her body so tenderly, stroking her hair, her neck, her back, her buttocks, her cheeks, allowing his lips and tongue to join hers in loud, chaotic, wet kisses full of their moans.

She couldn't stop the tension that was growing in her lower abdomen, the pleasant tickling in her fingertips and the clenching deep between her thighs that proved she was about to come.

"– where? –" He mumbled into her mouth, her hands stroking his sweaty, soft cheeks, letting the messy, greedy thrusts of his hips give her the pleasure she so needed, her lips parted wide as the aggressive, stupefying fulfilment full of relief shook her body.

"– here – right here, uncle –" She gasped, feeling only pleasure, only relief, only bliss.

He groaned loudly, helpless, and came hard inside her, throwing his head back, panting heavily along with her. He hugged her face to his sweaty neck, exactly as he had then, that night in the hotel room, his half-hard, pulsing manhood filling her with the remnants of his seed.

"– I think I'm in love with you –" He whispered in a trembling voice, making the sound stuck in her throat with emotion.

She parted her lips, not knowing what to answer him, thinking with embarrassment that she somehow reciprocated his feelings.

His hand slid off her head while the other continued to stroke her bare buttock, his soft erection still throbbing deep inside her as his lips placed a warm, soft kiss on her forehead.

"– forgive me –"

She only drew in the air loudly, shocked, and clenched her hands on his black T-shirt when she felt the needle jab into her neck. Her squeal of horror, grief, and disbelief sounded unnatural, as if she were a small animal being butchered.

Her body became numb, the image around her became blurred and unclear, a heavy, dark sleep descended on her mind as she simply relaxed in his arms, feeling his hand stroke her head again, his cheek nestled against her forehead all wet.

He cried.

[mayhemories]

Pregnancy baby trope baby daddy Neteyam x reader please

TELLING NETEYAM YOURE PREGNANT 😩😩😩😩😩😩

Tsahik Always Knows

Oh my god!! Daddy Neyetam would be so sweet! Also, I'm sorry for the lack of posts, I've been studying overseas and this course is an intensive fieldwork unit so I have had like no time to think. Additionally, some of my tags are working and some are not - I'm so sorry if I miss out on tagging you!

Pairing: Neteyam Sully x Reader (James Cameron’s Avatar) 

Requested: Yes | No

Warnings: none. Vomit? Fluff? 

Words: 1.8k

Author’s Notes: 

Neteyam is 24, reader is 23, established relationship. AU where they never left the forest and Jake is still Olo’eyktan, Neteyam will take that mantle eventually,, happy-happy can’t read or write any more angst for real. 

Please note that the reader utilises she/her pronouns. If you’d prefer male or gender-neutral pronouns in fic I’m more than happy to repost a male or gn version of the story, otherwise include any pronoun preferences in the request box!

Tag List: @lilprettypetite @nyotamalfoy @weasleytwinwheezes @aonungs-tsahik @rainbowsocks @glitterandgoldfinds @bluealiensimp @melsunshine @ussoppl @wondxrgurll @luvlykrispy @myheartfollower @gloryavila

Read Below Cut:

You stared at the remnants of last night’s dinner on the floor. You had vomited, again. This had been happening in the mornings, on and off for the last few weeks. You did not feel sick, so why were you sick? 

Normally the vomit happened at home. Normally Neteyam had already left to tend to his duties. Normally you could clean it up and pretend like it never happened. 

The heat of your embarrassment swarmed over your neck and shoulders, sweeping up into your cheeks and ears. You knelt, frozen in place over the bile you had just produced. 

On Mo’at’s tent floor. 

She was practically, and legally, your grandmother, and had been since you were nineteen-years-old. But you never thought of her like that. She was your Tsahik, your teacher, your elder, your spiritual guide, healer of the Omaticaya. 

And you had vomited on her floor. 

Mo’at cleared her throat, sitting across from you, your shameful vomit between you. Tears welled in your eyes. This was the worst day of your life. 

“Well, luckily it was just you and me here, hm,” Mo’at said with an unusual lightness, a sweetness that was enough to spin you out of your own thoughts. 

