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tadpolesonalgae · 7 months ago

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 19

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

a/n: so frustrated with tumblr—this didn’t save anything the first time so ultimately I had to spend forty five minutes re-editing everything

warning: a lot of head nodding

word count: 7,723

-Part 18- -Part 20-

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Tentatively, you raise your hand to knock on the door.

And pause.

Your fingers are trembling faintly, a cool shiver sweeping down the length of your spine, a cold sweat beginning to prickle up from beneath your skin.

You knock, lightly.

Shadows dip at the handle, bringing the door open.

Hazel eyes glance away from the partially opened window, a cool morning breeze circulating through the room while watery autumn sunlight warms the floorboards. There’s a smell of dew in the air, along with something vaguely smokey and fresh, and it nips at your throat. You tug your sleeves a little lower over your gloves—made to conceal your skin, not keep them warm.

“Are you…are you free to talk?” You ask, stood hesitantly on the threshold.

“Sure.” He nods. “Have a seat.”

You give only a small delay, space enough for a breath to pass in between moments, one that would have gone unnoticed by human minds and eyes. Then you’re covering the distance between you, taking a seat in the armchair that’s been pushed to accommodate longer visits to his bed. You try to take your time in organising yourself in the seat, making sure your skirts are flat and unwrinkled; sat evenly on the chair; split between facing directly forward as the seat would have you, or angling yourself to face him; but it’s all belied with that sense of hurry you get around him that causes your fingers to fumble and shake, for your heart to start a butterfly-flutter in your chest, throat tightening from being in his presence.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, hands settling in your lap, pinching lightly at the fabric to give yourself something to hold on to. You struggle to look at him, keeping your gaze averted.

“…how are you?” You ask.

Sheets rustle and you can hear the quiet shift of the wooden beams before he answers. “Good.”

Toes cross in your socks, teeth tugging at the interior of your lip. “How…” —you swallow past the shudder in your chest— “Will you be up again, soon?” You ask, shifting in the chair. Eyes glance to the bedside table, peering at it for the sake of looking somewhere.

“A few more days,” he replies, sounding as if he’s uncommitted to the time frame given. A fresh breeze rolls in through the open window, curtains wafting with the wind, and you hold down a shiver, pulling yourself tighter to keep warm. Fresh air’s probably good, right?

“How are you?” He asks.

“Good. Good,” you reply, nodding your head gently. “Up and about.”

Another breeze enters, and the curtains swish against the wallpaper, scraping faintly against the vaguely abrasive texture. A book rests on the table, the edges faded yellow and for a second it strikes you how strange it is that there might not be a spell to prevent ageing. Perhaps he prefers the worn edges, though. You can imagine how they’d rasp against your fingertips. Like thousands of tiny cuts.

“Feyre mentioned you were sick a lot, when you first woke up,” you say into your lap.

“A bit.”

“But it’s over now?” You ask.

“It’s over.”

“Good. Good.” You nod your head faintly. “That's— I’m glad.”

A glass of water is beside his bed, along with a candle that’s dripped wax over its silver holder, carefully welded vines making up the handle, small flowers flourishing around the rim. Lilies.

A leather-bound notebook rests beside the novel, a pencil set straight atop it, the tip worn down and blunt.

“I heard your conversation with Mor,” he says, and your eyes flit away from the table, peering at your lap. You nod.

“From a few days ago?” He prompts, and you nod again. He sighs. “It was good that you took initiative. Maybe a bit too soon, but she’ll need some time to process what happened.”

You nod, accepting each slice across your skin. He’s known her for much longer than he has you, and he’s loved her. The blessed moments when you forget those unreachable likes of his only make the moments you’re reminded more staggeringly painful. Of course he’ll be on her side. But would it be so difficult to…

Don’t I deserve a little affection?

“Why did you…” you falter over save, disagreeing with its narrative. Lick your lips.

Just a small bit of care?

“Why?” You ask, looking at him. Tone rising at the end.

…please…

The bandages are clean across his middle torso, obscuring fractions of the ink on his chest where they curl beneath the wrappings. You know exactly where the wound lies, despite not having had the time to really study it when it happened. Just knowing it sits opposite the tiny scratch over your heart, formed into a scar. So tiny nobody would spot it unless they knew to look.

“Instinct, I suppose,” he answers after the quiet passes.

“Instinct,” you repeat, a touch faintly. You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but that makes enough sense. Maybe you’d at least been wondering if it was something more emotional than that. At least an, I couldn’t let you die. But instinct will do. Blind, indifferent instinct.

“Have you spoken with Rhys?” He asks after a pause.

“We spoke in the kitchen a couple of days ago. …he said I should speak with you…?”

“Okay,” he nods, waiting patiently. You blink, unsure where to put your eyes. You don’t know what Rhys had wanted you to visit him for. No idea if it was to try and clear up the mess that’s tangled itself between you and the male on the bed; whether he just wanted you to take the first step in improving something, to clear the air, to get things on the mend?

“Would it help if I asked you some questions?” He prompts tentatively.

You flush, lips parting slightly as you peer down into your lap, fingers pinching your skirts to keep out their tremble. You’re not…speaking about what happened; the arrow; the deep darkness that’s been cloying at your mind for the past few months… Years…

But if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be him.

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, blunt enamel prodding at the full flesh of the interior of your mouth. The idea of speaking about it…why you aimed the arrow at yourself…a lot of it wraps around him in a way. So if you’re going to share that with anyone…

Lungs shake when you inhale quietly, but you manage to sit a little straighter, steadying yourself. You have to learn to take the first step.

All you have to do is answer. And be honest.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Alright.” He nods. “We can go slowly, to start off. I would appreciate answers, but if you aren’t ready, tell me so and we can move on.”

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you agree, gloved fingers twining together in your lap, legs crossing themselves apprehensively. But slow, and easy breaths. Keeping calm, and steady. Answering as truthfully as you can bear.

“Okay,” he says, “what can you do with your magic now?”

You nod a little to yourself, swallowing, “…I think, sometimes, I can…I mean, I think I can bring it out by myself sometimes now?” He nods encouragingly. “…it didn’t hurt the last time it came out. I hardly even noticed it, actually, compared with how it was before.”

“And when was the last time it came out?”

“Oh…” you falter, quieting. “Yesterday. With Mor.”

“With Mor?”

“We had a…an argument, I think,” you answer, wanting to shrink into the floor.

“What happened?”

You fumble, there. “Can we…can you ask something else?”

“Okay.” He nods. “I can ask Mor, if that would be easier?” Your lips part, glancing at him in surprise before your eyes flit away again. “I…we just bumped into each other after dinner, and she…she asked why I went to…” You trail off, shifting uneasily in your seat.

“Did you tell her?”

“We spoke about it…yes,” you hedge, peering into your lap.

“That’s great,” he says, voice sounding softer than before, and you look at him hesitantly. “You should have mentioned that to start with. I can speak with her about it, when she comes round. If you come back tomorrow we can clear up anything left out. Will you be okay with that?”

You nod, unable to do much else as you attempt to digest and process what’s happening.

Please ask.

Hazel eyes glimmer faintly and his mouth softens, as if trying to show he’s proud with you for managing the conversation. “Was that fine for you?” He asks, watching you quietly while thousands of tiny eruptions occur beneath your skin. You manage a nod.

He glances at the clock mounted on the dresser pushed against the far wall. “I think Feyre mentioned you’ve been seeing Madja around ten, haven’t you?” He asks, and again you manage a nod, not really thinking about the occurrences.

Please don’t leave it here.

“She’s been keeping an eye on me, yes. Making sure everything’s working right.” Your voice is distant to your ears, feeling as though you’re being pulled back into your skull, watching from somewhere further away.

Ask me. Please.

“Ah. Have they been okay for you?” He asks, and you nod your head. “Fine.”

He nods. “Then I won’t keep you any longer.”

You stare at him through the surreal moment.

Show me you care. Even a little bit.

But he doesn’t, so you stand, watching distantly as your skirts swish over the floor, and you turn to leave, feet carrying you to the door, obeying the dismissal. Heart feeling as though it’s being squeezed. A heavy pressure crushing down on your chest. It’s only when you reach the threshold that you pause, something making it impossible to leave without…

You turn.

“Is it a deliberate choice?” You ask, voice shaking, hands curling in your skirts. He looks at you patiently, waiting for you to elaborate. “Are you—… Are you choosing not to ask me why I want to die, or has the thought plainly not crossed your mind?” You try to hold his gaze, but your heart fumbles, and you look away before you can even count to two. A hot wetness drips down your cheek.

“I hadn’t though you’d want to tell me,” he answers.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask before you can think. “You were the only one who was there. Who saw how it happened. Why wouldn’t you be perfect to speak to?”

He pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed over the vulnerable wording. “I don’t think you should make me the person you go to for that kind of solace,” he answers at last. “I don’t wish to give you reason to believe me the best choice for that.”

“Who else?” You ask, staring at him. “Who else can I go to?”

“Your sisters will always be there. I’m sure they want you to go to them. So don’t share with me that part of yourself. They’re the ones who have been there for you.”

“How can I expect them to understand? They weren’t there.”

“And you think that I’ll understand? That I do understand?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head; is the first one to look away. “You can’t expect them to know what you feel if you haven’t even tried speaking with them about it. You’re cutting them off before you’ve even given them a chance.” Hurt aches across your chest—you want to speak with him. Want more than anything to have that shared moment between the both of you.

You open your mouth, but he looks at you again, beating you to it. “Speak with them first,” he says firmly, his features set. “If you try honestly speaking with them, giving them the chance to look after you…and if that doesn’t work, if you feel they haven’t understood you as you need them to,” he continues, making it impossible for you to look away from him, caught up in the connection. “Then I will speak with you. You may tell me about whatever you like, what you’re reading; how your day was; anything that has taken or caught your interest, be it from the Night Court, the Autumn Court, or anywhere else in our realm. But give them a chance first.”

Your jaw is trembling lightly, a delicate heat simmering in your flesh as a cool sweat slides down your spine, overwhelmed and quietly trying to keep up.

Again you open your mouth, but again he speaks before you do. “And I know you’ll instinctively want to speak with Elain, but you always pick her first. Nesta has been through what you are going through, or at least something similar,” he says, watching you with an expression you can only call imploring. “Speak with her.”

You’re too stunned to reply, left staring at him silently.

It’s probably the most you’ve heard him say. The most the two of you have spoken so intently without the conversation taking a sharp plummet.

You barely manage a nod of your head before you acquiesce, then you’re turning from him, carefully bringing the door to a close, heading for your room while the conversation circles through your mind.

————

Slim, pale fingers latch through the delicate ceramic of the teacup’s handle, thin and elegant, easily broken with an application of force, requiring careful handling. It’s a temptation Feyre resists every time she picks one up, refusing the urge to press her fingers together and snap the thin bone-like curve. How many things had she accidentally shattered after first turning? How many spoons had she inadvertently bent?

She supposes it doesn’t matter now, but the urge is still there, stronger than usual.

The two females are sat in the parlour, a fine silver tray perched between them on a dark-wood table with ornate swirls carved into its edges and swirling up its legs. A few pastries sit untouched on a finely decorated plate, a carafe of cool cream at the edge, three flavours of jam contained to glass pots that fit nicely to the dip of one’s palm. The sugar pot remains undisturbed upon the tray, its short, golden shovel tucked deep within the sweetened grains, nestled beneath and awaiting use.

“Were you aware of it?” Feyre asks, raising the teacup to her lips, basking in the wet heat that’s rising from the steamy liquid. Across from her, Mor is cupping her own drink, heated and steaming like Feyre’s, idly swirling the thin spoon to stir in the milk.

“No,” Mor answers honestly, gazing down at the swirl of her tea, clasped between her hands. Red nails squeaking faintly across the porcelain.

“You had no right to tell her any of that,” Feyre says quietly, watching her friend from over the rim of her cup, before glancing down, and taking a sip, testing out the heat. Too hot. She takes another sip, feeling the tingling singe of pain as the scalding liquid trickles down.

“I know,” Mor agrees, also looking at her tea. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t you?”

Blue-grey eyes are watching keenly, a sharp wildness glinting just at their edge, one that’s been surfacing more and more as of late. Everything seems to have such unfortunate timing. A damn filling up to its maximum capacity, before breaking. Mor meets her High Lady’s gaze steadily, unwavering. “I didn’t.”

The connection remains unfaltering, each not wanting to look away, one for the sake of appearing mistrustful, and the other for the sake of appearing too forgiving.

“What do you think it is?” Feyre asks at last, and the two mutually avert their eyes.

“I don’t know,” Mor answers quietly. “It doesn’t feel good, though.”

Feyre sends a sharp glare in Mor’s direction, but her red lips purse. “You felt it, too,” Mor points out.

“Briefly.”

“And it set you on edge, too.”

“I also only came into contact with magic a few years ago. Don’t give me excuses.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Mor grits out, raising amber eyes from her pale mug. “I hardly noticed it having an affect until you appeared.”

“Because you were too caught up in all the emotions you wanted to unload onto my sister.”

“I’m not trying to make you pick sides,” Mor says carefully.

“Good. Then don’t.”

“You know it’s a tender wound,” she whispers, lowering her mug. “It shouldn’t have come out like it did, but it hurts.”

“You know what else hurts, Mor?”

The rest of that sentence lies unspoken between them.

Feyre knows she’s being unfair, that she clearly is picking a side. But she’s speaking as Mor’s friend, and also a sister. Not as High Lady.

Mor once again raises her eyes to Feyre’s blue-grey set, putting every ounce of sincerity, and truth she can find within herself behind her amber eyes. “I wasn’t myself,” Mor whispers, fingers paling from their grip on the cup. “I don’t know what happens with her magic, but it’s influential, even on me.”

“You want me to let this slide, then?” Feyre questions, her jaw set but there’s an obvious conflict in her eyes. Neither of them are enjoying this fallout.

“No,” Mor concedes, looking away. “My actions are my own, and I agree I went too far. But you felt it, too. You know what I’m talking about, Feyre.” The two females share a look. “Madja’s going to be here to check up on her soon, isn’t she?” Mor asks, earnestly.

“Every day, at ten o’clock.”

“Ask her to give her own opinion. What it feels like,” Mor urges. “I know my anger, I know how I hurt, and I don’t lose myself like that.”

Feyre’s lips are pursed, her brow pinched. Fatigue lines beneath her eyes, the stress of a newborn unavoidable, even with all the support being offered. It’s not easy for her. For anyone.

Not easy to deal with everything else, either. Not to mention a sister who apparently wants to die, on top of all that.

There’s so much to think about…it’s inevitable a mistake will be made.

“I’ll mention it to Madja.” Feyre relents, drinking deeply from her tea, savouring the hot liquid on her tongue. “Maybe she can offer some insight to what’s going on.”

Insight. If only it were available for the mountain pile of other problems plaguing their lives. That might crumble into an avalanche, if they aren’t careful.

————

“It’s good to see you again,” Madja greets, her round face smiling as she enters your chambers. “How have you been?”

You manage a reciprocating smile, hands tucking together in your lap as you shift on the bed. “I’m good, for the most part anyway.”

“For the most part?” She questions, taking a seat, and you toe off your slippers to settle properly against the pillows. “I…my magic flared up a little yesterday,” you admit, glancing at your toughened, flaky skin. “It didn’t hurt like it usually does; I hardly felt it. Though I was a little carried away…”

Madja nods gently. “Yes, Feyre mentioned something about that.” You look up at the healer with raised brows. “…she did?”

“She requested I look into it, if I could; it’s something I would like to discuss with you, before we start with the checkup,” she tells you clearly, that gentle look in her eyes that helps keep you at ease.

Your tongue flicks over your lips, but you agree.

“Your sister spoke of your magic feeling deathly,” Madja begins. “I’d like to see if there are any abnormalities that appear while it is in use—if you think you can manage that?”

“You’d like me to… You want me to intentionally use it?” You question, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “I don’t know…I…”

“If you’re worried about it getting out of control, or that you might injure me, I will remind you that I am a healer,” she says solemnly. “And if you are still concerned, I can tell you that your sister and I agreed it might be better if the High Lord were present, should anything get out of hand. He is available should you wish for that reassurance.”

Something sinks in your chest—you’d forgotten Madja is their healer, that she is theirs more than she is yours. She’s just doing her job.

“I…I should be able to do it on my own,” you hedge, looking at your palms. Nobody else can see how ugly your skin is. Your sisters…Madja…technically Azriel too, though he hasn’t seen it now that it’s crawled up your arms…you don’t want to have that humiliation with anyone else than you must. “If that’s okay with you?” You check, looking at her.

Madja smiles, nodding her head. “That is fine by me. Whenever you’re ready.”

Teeth worry the interior of your lip, but you splay your hands out, palms tipped upward as you recall their tingle, gathering what you can remember and bringing it to the tips of your fingers. There’s no more than a slight itch beneath your skin.

It comes easier to you that it has done before, and you can’t help the breath of ease that slips into your lungs. Before it had felt stunted, like it was trying to squeeze a full, fleshy body through a windowpane of jagged glass, slicing itself as it attempted to crawl out. But now… “There’s no pain…”

You stare down at the faint green glow, the golden shine at the edge of your skin. You could simply push, and— The light brightens, filling your flesh and shining from your knuckles, hands encompassed in the strong light.

Madja opens her hands, fingers splayed as she approaches you gently, before you feel a slight company. Something else joining you. You try to push toward it, in the direction of her magic so she can examine it better, like you do when offering your hands, shifting yourself so she can better access them.

Madja nods, and you let the magic recede back into your body, curling itself up into a peaceful rest. “I’m going to check your torso now, please hold still.” Her hands open over your body, palm settling firmly over your rib cage, that tingling warmth sinking into your skin. Her brows narrow. “You’re going to feel a brief surge of heat…” she murmurs, eyes closed in concentration.

Sure enough, there’s a small spike in temperature, and a slight sting in the aftermath but it fades swiftly enough. Her palms inch over a bit, slowly making their way across your stomach, fingertips still faintly hot with power as she continues with the checkup. You keep yourself as relaxed as possible but your heart is beating faster than usual at the discovery.

“Another quick surge,” she murmurs, and you nod despite her eyes being closed. You feel a small ball of tension popping along with a careful, targeted burst of heat. You ease a full breath into your lungs.

Her brows furrow as she settles her palms over the base of your sternum. “Will you activate your magic again?” She requests, voice faint while she concentrates. You do as she says, unspooling it again, and the heat of her palms intensifies in response to your own. “Can you bring it into your body? Away from your hands?” She asks, and your brows furrow. You’ve never tried to manipulate its centre before…but you can try now.

Your eyes flutter shut, easing back incrementally into the bed, allowing the power to prickle up your arms, crawling between the bones, wrapping around your shoulders…the two of you recoil at the same time, though you flinch from the sting of pain that splits down your spine; lacerating across your chest; through your lungs, while Madja’s retreat is from shock. The corners of her mouth are slack. Her eyes dark.

“I’m sorry,” you say frantically, trying to sit upright, “I didn’t mean— Are you okay? Did it get you?”

Madja looks at your torso, then at her hands. Then she’s settling her palms back atop your ribs. “Will you repeat that?”

You pause, looking at her as she gently guides you to lay back in the bed. “Madja…I’m not sure…are you okay?”

“I’m very well,” she replies with a smile, voice as soft and smooth as it usually is. Carefully curated to put you at ease. “I saw something that I should examine in more detail, if that’s possible. Will you repeat it?”

You look at her, lost. Concerned. Helpless. You swallow. “Okay…”

Your lids slide shut, and you reach for the power again, feeling as Madja’s warmth begins seeping into your torso, filtering through your vessel as heat begins rising in a steeper intensity to your surface, as if being called to one place by her magic. Again, you own power sprawls itself across your palms, dragging itself higher, slinking between bone and muscle, threading itself through sinew and cartilage until it reaches your shoulders, and…

“Try and hold it steady,” Madja tells you, the heat from her hands amplifying at the peak, just as you power curls itself to strike down from your shoulders.

Your throat shuts, eyes squeezed closed as you attempt to grapple with it, hands balled into fists as perspiration breaks on your brow. Trying to keep it from lashing at your internals, causing that familiar, piercing pain.

“I want you to try pushing it back to your hands now,” she instructs, but you’re struggling enough as it is. Barely keeping it contained. You need to breathe.

Madja releases her magic over your torso, and the weight of your power increases, your body straining beneath the tension when she removes that blanket that had been between you and this blazing magic. But then both her hands are firmly gripping your own, and you can feel as it filters through you, prying the pain away, dragging it back down into your forearms, then your palms, and eventually your fingertips, until it’s dissipated entirely.

You inhale heavily, breathing ragged as you try to calm yourself. “What…what was that…?”

Madja’s quiet, thumbs stroking carefully over your knuckles, keeping her magic to a faint pulse so she doesn’t upset your skin. “Will you breathe with me?” She asks. “Deep breath in…hold…one, two, three…slowly exhale…” She makes you repeat the process thrice before deeming your pulse to be relatively calmed. She offers you the glass of water that’s always sat by your bed, never draining, and you take a few sips to appease her, then a few more. A couple of small gulps, before handing it back to her.

You lick your lips, finding them hot and crisp.

She looks at you solemnly. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your magic, if you feel right enough to manage,” she tells you calmly. “I would like you to answer with as much clarity as you can. It’s imperative you’re truthful and don’t hide anything. Are you alright with that?”

You stare at her, bewildered—where has this come from? Is it serious? Are you going to die? Is it going to be painful? Will you know when it happens? Or will you have no warning. Is it happening now? About to?

You inhale sharply, deeply, breaking out of those thoughts. Exhaling heavily, before managing to nod.

“How long have you known you’ve had magic?” Madja starts with.

“…I think maybe two months? I can’t remember exactly how long ago it was that I first realised what was happening…”

“Perfect. And can you tell me what made you first realise you had magic?”

“I think it was when…I had an altercation with someone, and felt upset and angry. My hands were glowing.”

“Great. I believe you’ve mentioned a feeling that accompanies your magic?”

“Yes. …It used to hurt a lot, but recently hasn’t? The past few times, at least. Not while it’s been in my hands, anyway.”

“Lovely, you’re doing well,” she smiles. “You sister mentioned a deathly feeling to those around you, have you ever noticed that?”

“No. No, not a deathly feeling. I had no idea it felt like that for other people.”

“Okay, can you tell me how it feels for you?”

“It’s…it used to be like burning? My fingers and hands would hurt a lot. They would sweat, and I would feel dizzy some nights…I used to get up to drown my hands in water, when it started.”

Madja nods, her brows furrowed faintly as she listens carefully—believing you. Your heart tightens, and you avert your gaze.

“And all of that has been happening over the past two months or so?” She inquires.

“Well, no…I…” you pause, trying to grapple with your memory, get it into a coherent, linear form. “I’ve…I experienced the sweats, and nausea, and dizziness a lot when I first…after the…when we came to Prythian,” you answer. Madja nods her head encouragingly, and you wet your lips. “Sleeping was difficult, and it lasted for a few months before I could be normal again…I think we each had our own…moments, after the Cauldron.”

“But you didn’t experience any feelings similar to what you now know is your magic?” She asks, offering you the full glass of water, that you sip from again. Hand it back. “No. Those have only been in the past couple of months.”

Madja pauses in thought, her round face tightened as she thinks, though she doesn’t look unkind, or stern. She still looks like Madja. Then she looks up again, her warm brown eyes softened, an intent look on her face. “And how have you been feeling?”

“Me? I...” You trail off, unsure how to answer. “I’ve…been reading a lot…?”

She smiles, “that’s lovely, but I mean how have you been feeling internally?”

Her lips twitch when your brows furrow in question, looking at her strangely. “You’ve been telling me about your physical senses, tell me about how you’ve been feeling these past few months. I can imagine it might be scary to go through this?”

“Oh…I suppose…”

“You sound unsure,” Madja speculates, “do you not feel fear is an accurate descriptor?”

“I mean, I’ve been scared when it happens, naturally. It hurts, and I don’t know what causes it, or how long it will last, so I suppose in those moments it is scary.”

“But the rest of the time?” Madja prompts. “I understand you were staying up in the House of Wind, by yourself for the most part. Do you like being alone?”

“I guess I do,” you hedge, “I don’t…there wasn’t really anywhere else to go. And I liked having my own space up there, so I think it worked well. Plus I could access the libraries, so I enjoyed that part a lot.”

“You’re a big reader,” she smiles, nodding her head. “What do you like to read?”

“Mostly whatever I can find, but I like the books that tell me more about the world. There’s a lot of information I never would have gotten access to as a human, like the different climates in each of the courts, some small accounts of what it’s like overseas, where the food we eat comes from too which I find particularly intriguing. The plants and flowers are engaging too—you can see correlations between the flora and fauna distinct to each court and the characteristics they each exhibit, which I find fascinating.”

Madja’s smile broadens as she nods her head, eyes twinkling. “I remember first learning about their benefits, how different plants have certain properties too. Often plants endemic to the Dawn Court are the most potent, and it’s where we import a lot of the ingredients for medicine from.”

“Yes! I remember reading about that! But that sometimes the riversides and shores struggle with overgrowth, and measures are made to make sure seeds don’t spread too far. I remember reading too about the animals there—that a lot of them seem more jovial, compared to their relations in other courts.”

Madja’s smiling so wide you can see her teeth, one of her canines is slightly twisted inward, and the teeth on her lower jaw are a little crooked in places. You can’t see anything wrong with them—they’re just hers.

“And who else do you tell all of this?” She asks, “I imagine you would have read a lot over the course of your time here so far, who do you share all of it with?”

“I don’t…really,” you say, trailing off. “I don’t mind though. I love reading.”

“Elain enjoys botany too, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but to the extent that she can have, I suppose. She has a garden that she keeps alive, and she bakes, too. They’re similar interests but they ultimately lead in different directions.”

“So you don’t speak with anyone about what you enjoy?” Madja asks, and you blink, fumbling a little.

“I…I choose not to, so it’s fine,” you assure. “I like reading. And I speak with Azriel about…” You wet your lips, voice fading. “I mean when I was up in the House of Wind…we spoke a lot more.”

Madja’s watching you quietly, listening to what you have to say. It feels like she’s expecting you to continue, and you don’t want it to be quiet, for the conversation to halt its flow, so you think of something to say. “We spoke a lot more…back then…”

“Has something changed?” She asks.

You look down into your lap, feeling a little far off. Distant. Not entirely present.

“I like his company…” you say vaguely, “but he’s busy, and hardworking. …and I don’t think he…” Your lips curl at the edges like dried leaves tend to beneath the sun, then they seal together. “I think he finds me a bother, at times.”

Madja’s quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to continue. Silence falls.

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been feeling that way?” She asks gently, allowing pause for you to recollect yourself, should you wish. “I think a few months,” you murmur.

“And can you tell me why you think he finds you bothersome?” Madja asks.

Your lips part by a fraction, a small gap opening between the centre of your upper and lower lip, then you’re closing them again. “I…I make bad choices, quite a lot,” you answer quietly. “And I…I don’t make it easy to be around.”

“I think your company is lovely,” Madja says softly, palm resettling over your hand, drawing your attention back outward. “What makes you think you’re difficult to be around?”