“My Tsahik, I am so sorry I do not know-” 

“Don’t be stupid, how can you not know?” The typical biting Mo’at that you were familiar with came back, quickly. The woman leaned forward with a cloth, mopping up your watery bile like a dealdly secret to be kept between the Tsahik and her assistant.

Now, you really did not know what she meant. You sat up taller, finding a cloth to wipe your mouth clean, something tangible to hold onto. 

“My Tsahik, I promise you, I do not know what you think I know.” You whispered into the cloth at your mouth. Mo’at discarded her cloth that blotted your vomit into a wooden bowl. Some poor trainee will deal with it later. She squinted at you, taking you in. Harshly, she grabbed at your wrists, inspecting your palms, and your shaking, delicate fingers. 

She huffed as she held your wrist tightly in her left, her right hand poking at your cheek, breasts and thighs. “Hey!” you had enough of her prodding, as you pulled your wrist from her vice-like grip. 

“Lay down. Now.” The Tsahik made moves to push you back onto the woven mats on the floor. You were scared and confused and honestly, getting rather emotional. You were still reeling over the embarrassment the vomit caused you. More and more these days you found yourself crying over nothing, or getting easily embarsassed. 

You laid still, scared of Mo’at, and, scared of vomiting again. Flat on your back, you stared at the keen weavings of Mo’at’s medical tent. You hissed, looking down, Mo’at has placed a cold hollowed stone on your lower stomach, her ear pressed against it, she furrowed her brow bone. 

The elder woman jerked up once she was satisfied, discarding her stone instrument, she settled back into her seated position on the floor, you mirroring her. 

“Tsahik-” 

“You are with child, quite obviously.” Mo’at had cut you off, while simultaneously giving you news that ripped all the air from your lungs. 

Your mind was spinning. You were happy, you were sad, you were excited, you were embarrassed. How could you not see the signs within yourself? Obviously you and Neteyam mated often- 

Oh, Eywa. 

Neteyam. 

You were going to have to tell him. 

It was not like you both hadn’t spoken on the topic before, you knew you both wanted kids, a family. Additionally, children were expected, a future Olo'eyktan must be secured. 

But the two of you had not planned for it to happen so soon. You had been so careful, tonics and teas. God, Neteyam pulled out most of the time. 

Subconsciously one hand laid across your abdomen, the other covering your mouth. You felt your eyes struggling to focus on Mo’at, on anything really. You felt like a shell. A shell with a small shell inside. 

“How far along?” You whispered, normally you would scold yourself for your informality towards Mo’at, but you would give yourself a break just this once. 

“A month, maybe two. Nothing more, nothing less. You are not physically showing yet but you cannot be far away.” The rare gentleness from Mo’at rose its head once again. You were grateful for it. “Now, my lovely girl, go. Go collect yourself and tell my grandbaby that you’re having my great-grandbaby.” Mo’at said softly, helping you to your feet. 

You couldn’t remember the short walk from Mo’at’s tent to the home you shared with Neteyam. You felt as if you were on auto-pilot, blacking out and teleporting from place to place. You quickly sat on the side of your shared bed. Furs and gossamer blankets providing comfort to your shaking legs. Laying back, you stared at the gossamer canopy Neteyam had only recently erected above your bed, dangling your legs off the side. 

You rested your hands on your stomach, trying to etch into your memory what it felt like now, knowing that it will eventually swell with the growth of your baby. 

Neteyam’s baby. 

Realistically, you knew that Neteyam won’t be angry. Shocked? Maybe. But angry? Neteyam had never, ever been angry with you before. Emotionally? It was a different story, you imagined Neteyam being frustrated and screaming at you. You imagined him being disappointed. You imagined him packing his things and leaving. The passing thoughts alone were enough to put you on edge. 

Sighing aloud, you had a look at the water clock resting on the other side of the room, you still had a few hours before Neteyam was to return. You still had a few hours to pull yourself together and work out how you were going to spit it out. 

Neteyam ran his hands over his face, pulling up his ionar onto his forehead. His whole body burned from that flight. He had missed you today, not usually staying out on patrol this late, but the young recruits needed training, and Neteyam was always eager to please. But, he was a domestic man at heart, he loved being at home with you, loved pulling you to his chest, loved making whatever new thing you asked for. 