You open your mouth to give your answer, but your throat tightens sharply, lips forcefully being dragged down in the corners, and you crumple back into the bed. “I am,” you insist, eyes growing hot, then squeezing shut when they blur. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to be normal around him. I feel like every time we speak I make it so obvious…and he doesn’t like it…and I just…”

You pull your hands away from hers to try and hide your face, to push the tears away as they fall heavily. “I wish I hadn’t tried to tell him what I…how I felt for him. I never should have…”

“Does how you’re feeling right now have any reason to do with why I was tasked with looking after you?” Madja asks, voice softened to a tender effect, and you could weep from how believable she sounds.

“He finds me a nuisance,” you whisper, hot tears dripping down your lowered face, letting them roll down your cheeks to collect at the underside of your jaw, before falling heavily into the crisp linen of the sheets. “I’m always causing him trouble of some kind. All of them.”

Heat wells behind your eyes, wishing you could go back and reorganise events so things wouldn’t have ended up like this. So you wouldn’t have caused him so much trouble, and given him reason to further distrust you. At least before he trusted you enough to give reliable recollections of your sister. If only you could go back to then.

You could at least have a use.

Madja’s thumb gently swipes across your knuckles, magic softly seeping from her fingertips. “You’re not a nuisance,” she replies solemnly. “You are not causing them trouble.”

You stare at her with a down-tilted mouth, and tears overflow from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as your brows bunch, heart aching in your chest as small sobs break through your lungs. “I am,” you cry, head hanging as you try to inhale, but your body takes control of itself when it’s sad, and it’s not giving you chance to breathe. Madja, I am.

“Is this how you’ve been feeling these past few months?” She murmurs, stroking your palm, a hand at your shoulder as you curl your knees up to your chest, pulling them from beneath the duvet. You nod.

“I thought it might be something like this,” Madja sighs, making you look up questioningly, pushing at the tears so you can better see her. She takes both your hands in her own, and looks into your eyes. “There’s no quick fix to matters of the heart. The way you’re feeling right now, the way you’ve felt in the past, and the lows you’ll experience in the future—I can do very little right now to give ends to those. But what’s going on with your magic, within your body—that we can work on. We can start somewhere familiar, and take steps from there. How does that sound?”

But despite her good words, you shake your head. “I can’t, Madja,” you whisper. “I don’t want to.”

“Sometimes you have to,” she says, squeezing your hands. “Do you believe I have any reason to lie to you?”

You shake your head.

“Then have faith that I’m telling you the truth: you are not troubling them.”

You watch her, a pained look in your eyes. “I can’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Madja,” you cry. “It doesn’t matter what you say, or what anyone else says. I am convinced. I know it like you know a bone will break under pressure, or that adding sugar to a tea will sweeten it. How I feel is not temporary, or fleeting, it is ceaseless and pervasive; it’s not something you can simply disprove like that—please don’t try to.”

“But in the same way I know a bone will snap with too much force, I know you are not as bad as you think you are.”

“Please, Madja,” you whisper. “If you can’t help me, do me the courtesy of believing me.”

The healer is silent, gripping your hands with her own warm palms, squeezing them gently but firm. “I do believe you,” she says with conviction. “I believe you because I have seen what you are going through, and I know how you’re feeling is as real as a broken bone, or sweetened tea. But the bone will heal, and the tea will cool—can we both agree on that?”

You cast your head down, eyes falling to your lap. “I chose poor analogies.”

Madja thumbs across your knuckles. You can hear the almost sad smile in her voice. “Then I’ll return tomorrow and you can tell me what you’ve come up with.”

———

Outside, the wind bites at your throat, stinging at your nostrils with each inhale, burning on the way out.

You clasp the scarf tighter around your neck, shoving your hands under your arms as you make the walk down the streets, careful to watch for ice on the cobbles. Winter is a while off yet, but the nights are becoming frigid enough for you to keep an eye out, particularly as the sun hasn’t yet gotten to her point in the sky where she could thaw any frost out.

Before midday you find blues and purples lurking in the shadows, greens and yellows splashing where the sun spills across the exterior of coloured houses, shop windows shining viciously where the light is hitting just at the right angle to temporarily blind and disorientate. Though an upside of Prythian is the magic that’s infused into the land, sustaining special plants that thrive in this environment: frost lilies that bloom in the coldest months, taking their water from the dew that freezes on their petals over night; moon drops that have a pale, hanging outer shell of short petals that shrivel up and die if faced with an overdose of pure sunlight; the pale pink sprawl of the lengthened, stretching leaves that creep up from the earth between houses and cobble, settling narrow, capillary-like veins spreading across whatever they can cling onto.

The long walk is enjoyable, despite the intrusive and unpleasant cold. Enough to look at, study, and recognise, to preoccupy your mind from the chill nipping at your skin, even beneath the gloves. By the time you reach the house however, your body is freer flowing, less stiff and disjointed though your extremities remain a little on the numb side, fingertips tingling faintly, and you have to remember to keep wiggling your toes in your shoes. But you’re warm enough you’ll be happy to discard the scarf once you’re inside—if she’s inside.

Looking where the shadows lie, you would think it’s an hour or so from midday, so Nesta should be in… As far as you know for certain, training is the only activity that might be an obstacle, but that should surely be done by now.

Their house is a relatively new build, but finished enough for them to have moved into soon after their mating ceremony. While remaining naturally a little barren from its short-lived existence, there’re obvious touches already emerging in the patterns and style they’ve opted for, selecting things that catch their eye, taking time to build a home rather than to rush it in a year.

A window of stained glass sits in a half-circle atop the wooden door, the panels that make up the imagery mostly clear. Dimples ripple in the crystal clear frames, while the neat cuts of coloured glass are smooth and flat, showing off the sprawling petals of a tuft of milk flowers—you realise with vague surprise milk flowers are endemic to the Night Court, but perhaps more interestingly are mostly found in Illyria. Exclusively found, rather. They’re rare, and symbols of endurance, due to the unforgiving and brutal environment they live in, remaining a small beauty amongst the barren rock of mountain. Compared to the wealth of information available on other plants, there’s little recorded about milk flowers, likely due to their habitat up in the Illyrian Steppes.

You wonder if it’s a subtle way to hold onto Cassian’s history, without brutalising their home with architecture particular to the Illyrians: exhibiting traits expressed as sturdy and practical—an antithesis of that aspiration caught in the elegance of the stained glass.

Maybe that’s a bit of Nesta’s humour bleeding through.

You land three knocks to their door, starting with a hard strike to the wood with your knuckles then a sharp decrease in force when pain bleeds through your carpals, the final knock hardly louder than a soft tap, all but giving out entirely. You cradle your hands beneath your arms, regretting the bout of recklessness.

No noise comes from inside, so you’re startled when the door opens, sharp hazel eyes peering at you from within the relative darkness, watching for a second before the door opens wider and a broad smile breaks across his face. “Well aren’t you far from home,” Cassian chuckles, shoulder keeping the entrance open, “what are you doing all the way out here? On a mission?”

You swallow, managing a smile, understanding he’s joking but too drained to be believably reciprocative. “Somewhat,” you reply, trying to sound humorous, “is Nesta in, too?”

“I should have known you’d be here to visit her,” Cassian remarks, sighing into the frame before gesturing for you to come inside. “Come in, I’ll go pull her from her reading.”

You give an appreciative nod before following in behind him, catching the door as it closes with an oomf, surprised by its heavy weight, knocking you back a step. You gingerly step inside, crouching down to untie the laces of your boots, freeing your socked feet as you push the shoes to the rack before again standing, peering about the entrance hall. The walls are pale, having not yet been painted with whatever colour or wallpaper they’ll eventually settle on. From around the corner you can make out the faint pad of footfalls, and Nesta appears a few seconds later, sharp eyes finding you instantly. She greets you. Asks you why you came.

You fumble. How does one begin a conversation like this?

“I…haven’t visited in a while,” you end up telling her. “I thought I might come by—if you aren’t busy? It’s not urgent,” you quickly add.

“I’ve nothing planned,” she replies, glancing to where the light is falling on the floor. “It’s a little early for lunch, but I suppose we can begin.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assure, “I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“What will take long?”

“Nothing,” you affix, blinking once.

Nesta hums, then turns in the hallway. “Then we can go to the sitting room. It’s still lacking some furniture here and there, just so you know.”

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you with your head turned, then follow after her as she makes her way down the hallway and to the right, entering through an empty doorway that leads to the living room. She takes a seat in a chair with a dipped pillow, guessing it was where she’d been before you interrupted. You take a seat adjacent.

Ataraxia lays upon the table like a discarded shopping list, except much bigger, and much deadlier.

“So,” Nesta muses, “what did you want to speak with me about?”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @fae-glamour-petrichorus @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay

#azriel x reader #azriel x reader fic #azriel x reader angst #azriel multi part fic #acotar multi part fic #cbmthy #cbmthy chapter 19 #can’t bring myself to hate you

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psycho-pills · 1 month ago

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A Second Life for Strays! ฅ (•˕ •マ.ᐟ sylus x reader fanfic // prev // next

౨ৎ⭑˚ RATING; 18+ (mdni)

౨ৎ⭑˚ PAIRING; sylus x afab!reader (not the mc)

౨ৎ⭑˚ SYNOPSIS; you are a soldier reincarnated into the world of love and deepspace, except you're not the mc. she still exists. despite looking exactly like her, you don’t act or sound the same. and to make things stranger, cats follow you everywhere.

౨ৎ⭑˚ GENRE/WARNING; angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (mutual?) pining, eventual fluff, eventual romance, eventual smut, cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, mental breakdowns, ptsd, death, isekai, reincarnation, cats/cat puns, mc is named serenophe to avoid confusion/reader is not mc

౨ৎ⭑˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE; a gentle reminder: this is written in third-person limited with she/her pronouns. only the prologue is written in second-person. i use the terms [name] [surname] instead of (y/n) (y/ln) because it's easier for me to write. also, i know this idea is kinda weird and outlandish, but i love cats and love and deepspace, so why not combine the two? ;v;

౨ৎ⭑˚ LINKS; ao3 // masterpost

ch. one — a cat-astrophic realization! ౨ৎ⭑˚ word count; 3.9k

Where… She thinks. Where am I?

Her eyes flutter open before immediately squinting from the fluorescent lights above. The constant beeping of the patient monitor spikes in sound as her heartbeat increases. Instinctively, her hand reaches to shield her eyes, only to stop short with a sharp tug. A flash of pain shoots up her arm, drawing her attention to the thin IV tube embedded in her skin. She grits her teeth and lowers her hand, squinting through the blinding lights.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. One eye peeks open, the other still closed in protest. She slowly sweeps over the room. As her surroundings come into focus, her heart rate steadies.

The hospital room is bathed in morning light that filters through the large windows. As [Name] glances toward the windows, long shadows cross the room. Outside, there's a breathtaking view of the bustling, futuristic city below. The overall view of the world is serene, completely unlike the storm of confusion in [Name]'s mind.

The room is comfortably sized. Modern yet contemporary furniture and pale grey walls accommodate the small space. Sleek medical equipment lines the side of the room, but there's a sense of luxury present. Crisp linen sheets, plush chairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. It's more like a boutique hotel than a hospital room.

A soft beige blanket covers her body, and the scent of jasmine whiffs up her nose. An unoccupied recliner sits in the corner near the windows, perhaps meant for a visitor; however, the room is isolated. The medical equipment strap to her arm and chest drones on. The rhythmic beeping indicated the steady tracking of her vitals. A small monitor occasionally blinks, recording her heartbeat and oxygen levels.

As she begins to stir, her body drags her down. Everything feels heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, even her thoughts. There's an overwhelming sense of disorientation like she's floating between worlds. Memories stir, hazy at first, but slowly they sharpen. One after the other, they trickle back—chaos, pain, death.

Her death.

Her body feels sore, but her head feels worse. She remembers the battlefield. She remembers succumbing to her bullet wound. The sensation of death still lingers like a cold shadow. Yet now, with her eyes fully adjusted, she takes in the pristine hospital room, and it becomes apparent that something is wrong.

I'm alive.

The thought feels impossible. Absurd, even. And yet here she is—breathing, heart pounding—fully conscious. It was like she finally woke up from a long, deep coma.

With more awareness, she takes in the room. Across from her bed is a small, flat-screen television, turned off, reflecting the room's dusky mood. Besides it, a small door leads to what she assumes is an adjoining bathroom. Everything about the room is carefully designed to be soothing, sterile, and impersonal. However, it's oddly welcoming in a way she can't quite grasp.

Her body protests as she fumbles to sit up, mindful of the tubes and wires attached to her arm and chest. As she adjusts herself, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the dark, glassy screen of the television. With some effort, she leans forward to take in her appearance better.

Instantly, [Name]'s breath catches in her throat. She pauses. Her reflection stares back at her, but something is off. Her face is hers, but it's not. All of her features are the same. Hair, eyes, mouth, nose… However, everything is just sharper now. Clearer. Her skin smoother, and her hair fuller. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she looks almost identical to the female lead of her favorite otome game.

But that can't be right. Can it?

A chill runs down her spine, and her eyes dart downward to her chest. Panic flares in her gut as she remembers the battlefield, the bullet wound that should have taken her life. Slowly, as if afraid of what she'll find, she hooks a finger under the collar of her hospital gown and pulls it away from her body, expecting to see a scar, a wound, anything.

There's nothing. Her skin is smooth, unmarked. No bullet wound, no scar, no evidence that she has ever been injured at all. Her heart stutters in her chest, and the panic she's been trying to suppress starts to rise like a wave, threatening to swallow her whole.

"What the hell is going on?" She croaks.

Her throat feels dry and scratchy, like it hasn't been used in days. A rough cough forces its way up and makes her wince. She tries to settle her breathing, but it's no use. The confusion, the fear—it's smothering her.

Just as she's about to lose herself to the spiraling thoughts, the door to her room clicks open. She jerks her head toward the sound. A man steps in, tall and composed, his black hair framing his face in sharp, elegant lines. His demeanor's cool but professional. There is a slight air of authority that immediately draws her attention.

She blinks, and her stomach drops.

There's no way.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she stares at him. It can't be. It can't be. But there's no mistaking the man standing before her, his confident stride, the careful way he carries himself. His gaze idles before settling back on his notes. She knows that face, that presence. She can practically hear her heart pound louder as the impossible claws at her.

She glances at the name tag pinned to his coat, just to be sure. Zayne. It's there, clear as day. The doctor with a cold exterior and a reputation for being emotionally untouchable. Yet beneath it all, there's a hidden tenderness. He was one of them: a character she had admired, the one whose storyline was as complex and fascinating as the others.

Her mind reels. Oh, my Gods. This can't be real.

She blinks several times, expecting his face to change into something else, but nothing happens. He's still there, as composed and meticulous as ever. The exact character she once admired behind a screen now stands right before her.

The disbelief overtakes her. It's suffocating and all-encompassing. How can this be happening? She died—she remembers dying—and yet, she woke up here. Her body tenses. Her muscles tighten as the pieces of her situation fall into place, and realization sinks its teeth into her.

She can't breathe. It's impossible. All of this, everything around her, feels like a nightmare. A twisted dream she can't wake up from. There's no way, there's no way she's been reincarnated. And not just anywhere. In the world of Love and Deepspace, the very game she escaped into for fun is her new reality now.

"You're awake," Zayne says calmly, but verging on something more unreadable. Confusion? Suspicion? He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face longer than a doctor's should. [Name] can tell he's trying to remain composed. However, his eyes hold hesitance, like he's looking at something he can't believe.

Slowly, as if worried she might vanish if he speaks too quickly, he continues, "I'm Dr. Zayne, and you will be under my care for the foreseeable future." His voice is smooth, but his words are cautious.

"And you must be Miss…" He pauses and glances down at the file. His eyes squint as if the name doesn't match what he was expecting. "…[Name] [Surname]."

She swallows, almost choosing silence, but her raspy voice escapes anyway.

"Yes?"

The word barely sounds confident. She's frozen under his gaze, trapped in disbelief. Zayne's sharp eyes roam her face, drifting down to her upper body. It's not the casual assessment of a doctor checking on a patient. No, this look—it's familiar. It's the same gaze she used to see when playing the game, the moments when his character's cold exterior would briefly soften during some of his bonds and memoria. Her stomach churns with anxiety.

What. The. Fuck.

Zayne pushes his glasses up, and his professional mask slips back on. He steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, but she can sense the tension beneath it.

"I'm just checking for any signs of concussion or physical injuries," he says. However, it sounds more like he's reassuring himself than her.

He leans in, and his eyes dart over her face. He scans her features for any signs of bruises or swelling. "Given your condition when you were brought in, we need to monitor for potential head trauma."

[Name] stays silent as he gently lifts the edge of her gown at her shoulder. His fingers brush her skin as he places the cold metal of the stethoscope against her chest. His touch is light and purely professional, but she can't help but feel a rising discomfort.

Zayne may act like this is routine, but she can see the tension in his posture and how his gaze keeps finding her face. He's trying to hide it, but she can tell—he's scrutinizing her for more than physical injuries. It's like he's trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

The metal is cold and harsh. She inhales deeply without him even asking. Then she exhales, and the stethoscope leaves her chest not a moment sooner. He scribbles something down in his notes. Almost hesitantly.

"Everything seems to be in order. There doesn't appear to be any visible scarring or physical trauma," Zayne mutters. A bit too neutral. As he steps back, his eyes idle on her a beat longer than necessary. "Regardless, we'll run a few more tests to be sure."

She gives a slow nod, observing how his jaw tenses as he adjusts the equipment by her bedside. He's trying to play it cool, but the cracks are there. Something is bothering him, and she knows exactly what it is.

He recognizes her face.

She looks too much like the heroine of the game, the one who's the center of this world's story. [Name] isn't supposed to be here. She isn't the main character of the game. She's something else—an anomaly.

Zayne frowns when he catches her staring at him. He quickly returns to his task, clearing his throat like it can shake off his weariness. "If you're feeling any discomfort, let me know. We'll have the results of your tests soon." He says calmly, but his eyes still carry that hint of confusion.

As he jots more notes on her chart, her mind spirals. This is far more than she expected, far more surreal, terrifying, and overwhelming. She never anticipated finding herself in this situation, least of all being reincarnated into her favorite otome game. But here she is, alive in a world she once thought was fiction.

Zayne looks at her again, his lips parting like he's about to speak. His face is composed; however, there's a shadow of skepticism beneath. Yet before he can get a word out, the buzz of his pager cuts through the moment. Instantly, the room's atmosphere shifts and his posture straightens.

The hospital's overhead speaker crackles to life, the receptionist's voice urgent: "Code Blue. Code Blue. Paging all medical personnel to surgical room two, please."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he hesitates. Zayne gives her one last look, like he's trying to commit her to memory. When the voice over the intercom repeats the emergency, he finally breaks away. His eyes tear from her face with visible reluctance.

"Please excuse me," he says with urgency as he prepares to leave. "If you need anything, Nurse Yvonne is down the hall."

Without waiting for her response, he sharply turns and exits the room. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. In his absence, the room feels eerily still, like the air is holding its breath. Then, the silence starts to eat away at her. The impossible truth digs into her, and something inside snaps.

In one swift motion, she throws the sheets away from her lower body. [Name] swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands—albeit too quickly. Her legs, frail from disuse, buckle beneath her. She stumbles, catching herself on the IV pole.

The cold metal anchors her as she settles down. Her muscles are weak, but determination propels her forward. [Name] drags the IV stand along as she shuffles toward the attached bathroom. Her steps awkward and sluggish.

Reaching the door, she kicks it open with the bare heel of her foot, too focused on her next task to bother with formalities. She lumbers inside, not even closing the door behind her. The thirst clawing at her throat is unbearable, a raw itch that she can no longer ignore. Like a starved animal, she ducks under the sink. She twists the faucet open and lets the crisp, refreshing water pour into her mouth. The liquid soothes her parched throat, the cool sensation spreading through her body as she gulps down as much as possible.

When finally sated, [Name] wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns off the faucet. However, just as she's about to leave the bathroom, her eyes catch something in the corner of the mirror—her own reflection. She freezes, seeing her face a lot clearer in the bathroom mirror than with the television's blackened screen.

Slowly, she leans closer, her hospital gown brushing against the wet edge of the sink. Her breath catches in her throat as she studies herself. "It’s me," she whispers. "But… Different."

Her fingers rise to touch her face, to trace the contours of her facial features. [Name] turns her face left, then right, her brow furrowing. Despite the striking resemblance to the game's protagonist, there's something off—something that makes it evident that she's different. Something subtle but undeniable. She's not the protagonist, but she's dangerously close. It's like she's staring at a near-perfect replica with slight imperfections that make it clear she's an outsider.

A thought jolts her back to the present. Actually, she thinks, why did Zayne call me by my real name? If I look this much like the protagonist, shouldn't he have called me—

Her mind goes blank. She tries to recall the heroine's name, the one who should be at the center of this world, but… nothing. She can't remember. Her forehead creases as she struggles to dig the name out of her memory. Yet the name remains out of reach, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. [Name]'s mind is foggy; that part of her knowledge yet to recover from her reincarnation.

The blankness gnaws at her, but she pushes it aside. She can't focus on that right now. Her mind races to piece together what little information she has. Considering Zayne's reaction, he knew she wasn't her despite how closely she resembled the protagonist. That may be why he called [Name] by her real name instead. Yet this realization only poses more questions. How does he know her name? And, more importantly, who had brought her to the hospital? Zayne's words implied that someone dumped her here, but why?

Her thoughts swirl as she steps out of the bathroom, a little steadier now. [Name] is exhausted, mentally and physically, and all she wants is to make sense of this unfathomable situation. She heads back to bed, ready to collapse. But just as she's about to sit down, she stops dead in her tracks.

A plump tuxedo cat is lounging on the sheets. Its round face stares at her with a manner that borders on playful mischief. Its green eyes gleam with amusement at her shock. The sight is so unexpected that she blinks several times in a row.

"Um," she stammers, gesturing the cat away from the bed. "Can you move?"

The absurdity of talking to a cat doesn't even faze her anymore. After everything she's been through, who will judge her? She's all alone in this strange, new reality.

"Sure," the cat replies. High-pitched and child-like.

Her heart skips a beat. The cat just spoke.

Like everything's normal, the plump creature hops off the bed and waddles to the counter. [Name] stills. Her mind struggles to catch up with the sheer insanity in front of her. She can only watch as the cat leaps onto the counter and grabs a clear plastic bag hidden in the sink with his mouth. The cat drags the bag out, dropping it unceremoniously with a dull thud. The contents of the bag spill out in front of her—her military uniform, stiff with dried blood around the breast pocket. The sight of the uniform jolts her, the memories of the battlefield flooding back too quickly for comfort.

"Change," the cat orders, his tone matter-of-fact. "We're leaving."

Her mind stalls. She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. All she can do is stare in utter disbelief. It takes a moment before her body reacts at all. When it finally does, she starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical, almost tipping on sobs. She's dreaming. She has to be. It's the only logical explanation for everything.

"I've officially lost it," she gasps between fits of maddened laughter, clutching her sides as tears sting her eyes. Suddenly, the room feels uncanny, like she's trapped in some B-rated horror movie. She crawls onto the bed with shaky hands, diving under the sheets and wrapping herself in darkness.

She shuts her eyes tightly, curling into herself and willing everything to disappear. A soft chant escapes her lips. Fragile. Desperate. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."

The silence that follows is almost palpable. Heavy. The only sound is the soft patter of paws on the tiled floor, growing louder as they approach. Suddenly, she feels the bed dip next to her head. The cat's weight presses into the pillow. Before she can react, the tuxedo cat tugs at the edge of the blanket, pulling it back just enough to reveal her face.

"Stop playing around, Human," the cat says impatiently. "We gotta scram before they find you."

Her eyes snap open, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of reality—or whatever this is—crashes down on her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless.

"Who?" [Name] croaks out, barely above a whisper. "Who's coming to get me?"

The cat lets out a huff, a sound that might have been a purr if it wasn't laced with annoyance. "Do you really want to find out?" His tone is sarcastic like the answer should be obvious.

[Name] shakes her head slowly, her body unable to process the fear and confusion fast enough. She barely understands what’s happening, but something deep inside warns her that whoever—or whatever—is coming for her won’t be friendly. Sensing her resignation, the cat sits back on his haunches, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Good," the cat says with a slight nod. "The name's Spots, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask."

Another silence settles between them, until [Name] realizes Spots is waiting for her to get up. She stills for a moment, weighing her options.

She could stay here, close her eyes, and hope this dream fades into nothingness. Maybe everything is just a product of her exhausted mind. A hallucination caused by trauma and stress. Maybe, if she holds on long enough, she’ll wake up in the real world, back to the life she knows. However, something tells her this doesn’t end with a simple waking.

The next best solution is that she could believe what’s happening. As impossible and terrifying as it seems, she could trust the cat—or at least trust that he knows more than she does. [Name] could just ignore the absurdity of a talking cat and follow him, because the alternative is facing whoever is coming for her alone. Zayne might return, but even that possibility feels unsettling. There’s too much confusion between them, and she doesn’t know if she could handle his reaction if he discovers what she’s beginning to accept: that she doesn’t belong here.

But Spots knows. He knows something about her situation. He knows what’s coming. And right now, that makes him the only source of guidance she has.

A frustrated heave escapes her as she finalizes her decision.

"Fuck it," she mutters.

Against her better judgment, [Name] slides out of bed, her legs no longer shaky as she drags the IV pole with her. She crouches down to pick up her clothes and combat boots. She glances back at Spots. He's swinging his tail lazily, eyes closed, a Cheshire grin permanent on his fluffy face.

Like ripping off a bandage, [Name] grits her teeth as she yanks the IV tube from her arm. The sharp sting makes her wince, but she pushes through the pain. She's quick to regain her composure. Without hesitation, she slips out of her hospital gown and into her military uniform. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, a cruel memento of her death.

But as she dresses, a disturbing thought begins to nag at her. If this is a dream, then… will she wake up back on the battlefield? Back in the grassy outskirts, far from the perishing city, fighting some meaningless war? Did she really want to go back to that? Can she even go back to that?

Her hand instinctively drifts to her heart, to the spot where the bullet pierced her. Her fingers brush over the dried blood. The hole in her uniform is the only proof of her last moments. She sighs and shakes her head, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. No. The mere thought of waking up back there—back in the war—terrifies her more than this new reality ever could.

Moving to the sink, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under cold water. Carefully, she dabs at the bloodstain, trying to clean it, but the water only spreads the mess. A frown tugs at her lips as she realizes her mistake. Spots hop down from the bed, noticing her frustration, and he is far too impatient to wait. He strolls over to her and stretches his paws against her leg, nudging her to pick him up.

Taking the hint, [Name] heaves and scoops the plump tuxedo cat into her arms, holding him close to her chest. Conveniently, Spots’ round body covers the bloodstain on her uniform.

"Ready?" Spots ask.

He gestures toward the closed door with his head, his green eyes narrowing to urge her forward.

Reluctantly, she nods and moves toward the exit of her hospital room. Her hand wraps around the cold doorknob, but then she hesitates. Frozen with uncertainty. Afraid of the unknown guaranteed outside this small, contained room. Her fingers still on the knob as she takes a shallow breath.

"Human," Spots purrs. It's a soothing rumble against her heart. "It's okay. Whatever happens, you have me now. You're not alone in this."

[Name] presses her lips into a tight line, reassured by the cat’s comforting words. Something about his presence, about his gentle confidence, calms her. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t care to question it. Right now, she craves stability, no matter how strange the source.