He loved nesting, he realised. Loved doing it with you. 

Striding from the Ikran keeper, Neteyam wanted nothing more than to see you. 

The warm lights of your home welcomed him, though when he peered through the gap in the curtain flap, all he saw was your anxious figure, pacing back and forth, muttering to yourself. The air was wrong, Neteyam had never really seen you like this. He watched quietly, confused as to how you had not scent him already, something was wrong with you and he would be damned if he did not find out what. 

“Oh Eywa, what am I supposed to say?” You prayed silently, wringing your wrists. You thought the pacing would bring you clarity, as it often provided your father-in-law. Yet you felt empty. And so unbearably full at the same time. In the few hours you had to wait for your mate you had come to love the little life growing in your womb.

You were so excited. You could hardly contain yourself. Neteyam would be the most perfect father. But as the night grew closer your brain started to pick itself apart. 

It was all too much. You fell to your knees in the middle of your home, letting the tears flow freely now. 

Neteyam did not let that stand for long. He quickly rushed in, picking you up and placing you in his lap. His strong arms snaking around your sobbing form. Your head quickly found is chest. He felt your hot tears streaming down your beautiful face and onto his skin. Neteyam hushed you, like he watched his mother do with his siblings, gently rocking you back and forth. It was so silent, save from your sobbing hiccups. Neteyam did not dare speak until you had stopped. 

“My love, what has happened?” He asked gently, pulling away to cup your delicate face in his large, calloused hands. His eyes found yours, and he could see something was creating great turmoil in the labyrinth of your complicated, intelligent mind. 

You sighed in response, shaking your head. Trying to find any courage at all. Knowing you have news that will change the course of someone’s life was not something you dealt with well. Maybe you were not cut out to be the clan’s spiritual leader as Tsahik. But that was a different problem for a different day. 

Neteyam placed a chaste kiss to your lips, then your cheeks, under your eyes, the tip of your nose, your forehead. You were loved, he said through the gesture. You are safe here. 

“Neteyam,” You started, softly. You were always softspoken. Something of which drove Neteyam crazy in love with you. So gentile, so docile, so calm. “I have something to tell you.” Neteyam’s stomach started to flip at your words, anxiety settling in, but like any good soldier, he willed his face into a blank expression. Giving nothing away. 

And, in turn, giving you nothing. 

“Continue my little love.” He said, putting your baby hairs behind your ears, smoothing your loose hair down as you spoke. 

“Neteyam,” You cleared your throat, forcing that invisible, metaphysical bubble away. “I am with child.” The words hung in the air between you, and all you could do was wait for your mate to respond.

Neteyam felt like he was dreaming. Of all the things he prepared for you to say, you being pregnant was not one of them. 

His tail betrayed him before his mouth did. Rapidly going side to side, the smile that erupted on Neteyam’s face threatened to split his jaw apart. 

You were carrying a baby. His baby. Your baby, together, with him. 

You melted into Neteyam’s searing kiss as he held you flush to his body. Pulling apart, Neteyam’s hands rested on your stomach, bright eyed and smily. He kissed your stomach over and over and over again. Peppering the whole area with his hot lips. You giggled at him. He was perfect. 

“Oh (y/n), I am so happy.” Neteyam kissed you again, your giggles erupting between kisses as he could not decide on what he wanted to look at, your face or your stomach. “How long have you known, sweetheart?” He rested his forehead on yours, his hands resting on your still flat stomach. 

“I found out earlier today.” You couldn’t help but smile. “Your grandmother knew.” 

Neteyam laughed, his shoulders shaking, beads of his braids clinking together. 

“She knows everything.” 

That night as the two of you laid in bed, Neteyam spooning you, you rose out of your slumber briefly. Neteyam’s tail had wrapped itself around your thigh, your own tail sat under your abdomen of its own accord. Neteyam’s fingers splayed over your stomach. He was so protective already. So in love with you and your unborn baby. 

You smiled. Shutting your eyes you thanked Eywa for gifting you with something so precious.