Without another word, she pulls the door open and peeks her head out. She scans the hallway. The sterile, quiet corridor stretches out in both directions. Unbeknownst to her, that first step beyond the door will set a chain reaction of events into motion, incidents and experiences that will shift the story she once knew, casting her into a role she never imagined playing.

"Here goes nothing," she whispers, stepping into the unknown.

ao3 // masterpost // prev // next

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads #lads sylus #lnds #lnds sylus #l&ds #l&ds sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x afab!reader #isekai reader #reincarnation #multi chap fic #multi chapter #chaptered #a second life for strays #psycho-pills

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thegallavault · 3 months ago

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currently locked in The Gallavault 🔒📚✨

HOOKING UP WITH FEELINGS by PEPPERMINTKATIE ↳ ↳ with cover art by LULUXA

Multi-Chapter | Rated: E | Word Count: 119K | Completed in: 2022

Mickey accidentally stayed the night after a failed hookup.

[ download from The Gallavault | leave love on AO3 | reblog the art on tumblr | follow the creators @peppermintkatie & @luluxa ]

#currently locked in The Gallavault #hooking up with feelings #multi chapter #peppermintkatie #luluxa #shameless #shameless fanfiction #shameless fan art #shameless fanart #gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #gallavich fanfic #gallavich fanart #gallavich fandom #ian x mickey #ian x mickey fanfic #ian x mickey fanart #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich

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honeypiehotchner · 2 months ago

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i’m cooking, it’s currently just over 18,000 words, and i don’t wanna say much else bc of how crazy my schedule is i wanna finish this one before i start to post it BUT just know

i’m cooking

btw hotch has this look perpetually on his face in this fic (i like to push his buttons! what can i say!)

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #k is cooking #k is writing fic again!#teeheehee #yes it’s a multi chapter fic #also fuck it #it’s enemies to lovers #and i mean y’all HATE each other #kind of #you’ll see :)

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forevercaroline · 2 years ago

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Tagging: @raaliyo, @misssophiachase @missmystic-vampirebarbie, @ceceswritings, @karinanic, @laultimahijadelcaos, @cecesrings, @austennerdita2533, @crazychicke, @charliewrites99, @midnight-2411, @midnightstaylorswift, @riverdalelover2, @dumb-bitchculture, @xoxoloverb,

Caroline throws her arms up in the air and is just letting the music from the dj booth wash over her. Being in this graffiti building that the rave is in, is freeing for her. She is not freaking out over how her life is in shambles, every night either at a rave or a nightclub she is just a blonde American enjoying the Spanish nightlife.

Harlan notices Cyrus looking at him and they hold each other's gaze. Cyrus is shirtless showing off his 6 pack abs and fit physique. He is only in a pair of jeans with a white tank top sticking out of the back pocket. Harlan takes his black razor back tank top off revealing his six pack abs and fit physique. Both guys look like they were cut out of marble. They are both so stunningly beautiful. They both look each other up and down.

Caroline notices them looking at each other and rolls her eyes and continues dancing. It’s been about a week since they all met each other and Harlan and Cyrus still haven’t talked they just look at each other from across the bar or dance floor.

#caroline forbes #multi chapters #katherine pierce #damon salvatore #caroline salvatore #battle for royalty #enzo st. john

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blaydie · 5 months ago

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ᥫ᭡ FIRST ENCOUNTER — “I hope we can play again one day.” Growing up together — from childhood to adulthood. Sunday x GN reader series.

Word count: 2.8k

Contains: Fluff (lots and lots of fluff), first encounters, first friend (his), different backgrounds, growing up together (main stages of life—will progress over each post), lighthearted topics, lonely child Sunday + more!

Chapter: (1)

Starting school wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Like the adults in your life said—it’s only scary until you go in and experience it. You have to keep your head held high and believe in yourself, and that’s exactly what you did. To your relief, you made your first friend easily. She was a girl, a lot smaller in height than you. You found her outside of the classroom, hyperventilating while the teacher attempted to console her. Before you could step inside the room, the teacher pulled you aside. You were asked to keep her company since she was having a tough time settling in, and you did it in a heartbeat.

Her name was Robin. The two of you became inseparable, always found sitting next to each other in every class. For the first time in your life, you were invited back to someone else’s home. After getting permission with some extensive begging, your parents eventually caved and drove you over to her house. You never shut up about her, and she never shut up about you. Both of your families had to endure the nonstop chatter about your best friend.

When the car stops outside of their house, your breath is taken away by the sheer size. This is way bigger than your place! As soon as the car door opens, you sprint up the path and wait outside of their entryway, a giant smile plastered to your face. You wave behind you at your parents, watching as they get back in the car. They were so proud of you for stepping out of the comfort zone you stuck yourself to when you were younger. Before you started school, their main concern was that you’d have a hard time fitting in amongst the crowd. You didn’t particularly get along well with the children in your neighbourhood, but you didn’t tell your parents the reason why. Those kids were just too mean, nothing like Robin.

Fiddling with your hands, you began to wonder if anyone was going to let you in. Just as you reach to press the doorbell, the door opens. A man towers over you, a somewhat surprised look on his face. He turns his head back to look in the house, his attention temporarily assigned elsewhere. That’s when you notice the younger boy clinging to his leg, his head tilted as he stares at you with curiosity.

“Hello, little one. Are you Robin’s friend?” The man pushes the young boy aside, ruffling his hair before crouching down to be on your level.

“I am! We’re best friends.” You give him a cheesy grin, and his face softens.

“Robin and her mom aren’t here right now. You can come in, it might be a little wait.” He steps out of the way, clearing entry for you.

“Okay! Thank you, sir.” You take your shoes off and wander into the house, taking a look around at the interior.

Too preoccupied with being wowed by their house, you didn’t hear the conversation between Robin’s father and the young boy who appeared to be hiding from you. Letting out a sigh, Robin's father strolls back over to you, accidentally startling you by placing a hand on your shoulder.

“This is my little boy, Sunday. He’s Robin’s older brother.” His dad drags him forward by the arm, almost crashing your two tiny bodies to the floor.

“Hi…” Sunday speaks quietly, unable to look you in the face.

“Hi, Sunday.” You smile, your eyes drifting down to see him fidgeting with his hands in a similar way you do.

“Do you wanna play with my toys…?” Mustering all of his courage, he looks at you and waits for your answer.

You stare at him, then up at his dad. You were supposed to be here for Robin, but no one gave you a time frame for how long she would be missing. Since you had nothing else to do, you nodded. Sunday’s father made a cheer noise before leaving you in the living room with the young boy. He had long hair, a similar bluish shade to his sister’s. The wings attached to his head flutter before he extends his hand out.

“Let’s go play.” He beams, accepting your hand that you stretched out to meet his.

The two of you scurried upstairs, a half-sprint, half-walk, speed. Neither one of you was that fast, but there’s no rush. Family pictures decorated each space on the wall, ranging from baby pictures to wedding photos. It was nice to see how well everyone seemed to get along, it made you happy that Robin had a nice home to live in.

Sunday’s room was huge—even bigger than your parents’ bedroom. Your mouth dropped as you looked around at all his belongings, a wide collection of stuffed animals littered on his bed. You wanted to say something, but you couldn’t get any words out of your mouth.

“Um… Do you want to play with my teddies? You’re looking at them funny.” Sunday walks over to his bed, taking one of the stuffed animals into his arms.

“Sorry! I think they’re cute. We can play whatever you want!”

“I want to play with the teddies.” He mumbles, scooting over to make space for you on his bed.

“What are your teddies’ names?”

“Oh, I didn’t give them names. Am I supposed to?”

“It makes it more fun! Can I name them?”

“If you wanna.”

“My one is gonna be called Cuddles and your one can be Patchy.”

“Patchy…” Sunday looks down at his teddy, squeezing it tighter in his embrace.

“What job is Patchy gonna have? Cuddles is a teacher!”

“I want Patchy to be the president.”

“Wow, the president?”

“Yeah, I wanna be the president too when I’m older.”

“That’s so cool!”

“You think?”

“Yeah!”

Sunday’s cheeks grow warm from hearing your excitement. He stretches Patchy’s arms and makes it “hug” Cuddles.

“Do you go to my school?” You inquire. You’re sure Robin would’ve introduced you to her big brother by now.

“I’m homeschooled.”

“You have school at home?”

“Kinda. My parents have a tutor that comes in and teaches me stuff.”

“Ohh.” You’ve never heard of homeschooling, but it piques your interest. “Do you have any friends from homeschool?”

“Not really.” He didn’t want to admit that he was the only one who attended the private tutoring sessions.

“Why don’t you come to school with me and Robin?”

“I like it at home.”

“That’s awesome!” You give him a thumbs up, continuing to delve into the roleplay you created in your mind.

After a while of having Cuddles teach Patchy some valuable life lessons, such as how to pour a glass of water without spilling it, you begin to wonder where Robin is. You’ve been here for at least an hour or two, but then again, you don’t know how to tell the time quite yet. Sunday’s eyes were sparkling as he watched you play—this was his first time playing with someone who wasn’t part of his family.

“Do you wanna be friends?” Sunday asks, his nose scrunched while he waits for the big news. His wings were completely still—it almost seemed like he was holding his breath.

“Of course I wanna be friends! You’re really fun and nice.” As you would with Robin, you lean forward and wrap your arms around him, feeling the flutter of his wings brushing against your cheeks. It tickled, and you began to giggle.

“Can I tell Dad?” There was nothing but joy in his voice when he broke free, springing to his feet straight away.

“If you want to!”

Bursting out of his room, Sunday runs down the hallway calling for his father. Met with urgency, he comes running at the call of his son, bumping into him before he can make it down the stairs.

“Dad!” Sunday exclaims, practically jumping in place with Patchy still in his hands.

“Is everything okay?”

“I have a friend!”

“Is that so? I’m glad, kid! Go on, go back to play.”

“Are you proud of me?”

“Very. Good job, Sunday.” Placing a kiss on Sunday’s forehead, his father pats his back before he dashes back off to his room.

Sunday returns, stumbling over his own feet. He lands flat on the bed, chuckling to himself as you stare down at him. This was a big thing for Sunday, and you could tell that this friendship meant a lot to him.

“Do you know when Robin is gonna be back?”

“She’s at singing practice with Mom. But it’s okay, we can play together.”

“Robin can sing?!” You gasp, clasping your hands together while Sunday nods.

“Yeah, she’s been going to those lessons since like, forever. She’s really good too!”

“Wow, you guys are so cool.”

“You’re way cooler.”

“Am not! You’re super smart and Robin can sing, I don’t really have anything like that.”

“You’re good at imagining things! I couldn’t even think of names for my teddies until you gave them some.”

“Is that cool?”

“I think it’s cool. I dunno how you do it so easily.”

You feel a surge of happiness wash over you, cuddling your knees to your chest. Sunday was so nice. Part of you wishes he could come to your school so you could all play together at recess, but Sunday seemed pretty adamant about liking his homeschooling.

Time passes by quickly, you and Sunday continue to play with the teddies, having their identities expand rapidly. You yawn, rubbing your eyes and putting down Cuddles. Outside of Sunday’s window, you can see that the sun has started to set, and Robin still hasn’t made it back. You’re sad that she ditched you, but it wasn’t all bad with Sunday’s company.

“My parents are gonna be here to pick me up soon.”

“Already?” Sunday whines, his bottom lip flipping down. “Maybe I can ask Dad if it’s okay for you to stay for dinner.”

“Will I be allowed?”

“I think so. We have a lot of empty seats at the dinner table.” Sunday takes your hand, leading you towards the door. “Come on, let’s ask dad! Maybe if we add extra pleases it’ll work.”

Scurrying down the hall, you skip a few stairs as he drags you into the living area. You take a moment to catch your breath while he sprints off, heading straight towards where his father is sitting. Due to the distance, you can’t pick up on the conversation, but you see Sunday pointing at you with a pleading expression. Calling you over, you walk slowly towards to the two, still recollecting your breath.

“Sunday asked if you could stay for dinner. Is that what you’d like?”

“If it’s okay I’d like that a lot.” You put on your best smile, remembering what Sunday had mentioned. “Please.”

“What a well-mannered child! You didn’t need to ask so politely, but who am I to say no to a new friend? Do you have your parents’ phone number?”

“Um, I think I gave Robin a piece of paper with my family stuff on it. She said she gave it to her mom.”

“I know where it’ll be. Get comfy on the sofa, you two. I’ll call your parents and let them know to collect you after we eat.”

“Okay! Thank you, Sunday and Robin’s dad!”

Heading to the bigger sofa, you and Sunday climb on, legs dangling while the TV plays in the background. You were thrilled to see what they would have to offer since their house is so fancy, but you’re also worried in case the meal they serve isn’t to your liking. Either way, your parents taught you to eat what you’re given. Whether you like it or not will be kept to yourself.

“I told you it’d work.” Sunday smiles subtly, kicking his feet which hover above the floor, not quite reaching it yet.

The two of you proceed to watch TV, a nature documentary which had been left running while his father made a call to your parents. After a few minutes pass, he returns and tells you both the good news, catching both of your faces ignite with thrill. It didn’t take long for the meal his father arranged to finish cooking, now scooping fair portion sizes onto three respective plates. The leftovers go back into the oven, keeping them warm for when Robin and her mother return from their outing together.

Their dining room was grand. It’s the first time you’ve seen a chandelier hang over a dinner table in real life—you always thought it was something exclusive to the rich people in cartoons. It made you wonder if they were rich. They had so much more than you and the other kids in school did, but Robin never spoke much about home. If you lived here, you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about all of the luxuries. They’re extremely lucky.

When you took your seat, your face contorted at the vast arrangement of cutlery in front of you. You were only used to the classics, unsure of why there were spoons of different sizes displayed neatly in front of you. Sunday pulls out the chair beside you and sits down, patiently awaiting permission to begin tucking in.

“Um… I think your dad gave me too many spoons…” You fidget with the spoons of different sizes, and his gaze drifts over to you. He seems perplexed by your statement.

“Huh? You have everything you need.”

“Why do I have two spoons?”

“This one is the main one you’ll eat with,” Sunday picks up the bigger spoon, then slides it over to you. “Use that one first.”

“What about the little spoon?”

“It’s the one you use for dessert.”

“Oh.” You nod your head, blissfully unaware of fine dining etiquette. “In my house, we use big spoons for everything.”

“Really?”

“Before we eat, it’s fair that we show our gratitude for receiving this meal.” Sunday’s father stands to his feet, followed by Sunday. Unsure of what to do, you remain gawking at the two until Sunday tugs you by the sleeve, encouraging you to stand too.

There was a moment of silence over the dining room until his father bowed, followed by Sunday, then you. A domino effect. Now that it had been announced that you could eat, you didn’t hesitate. You weren’t sure what the exact name of this dish was, but one thing is for sure—you devoured it. You could hear the small chuckle Sunday’s father attempted to suppress as he looked at you. It was embarrassing; you thought he would be mad at you, but he seemed to understand the circumstances.

“If you’d like more, I can get you another serving.”

“It’s okay! Thank you. It’s sooo good! You’re super lucky, Sunday! Your dad is such a good cook.”

“Ah, I didn’t cook it. Our chef did. I’ll be sure to send your compliments later on.”

“You have a chef?!”

“We do indeed.”

“Wow! Like a private chef?! Do they make anything you want?”

“That’s the sole purpose of a chef’s career, dear.” Sunday’s father snickers, reaching for his glass of aged red wine.

When everyone had finished their plate, a waiter appears from a door you hadn’t initially acknowledged and collects the dishes. Just seconds after, another appears with two bowls of dessert. Your eyes widen as you see the ice cream placed in between you and Sunday. It appears to be drenched in syrup and other toppings.

“I figured that Sunday would like to share his dessert with his new friend. Is that okay with you both?” His father glances in your direction, watching the nods in unison.

Sunday didn’t seem to eat much, mainly scraping at the sides of the bowl. When you looked up at him, he was smiling to himself, pleasantly happy with the small serving he was given.

It was about time that today came to an end. You walk towards their door with Sunday and his father following behind. Your parents had already rang the doorbell—now greeted face to face with them as you ran out. Sunday remains close to his father’s side, his cheek resting against his leg while he watches you. Your parents show their gratitude and encourage you to say your thanks and farewells. With a small pinch on his shoulder, Sunday speaks up.

“Bye, I hope we can play again one day.” There was a pout on his face—you swear you saw his lip wobble.

“I hope so too!” You give your final wave as your parents cart you back to the car, setting off as soon as everyone is buckled in.

Inside the house, Sunday sniffles and runs back upstairs, gently closing his room door over. Cuddles and Patchy remain sitting next to each other, and he begins to cry. Tears spill from his eyes at the thought he might not be able to play with you again. After all, you were Robin’s friend first. When Robin is home, you probably won’t even look his way if you come over. That doesn’t remove the memories he made with you from his head though, and he keeps his hope that one day the two of you will reunite and continue to construct Cuddles and Patchy’s future together.

#💌 — writing pieces #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #multi chapter #hsr fanfic #fluff #pearl divider: @/anitalenia

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spaghettixdemon · 4 months ago

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J Stands for more words than one PT.1

“While introducing his new girlfriend to the team, JJ is automatically confronted with her feelings for Spencer when they begin to get in the way of things"

DISCLAIMER You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

Warnings: Drinking/Drunkenness, P in V, getting freaky in a car, fighting, slight mentions of death, Jealousy??

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

This was originally in my Google Doc but I seem to have lost access to it :( SO I am re-writing it! (I will definitely add more chapters bc omg this is long)

—————————————————————————————————

"Alright anndd finally done!" Emily turned to JJ, clapping her hands together and beaming. Today was a paperwork day, and everyone had been working until the late hours. "These reports are killing me...I've been on the same one the majority of the day..." JJ spoke to Emily with a sigh and a slight smirk playing on her lips. Yes, JJ had been stuck on the same case most of the day, but it wasn't just the amount of work, no. That wasn't the only reason her day was moving so slowly.

Right across from her desk, in perfect view, was Spencer Reid- their little resident genius. His legs were crossed in his office chair, his curly hair fell in front of his eyes, and his long, slender fingers traced down the written report, scanning every word and spreading it within seconds effortlessly. JJ had always been close with Spencer- because of their tight-knit team, their ages, and of course, the butterflies she would get around him. They were the two closets in age at the BAU, so maybe that was part of the reasoning behind her crush, but honestly, she just thought he was very attractive.

So earlier today, when Spencer was talking on his phone nonstop, JJ was confused. Spencer was not a fan of technology, thinking back on how it took Spencer literal years to finally sign up for an email address. So, whatever was keeping Spencer on speed dial on the other line clearly didn't bother him too much. JJ would sneak glances towards her coworker hourly, taking in his body language and how he seemed to be head over heels. He would fidget and spin in his office chair as someone talked to him, he had a faint blush on his cheeks, and a smile plastered on his face. In all actuality, she'd never seen Spencer look so dopey- maybe he truly was just happy right now, but the emotions on his face surprised her.

"Hey lover-boy, what's going on over here?" JJ shot her head down, burying her face in her work. It was Derek who popped the question already on JJ's mind. Derek crossed his arms and leaned against Spencer's desk as Spencer looked up at Derek. Rolling his eyes and hanging up the phone, Spencer set the phone down on his desk. "Was that a girl on the other end of the line? I don't think I've ever seen you so happy to pick up a call at work." Both men laughed as Spencer grew a little quiet, sheepishly shrugging. "I mean- yeah, actually, you're right for once." Spencer laughed as an expression of excitement and shock plastered onto Derek's. "Wow really?" He laughed, a little in disbelief "Congrats man! That's awesome!"

JJ watched as the two guys hugged and discussed Spencer's new girlfriend. Weirdly, JJ felt a pang in her chest of embarrassment...or more like frustration. Why? She wasn't sure. JJ could read anyone within minutes, but she could never read her own emotions that well.

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

Days had passed, and work was pretty much back to normal. Normal meaning JJ wasn't constantly hearing about Spencer's new girlfriend, who he adored so much. It was cute, yeah, and she did feel happy for the man and his newfound love, but it would get pretty repetitive after a while. Derek and Penelope, in particular, would not let up on the subject. It was cute when Penelope giggled and twirled her hair when asking about this girl, but the way Spencer would drop information on her so easily was frustrating.

Penelope beamed, ecstatic over all this new news. Then, looking at Derek, she gasped and clapped her hands together. "You should bring her here! We could all meet her it would be so nice..!" Spencer looked a little uneasy. The few times his relationship did start getting this serious, work would interfere and often kill the relationship. Though, Derek backed up Penelope and agreed it would be fun.

"I don't know guys...That might be a little intense..." JJ heard this and thought over the idea in her head. Meeting the girl Spencer was so enamored by might be interesting...to say the least. She looked up and smiled at the three talking. "No Spence you should totally bring her in! I want to meet this girl!" Spencer gave JJ a hesitant look, visibly thinking over the interaction in his head. He slowly smiled and rolled his eyes, looking at the three before him. "Ok Ok..I'll bring up the idea and if she's cool with it, I'll bring her here next Friday"

Penelope and Derek cheered while JJ sat there, smiling quietly. She clapped her hands together and sighed "Amazing! I can't wait".

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The week that followed that conversation wasn't a pleasant one. The team had traveled out of state to work on a pretty gruesome case- Spencer, in particular, had a rough time during the case. He should be used to the horrible feelings that came with the job, but it was never really easy dealing with death so often.

The team had thankfully made it back to base Friday, and everyone was exhausted. They spent the day quietly filling out paperwork and trying to unwind as they worked into the early hours of the night. Around 7pm, Spencer got a call. JJ noticed this in particular because of how eager he was to answer the phone. A small smile appeared on his face, and the faint blush was back. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, hanging up the call with a simple goodbye.

Spencer looked around at his friends as the smile on his face grew. "My Girlfriend is apparently downstairs in the lobby! ...I was thinking of bringing her up is everyone ok with that?" The office was suddenly filled with energy again, and everyone seemed to wake up. JJ in particular, shot her head up and looked at Spencer, a little shocked. She had completely forgotten this would be happening...She made eye contact with Spencer and looked a little hesitant as she spoke up. "um...yeah that would be great..!"

"Yes, PLEASE bring her up! I need some fun to distract me from all this work." Penelope popped her head out of her office as she spoke to Spencer. Spencer looked a little confused by what JJ had said but smiled and nodded anyway. He slowly made his way towards the elevator, a bit of pep in his step.

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

Everyone in the office had quickly wrapped up what they had been working on and made their way to the office cubicles to meet this girl Spencer was so into. Penelope pulled up a chair next to JJ and beamed. "Are you excited to meet her?" JJ...still felt very conflicted. Just earlier that week, when they had been solving the case, She was staying in the hotel room next to Spencer's. She thought about how she ran into him shirtless and wearing sweatpants. He apologized and made his way inside his room, but she felt so conflicted.

She wasn't upset that he was shirtless...definitely not...but something about getting caught off guard like that made her blush. She remembered the feeble nerd she used to work with. He was in his mid-twenties and looked so new to the BAU world. Now, the man she saw earlier that week and today was a bit different. He had toughened up more and was a bit more muscular- not to a Derek level, but he definitely wasn't feeble anymore.

"Something like that" JJ mumbled to Penelope, a faint blush on her face. Penelope was about to question JJ, just as an elevator 'dinging' noise saved her. Everyone's attention was on the elevator and who was inside.

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#criminal minds #fanfic #spencer reid smut #smut #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #big girl fanfic #curvy girls #criminal minds x reader #x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #chapter 1 #multi chapter #multi chap fic

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stormz369 · 2 months ago

Text

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 30

Jason Todd x (f)Chubby!Reader

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, NSFW, MDNI, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings/labels: Talia is ... not a great mom. Luckily Reader is! Fluff, some hurt/comfort, some big emotions and intense conversations, more fluff, and holiday themed Wayne family shenanigans!

wc: 4.2k

Chapter Selection

“I don't fully understand what you've done to make that girl so loyal to you, but it is impressive. Well done, Damian.”

Damian breathed slowly, forcing a calm, emotionless exterior. “Mother?”

“The girl who tried to tell me she was ‘just doing Jason a favor by doing his father a favor’ by being your emergency contact at school.” Talia smirked. “Someone obviously warned her about me, and yet she was willing to lie to my face for you. It was almost believable too. Almost.”

Damian stayed very still, hands held behind his back, posture perfect, face blank. Talia observed him, frowning slightly. “What is not at all believable … is you pretending you don't care about her too.”

He clenched his jaw, tilting his head ever so slightly; “... I don't know wha-”

“Don't lie to me, Damian. This girl means something to you. What?”

He slowly met his mother's firm gaze; “... She's Todd's girlfriend. She has a bigger heart than is good for her; she is no threat to anyone.”

Talia raised an eyebrow, “... And what is she to you?”

“... She is kind.”

Talia frowned a bit, leaning forward to examine his face for any hint of his true feelings. Moments passed before she pulled back to her full height, a dissatisfied look on her face. “... Be wary of that girl, Damian. Kindness is the wrapping, but what you will actually receive is weakness. … I will allow you to stay, but this is the final straw. Your strange affection for those animals was one thing, but this… If you still wish to live here, you must get yourself under control before I am forced to bring you home for retraining.”

“I understand. I will not disappoint you, Mother.”

She nodded once, looking him over again. “... Bruce is treating you well?”

“Father is good to me.”

“And the others?”

“... They have accepted me as family. … They are also kind.”

She nodded. “... Very well. The League is watching you, Damian.”

He nodded once before she turned to leave. “... Goodbye, Mother.”

Talia finally left Gotham, and Jason and I prepared for Thanksgiving at the manor. Jason's Thanksgiving traditions started the day before, so on Wednesday afternoon we headed over. Alfred invited us in, hugging Jason tightly. We tossed our overnight bags in his room, and Jason led me down toward the kitchen. I brought down two large tupperwares full of ma'amoul cookies I had made for everyone.

Alfred was standing by the counter, mixing something, and Jason and I washed our hands. He took a seat at a large table where there were some washed vegetables. I sat beside him, and he grinned; “ever since my first Thanksgiving at the manor, I've helped Alfred with some of the holiday meal prep work. Mostly cutting veggies and stuff.”

“Cute~” I chuckled, kissing his cheek. “Can I help?”

“If you'd like, but if you want to just sit with me, you can do that too.” He smiled softly.

“I'd like to help. I hate to feel like a mooch.”

Alfred chuckled, bringing over another cutting board and knife. “You could never be a ‘mooch’, dear girl. You are our guest.”

“Thank you, Alfred, but still. If my mother heard I was invited over for the holidays and didn't help with something she'd be incredibly cross with me.”

He chuckled, nodding once. “Very well then. Master Jason knows what needs to be done.”

I nodded, and Jason offered me the bowl of potatoes. “You wanna peel and cube potatoes?”

“Works for me!” I got started, and moments later Dick, Tim, and Cass peered into the kitchen. “... Hi guys?”

Tim frowned, stepping forward and circling me. He seemed to be examining me for something. “... Look at me.”

I frowned, but turned to look at his face. He peered into my eyes, frowning deeply. “... What?”

“... Well, she doesn't appear to be possessed, and she's definitely not a zombie.” He turned to the others.

“What?? What's going on?”

Jason frowned deeply, giving Tim a pointed stare; “explain.”

Dick piped up; “did you really manage to lie to Damian's mother?”

“... I mean, I survived.” I shrugged.

“And she believed your lies?”

“No, she did not.” Damian piped up, entering the kitchen. He pushed a chair close to mine and sat down; “however, she said it was almost believable.”

I froze, clenching my jaw. Fuck. What had I done? “... I- is she taking you away? Jason said she might…”

Damian shook his head, hesitantly squeezing my wrist. “She said I can stay, for now.”

I slowly released my breath, dropping my potato and peeler. My hands were shaking, and my vision blurred. I rested my elbows on the table and pressed my palms to my forehead, trying desperately to calm down.

“… Good…” I barely heard the strained, sharp approximation of the word that I managed to force out. My pulse was thrumming in my ears, and I could feel my heart beating much too fast. My face was hot and wet, and my breathing was strained.

Tim cleared his throat awkwardly; “... H- hey, it's ok. She's gone now.”

Jason gently rubbed my back, and I felt Damian shift closer. “... Sister? … Why are you crying?”

I kept trying to control my breathing; “... I … I just can't lose ya, kiddo … i- if she took you away because of me, … I don't know what I'd do…”

A gentle hand pressed between my shoulder blades, and Alfred leaned over me, setting a cup of tea in front of me, along with a soft white hankie. “Breath, Miss. … Miss Talia did not take Master Damian. We will never allow her to take him against his will.”

I slowly nodded and he rubbed my back a few times before stepping away. I shakily reached down for the cup. Dick and Tim awkwardly smiled at me.

“Yeah, what Alfred said.” Tim nodded.

“Yeah, finders keepers - Damian's our problem now, she doesn't get to take him back.” Dick chuckled.

I carefully sipped my tea, smiling weakly. I didn't know how he knew, but Alfred made it exactly how I liked it. Once I set the cup down, Damian took my hand, squeezing tight. I turned toward him, a bit surprised by the determined look in his eyes. “I will never leave you, Sister. I promise... Not unless you tell me to go.”

I sniffled softly and nodded. “I will never send you away, baby brother.”

Before I could open my arms to offer a hug, he leaned in to take one. Dick and Tim stilled, staring like toddlers at the zoo as I wrapped my arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tim fumble with his jeans pocket, trying to covertly get his phone.

“Do it and I end you, Drake.” Damian growled softly.

I giggled, stroking his back gently. He pulled back and I reluctantly released him. I saw the boys shift toward the doorway, and I looked over. Bruce smiled awkwardly, and I hesitantly smiled back.

“B, tell me you saw that.” Dick pleaded softly. Bruce nodded once.

Damian scowled, pushing his chair back a bit. I chuckled softly, going to the sink to wash my hands again. “Don’t make a big deal, Dick.”

“But it is a big deal! I mean … seriously, Damian, where did that come from?”

Damian shoved past them to escape the kitchen and his brothers’ questions as I returned to the table, peeling the potatoes in front of me. “And that is exactly why he doesn't usually do that. So, once again, please, don't make a big deal.”

Dick sputtered a bit more as Alfred ushered them all out of the kitchen. As the man headed into the pantry, Jason leaned over to kiss my shoulder; “good job, mama~”

I blushed a bit, hushing him softly. “Jay!”

“What? Damian can't hear me. And you've made it very obvious, you care more about him than his actual mother. I know he insists you're ‘Sister’, but that's just because he knows his mom would lose her mind over being replaced.” He smirked a bit, whispering; “you and I both know, whether we call it that or not, you're being his mama. And you're doing a damn good job of it too.”

I blushed more, smiling into my chest. “... How so?”

“Last time Talia came to check on him, he was withdrawn and broody for a month after. This time she's been gone for a day and he's already socializing with the family. That's all you, ma.”

I smiled softly, finishing cubing the potatoes. “... You're a sweetheart, Jay. But you shouldn't give me credit for his progress. He does the work, he fights for it tooth and nail, I just provide a safe space. Just like I do for you.” I leaned in to kiss him gently; “you both work so hard to heal from your pasts; to be better and do better…”

His cheeks and ears turned pink as he leaned in, whispering; “you make it possible.”

I dried my hands and cupped his cheeks, whispering back; “you do the work. I just make sure you're safe and taken care of while you do it. It is so much easier to sit in your trauma and just accept that that's how things are now. Fighting your demons is painful, and complicated, and incredibly brave. You are fighting an enemy that doesn't tire, doesn't fall back to regroup, doesn't even die. And yet you have pushed them back. You’ve told your demons that they do not own the territory of your mind, you do. You've made remarkable progress, and you should be proud of yourself. Don't ever give away the credit for your victories; they are yours, you earned them. I'm just here to support you in the fight.”

He blinked a bit, hugging me tightly. “... Damn, baby girl. … Ok.”

I smiled softly, tilting his head up to kiss him gently. He sighed happily, kissing back. A moment later, Alfred cleared his throat from behind us.

Jason jumped back, blushing bright red as Alfred spoke in an intentionally calm, measured voice; “if you two are done with those vegetables, I believe the others are starting a movie in the family room.”

Jason cleared his throat, nodding. “Y- yeah, thanks Alfred.”

We brought the veggies over and Alfred offered Jason a bowl of popcorn. He gently gripped my elbow, gesturing for Jay to go, before offering me a small piece of paper. “My mobile phone number, Miss.”

I blinked a bit, taking it. “Oh… thanks. … Why?”

He chuckled; “you said it yourself, Miss. You are here to support them. … Young Miss Barbara and I have been the only members of the support team for quite a while; it will be nice to have a third teammate to work with.”

I smiled softly. “I see. Then I look forward to working with you, Alfred.”

He nodded, offering me a large bowl of popcorn. “Master Bruce mentioned you'll be providing medical care.”

I nodded, gathering the cookies I'd brought before taking the bowl. “That's right, once I have the necessary training.”

“... It is a big job, taking care of the Waynes.”

“It’s not a job to me, Alfred, it’s just love. … The trick is loving people the way they need to be loved. The way they’ll accept love. Jason is … so brave, and kind. He’s good to everyone but himself. He needs someone to be good to him. Someone to tend to his wounds, to chase away the nightmares, and be a safe port in the storm. I can do those things for him. Damian needs space to be a child. Someone he can trust to take care of the responsibilities, and just let him experience being young. And I can do that for him. … It’s not a job to love them, it’s my greatest pleasure. And it’s an honor to be someone they trust, especially when they have been punished so harshly for their trust in the past…”

He smiled warmly, nodding. “Exactly, dear girl. Love is not a mere emotion, or empty words. It is action, and loving the Waynes, loving them well, … it takes a certain fortitude. Fortitude I believe you have.”

“Thank you, Alfred. … I won't let you down.”

“Oh, you mustn't do this for me, Miss. There must be something inside you calling you to serve.”

I chuckled softly; “not to worry, there is. Obviously I love Jason and Damian very much, and the others, … they've all been such good friends to me. I was taught to take care of my friends. … The world is not always the beautiful, bright place we were promised as children. But I know how to make candles. And if my candles aren't enough to push back the darkness, I can make more. If there still aren't enough candles, I will build a bonfire. And if that’s not enough, if the darkness presses in anyway, … I will lasso the sun if I must.”

Alfred smiled at that. “... I believe you would, Miss. … Go now, enjoy the movie.”

I nodded, smiling softly. “Thank you, Alfred.”

I headed to the family room, taking a seat on the couch between my boys. Damian stared at the tupperwares in my hands intensely. “... What did you bring?”

I chuckled, offering him one of them before setting the other on the table. “This one is just for you, and the other is for everyone to share.”

He slowly opened the tupperware, grinning. “... You … made ma'amoul?”

“You said your mother used to make them for you during the holidays. Your holiday traditions are just as important as the rest of ours.”

He held the tupperware to his chest and leaned against me for a moment, mumbling; “... Thank you, Sister.”

I smiled softly, running my fingers through his hair. “You're very welcome, baby.”

I was woken in the morning to Dick playfully pounding on Jason's door with both fists and singing; “Waaakeyyyy waaakeyyyy! You two better not be nakeyyyyy!”

Jason groaned, grasping blindly at his bedside table. He got ahold of his alarm clock and threw it. Dick cried out, startled, at the noise of it crashing against the door, making me giggle softly. Jay's arms pulled my back against his chest as he grumbled softly; “... Fuckin’ Dick …”

“... Hm ... Think his parents named him that on purpose?”

After a moment of silence, Jason snorted softly, burying his face into my neck. “Dork …. Ughhh, ’s too early… wha' time is it even?”

I chuckled, grabbing my phone to check the time. “... 9am.”

He growled, pulling me closer. “... Mh. … Much too early.”

A soft knock on the door drew a more aggressive growl out of him. I laughed, calling out; “yeaaah?”

“Dick was supposed to get you for breakfast.” Duke called through the door.

“Thanks Duke, we'll be down soon. Start without us, ok?”

“Kay.”

I slowly turned over to face Jason. He sighed, opening one eye. “... Now that's not fair.”

“What?” I frowned.

“You got startled awake just like I did, but you’re already fully recovered and you look like a goddess. Meanwhile I look and feel half-dead.”

I giggled, running my fingers through his hair. “Aw, but you look cute all sleepy like this~”

He grunted softly, blinking slowly. “Oh do I?”

“Very cute. Plus, your voice sounds extra amazing in the mornings~ that's truly unfair.”

He smirked softly, kissing my forehead. “Mh~ ... Let's blow off breakfast. Just stay in bed and cuddle all day.”

I chuckled, stroking down his chest. “But I'm hungry … plus, you know Dick or Steph will come knocking if we're not down there soon.”

He sighed, stroking my hip. “... Yeah … ok, fine.”

We slowly disentangled, getting dressed for the day. Jason had told me family holidays were always a casual-clothes affair at Wayne Manor, thank goodness, so we ended up at breakfast surrounded by sweatpants, joggers, and pj's.

Dick grinned, already done with his food by the time we came down, and watched us eat. I blinked a bit; “... Dick?”

“Hm?”

“... Ya good?”

“No, I'm not good. You aren't eating.” He frowned.

“You're staring.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “He wants to start on the tree, but we don't start the tree until everyone's had breakfast.”

“... I see. Well, stop staring and I'll eat.” Dick sighed, his leg bouncing uncontrollably.

We all finished breakfast, and Dick practically herded the group to the family room. I looked around, frowning a bit. “... Is Bruce not joining us?”

“Ah, he's in the cave…. Bruce doesn't do much on holidays. Especially Christmas, so … he doesn't do this part of Thanksgiving.” Tim smiled weakly.

“... Why?”

“... He misses his parents.”

“Oh. … Well that's super sad.” I frowned.

Dick shrugged. “It is what it is. He'll be up for dinner though.”

I nodded slowly. Dick made us all sit in a semi-circle on the floor around a large pine tree. The tree had been set up at some point in the night after our movie, and I hoped Alfred hadn't been made to lug it in on his own.

“Now,” Dick grinned, surrounded by plastic tubs; “as most of you know, there will be other trees in the ballroom and foyer, for the Christmas gala. But, the family room is our room, and as such, this is our tree. Where the other trees will be elegant, themed decorations, fit for the public eye, this tree, our tree, will be the gaudiest, ugliest, least public-appropriate Christmas tree in all of Gotham! As Bat-family tradition, the youngest present family member will provide the first ornament on the chopping block.”

Damian rolled his eyes affectionately, standing. He approached a tub and removed the lid, selecting a cardboard and construction paper star. It had clearly been a child's craft project; the points were uneven, the glitter was half gone, and there was a small photo of Batman and one of the Robin's in the center. “I present the ugliest ornament in the Wayne Family Collection; made as a present to Father by one Jason Peter Todd for his first Christmas at the manor, age 12.”

There was a round of applause as Damian put the ornament on the tree and Jason bowed dramatically. I giggled, watching everyone take turns presenting their bid for the ugliest ornament in the collection. There were some truly hideous options, and a few I wasn't sure were meant to be kept past the Christmas they were made for. Finally, Dick gestured for me to stand.

“Now, as this is your first Christmas with our family, tradition dictates that you act as our judge.”

“Judge?”

“If you would.” He gestured to the tree. “Which decoration is the absolute worst in the Wayne family collection?”

I looked them over, chuckling softly. “... This is a no hurt feelings contest?” Everyone agreed. “And what does the winner get?”

“Bragging rights, and the offending item is finally thrown away.”

I chuckled again. “I see … ok, well … this ceramic mouse has incredibly unsettling eyes …” Tim pumped his fist. “Buuut, the name of the game is ‘ugliest’, not ‘unsettling’, so … I think I will give it to Cass.”

I pointed to the popcorn garland Cass had put up. What little popcorn remained was mostly flattened, and had been spray painted white and yellow, creating a poor illusion of fresh buttered popcorn. Cass smirked, bowing while the others groaned and clapped.

“Thank you for your service to our family, Judge.” Dick shook my hand, grinning. He ripped the ‘garland’ off the tree, dramatically handing it off to Cass who threw it in the trash. “I hereby declare this tree ready to decorate!”

We spent the afternoon eating snacks, watching seasonal movies, and taking turns adding ornaments, lights, and other decorations to the tree. Periodically Dick went up and rearranged things, he was apparently unusually particular about ornament placement. By the time we were done, it had the strangest assortment of decorations I had ever seen. Craft projects, tinsel, lights, vintage, modern, every color and theme imaginable, it was all there! It was everything Dick's speech had promised; ugly, gaudy, and not at all something the public would expect to see at Wayne Manor.

Once our movie was done, Dick called us all back to the tree. He made a few more adjustments, circling it slowly. “Well done, team! This is by far the ugliest tree we've ever done! You should all be proud of yourselves for your efforts. … But, it's not complete just yet.”

He pulled out a selection of velvet boxes and opened the first one. “Let's see … looks like Duke is first this year!”

Duke grinned and took the box, popping out a glass sphere ornament, about the size of his fist. It had a pearlescent finish, and his name painted on it in black in an elegant cursive font. He found a spot for it -one of the spots Dick had so carefully constructed during his ornament rearranging all afternoon- and sat back down. Dick opened the next box, and Stephanie was called up to put an identical ornament, this one adorned with her name, on the tree. One by one everyone put up an ornament with their name on it, until there were four boxes left.

“As we all know, Babs is with her dad today. She will add her ornament when she visits tomorrow. Alfred will be in after dinner to add his, and Bruce will come in when he's feeling up to it. … So, that just leaves…” he held a box out to Jason; this one was adorned with a red bow.

I tilted my head, curious. Jason had already put up his ornament. He turned to me, beaming, and offered me the box. “This one is for you, my love.”

I blushed bright red, slowly taking it from his hand. I popped it open, and there it was; an ornament, identical to all theirs, with my name painted in a swirling cursive font.

“I … I don't know what to say …” I blinked, trying desperately not to tear up.

Tim chortled; “oh no, we broke her!”

Damian shushed him, scooting closer. “You don't have to say anything, Sister. Just put your ornament on the tree.”

I chuckled softly, carefully removing it from its box, and stood. Dick helped me find an empty spot for it, and I delicately hung my ornament. He grinned, offering me a tight hug. “Welcome to the family, little sister.”

I got a glass of water before heading up to bed. Dinner had been incredible, we'd played some games, and the house was finally settling in for the night. I put my glass in the sink and made my way up the stairs, going down one hallway and then another, slowly making my way toward Jason's room.

“Father?” I heard Damian’s soft voice around the corner.

“Yes?”

“... Do you know any lullabies?” I could barely hear the whispered words.

“Of course?….”

“... Ok.” After a brief silence, Damian walked briskly past me, staring at the floor in front of him. Bruce turned the corner and watched him go, a confused look on his face. We made eye contact and I hesitantly smiled.

“... Bruce, can I ask you something?” Damian’s door snapped shut at the other end of the hall.

He sighed; “... yes?”

“What did Damian just ask you?”

“If I know any lullabies.”

I shook my head; “those are the words he used, but … that’s not what he was asking.”

“Fine, why don’t you tell me then, since you’re so smart? What was my son asking?” He snapped.

I bit back the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. This was for Damian, I had to be gentle; “... As I’m sure you know, Damian struggles to request things. He’d rather die than suffer the humiliation of asking for something he desperately wants if there’s any chance he’ll be denied. Most especially when he views his desires as childish, or inappropriate. It’s much easier for him to ask a question that is designed to guide you to make an offer. … So, when he asked if you knew any lullabies …” I trailed off, hoping to let Bruce fill in the blanks.

He frowned deeply; “... he wanted me to offer to sing one?”

I nodded, smiling softly. “Exactly.”

“... He’s fourteen…”

“When he was a baby, his mother taught him to kill. She gave him no chance to be a child. Now, here, he is allowed to be whatever he wishes. It is perfectly rational, healthy even, for him to seek the childhood experiences he didn’t get at the traditional ages. And seeking them from you implies that he views you as a safe person to be vulnerable with.” His shoulders fell as he sighed. He looked so defeated. “… It’s not too late Bruce, why don’t you go prove him right?”

Bruce blinked a bit and nodded, rushing toward Damian's room. He stopped beside me to mutter; “... Thank you.”

I smiled softly, looking up at him. He seemed so unsure of himself; like a new father worried about holding his baby wrong. “You’re welcome. … Go take care of your son.”

He smiled a bit and went to knock gently on Damian’s door. I continued down the hall to Jason’s room, knocking before I slipped inside.

Next ->

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist (open): @jawdropforkpop @krys0210 @snowy-violet @superthoughts @wordsfromshona @mystic60 @iwannabealocalcryptid @morstuavitamea-a @frosty--giants @arisa191 @prized-jules @phoenix666stuff @dinonuggysandhuggus @anuttellaa @whore-of-many-hot-men @cottage-worm @v1ckycheesue @roastyyytoastyyy @sarakmec @thestarcatcher7297 @stupidlyunhinged @mishkapi @mermaidgirl-11

#fanfic #fanfiction #jason todd #dc fanfic #dc #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #first person pov #wayne family adventures #no y/n #chubby reader #multi chapter fic #Can I Get Your Number?

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consultingskeletondetective · 6 months ago

Text

Virginal, chapter 1

Michael accidentally discovers his dick while he's trying to kill you, and then he comes back for more.

Or: you awaken something animalistic and sexual in Michael Myers, and he cannot resist you in any way. You just hope you survive it.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, non con, female reader, rutting, forced orgasms

You didn't even know why you were running, not really. You could hear the heavy thud of his booted footsteps echoing almost cruelly in your ear. It was a cosmic joke, that no matter how fast you scrambled, Michael would always catch you, leisurely following behind as if your blood on his knife was a certainty he was merely playing into.

Still you ran, into the pitch of night, darting between trees and praying to something that you didn't smack face first into one you couldn't see in the hellish gloom. You hear his breathing, amplified by the mask that hides his face from the world, as if it's ghosting over the flesh of your neck and leaving goosebumps there.

You wail, low and stupid, as fear carries you, your trainers crunching loudly on every twig and leaf on the floor as if screaming 'follow me! find me!' and he does.

Large thick fingers curl around the back of your neck like a solid brick and you squeak, terrified, as you're held immobile by Michael's gargantuan hand. Your fingers scrabble back, both of your hands barely able to close around his wrist, boiling hot and solid, as you try and tug him from you like you're batting uselessly at a statue.

"Please - Michael - please don't do this, you don't have to - I don't…"

You hear his breathing in your ear, the rubber of his mask against your cheek and you freeze, paralysed, as everything goes silent.

In a rush of air you're swooped forward, pushed, until your forehead is richoteing off of a tree directly in front of you. You wail low in your throat as pain spirals out onto your face and down your neck, blood dribbling down your nose and into your mouth. You have no time to do anything else as you're yanked back, your body bowed against his, you can feel every hard line of his hulking form through his boiler suit, the small of your back only connecting with his thighs and you scream - expecting to be thrust forward again into the tree, expecting this to be the blow that kills you. Everything goes quiet again. Eerily quiet.

Michael doesn't move you, his fingers still firm on the back of your neck, he keeps you tucked snug against him for minutes as if he was thinking.

You're too scared to think, until your brain onlines from the pain and fear and you try again to scrabble your nails across his wrist, to wriggle your small body free and break his hold. His free hand comes sharply down, resting heavy and dangerous on your hip, you freeze again. His message is clear. Stop struggling.

His fingers curl dangerously around your hip, pinning you immobile against him, and your heartbeat is erratic in your chest. Why is he taking his time with you? Why doesn't he just end this? What's he going to do? Choke you? Shatter your pelvis with the barest flex of his fingers?

Moments pass, his grip on your hip tightens and he pulls you back into him, you scream, short and shocked, as he - he wriggles you against him, pulls you in tight to his hot heat, his thighs framing yours, large and muscular and intimidating and - and - is this fucker hard?

Your breath comes out in a stuttered exhale as you feel the unmistakable drag of Michael Myers' erect cock over the small of your back, just above the cleft in your ass. He's utterly silent still, except for that breathing, that hasn't changed pitch or volume, but you can somehow tell he's thinking, calculating, only if in the slowness of his movements. His hands on you are not gentle, you can feel bruises blossoming beneath his fingertips, but you're not dead.

You'd never heard those kind of stories about Michael Myers before, as far as you knew he was pretty much sexless, either killing or comatose. You'd never heard even a single rumour that he got off on killing. It only served to increase your fear, making your death that much worse. He moved again, hips pistoning slowly until you feel his cock jam against the cleft of your ass and a sharp exhale leaves Michael's mask and he stills to a statue. Except his cock, his cock, twitches against your ass and you tremble violently. You're utterly defenceless and vulnerable, trapped in the arms of a brutal subhuman killing machine as he rubs his thick arousal against your defenceless, weak body.

Something dribbles traitorously in your underwear.

You feel it then, tears, hot and thick as the blood drying in rivulets down your face and you sob openly. You didn't want Michael Myers to fuck you, or kill you, so why were you clenching so hard? The white hot fear in you was making you crazy. The waiting, it was torture, you couldn't stand it - you were close to begging, but for what? For what?

The hand on the back of your neck was gone, and your head snapped forward, tendons in your neck springing back to life painfully and you sucked in air through your scream-damaged throat. Then pain was shooting through your spine as something metal and sharp sliced down the skin of your back, nicking the tops of your trousers and the hands on you were gone completely as Michael seized the frayed edges of your slashed waistband, the muted rip of fabric being torn apart in his bare hands loud in the silent woods as he tore your jeans down to your thighs, leaving you exposed from the waist down in nothing but your panties.

"No, no, no, Michael, please don't do this, you don't have to do this - I'm begging you -"

He doesn't listen, maybe doesn't even hear you, as you hear the drag of teeth as he pulls his zip down and then there's nothing in the air but your twin breathing, Michael's measured and heavy, yours panicked and trembling.

The hot weight of his stiff cock presses between your thighs, slippery with blood that had been dribbling down from your ruined back, and a burst of breath comes from his nostrils like a wild bull as he bucks into you, fucking the slick coppery cleft of your thighs, his gargantuan hands coming to rest on your hips, pushing your legs together to give him something tight and motionless to fuck into.

You honestly don't know how to react, each one of his tight pistoning thrusts is hard enough to shake every bone in your body, and you can feel each ridge, each thick vein of what you can only imagine is an immense cock to match this immense man. You shake violently as he uses you, the sharp snap of his hips the only indication of what he's doing, his entire body is still, his breathing unaffected, the rubber of his mask brushing the back of your neck a constant reminder of how close he is to you, how fucked you were, figuratively and literally.

You don't have time to wonder why he's doing this, to humiliate you? To get off without having to fuck you? Because his thrusts speed up, the height difference between you enough that he's lifting you off your feet with every upward brutal shift of his hips, and enough that he's jamming his thick cockhead, weeping with precome and slathering you as thick as the blood between you, against your clit with each thrust.

The pleasure is sudden and all-consuming, the repeated rough treatment of your poor clit nothing you've ever experienced before, it's painful having your sensitive nub rubbed like this, merciless and uncaring, igniting waves of pleasure in you you didn't even know you could achieve. Your core feels violently hot, your thighs squeezing Michael's length of your own volition and he likes that, he must do, because he squeezes your thighs in response, whole body tensing, and it's the first time you've managed to communicate with the murderer in any way.

You realise, with dizzying, bone-shaking horrific delight that you're going to come, his cock is too hard and unyielding against your clit. Your knees lift all by themselves, your thighs tense and shake as your vision blacks and you all but collapse back against Michael's body as pleasure ignites every one of your nerve endings. He doesn't stop fucking you through it, stringing out your orgasm until you're a jolting, trembling, mewing mess, every muscle twitching as you soak his cock with more than just your blood. Your cheeks are scarlet, your body alive and thrumming with fear and pain and you think your orgasm has hurtled you off into another realm.

Your hands scrabble back to grab at him, seizing fistfuls of his boiler suit if only to anchor yourself as you babble.

"Michael, Michael, Michael -"

He stills completely, jammed right against your weeping cunt as you feel his cock pulsing, and suddenly your clothed and dripping seam is flooded with hot wet seed. He doesn't make a single sound, except for the flexing of his fingers on your bruised and wrecked thighs, he might as well be made of stone.

You're trembling, you can't do anything else, shrill little animal screams of pure emotion ripping themselves from your throat every now and again before he's stepping back, releasing you completely, and your ruined body hits the woodland floor like a ragdoll. You feel twigs snapping under you and you register somewhere in your brain that it probably hurts.

You roll onto your back, the biting sting of the cut and the devastation to your mottled and purple thighs, the size and shape of Michael's hands, making you twitch in pain but it's worth it to look up at him.

He's stood where he first caught you, huge and towering, the emotionless mask not even out of place on his face. The only indication of what just happened was the opened zip on his boiler suit and his cock, good fucking christ his cock, hanging heavy and hard and scarlet with blood and white with come, if it had been inside you it would have torn you apart, of that you're certain.

You hazily register that you're going to die now, you've served your usefulness, Michael Myers' cooling come between your legs a testament to that. You know you should run, but your feel drugged somehow, fuck drunk, your brain supplies somewhat stupidly. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was it that arousal shot through you even now at the mere sight of this colossal beast standing in front of you?

He doesn't look at you as he zips himself back up again, not bothering to wipe his cock as he does. He might be looking at you, you'll never know. But those blank eyes seem to be staring ahead as he bends and retrieves his knife, crusted in your blood just like his cock was.

Lazily, your hands find purchase as you try and push yourself up, animal brain finally kicking in to tell you to move now, or you're going to die. A sharp incline of his head stills you, he's definitely looking at you now. His mask cocks, regarding you almost, and your heart stutters and stops.

It barely begins beating again as he turns his hulking form around and disappears off into the trees.

What, your brain tries, Where is he going?

There's nothing around you but trees, you hug the nearest one to you when you finally stand, seeing the outline of your own blood there in the dim moonlight.

That shakes something in you, and you remember the pain in your forehead, concussed probably right? That's why you'd acted like such a maniac. Your whole body ached with pain and shock.

But you were alive.

Why?

link to chapter 2

#virginal #skeleton_detective #michael myers #michael myers x reader #fanfiction #pls read the tags #dark fic #multi chapter

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lilacxquartz · 5 months ago

Text

A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES

part 1 of 3 • mahito x reader

summary: following an accident that destroyed your vision, you begin to suspect that your boyfriend, your caretaker, was actually replaced by an imposter.

tags/themes: body horror, psychological horror, reader insert, disturbing themes, dead dove, dark

ao3 • masterlist • more series • part 2 >

1. Fade Away

The accident itself came out of nowhere.

All you could remember was the squeal of the tires and the slamming force that threw you forward against the dashboard. The glass around you held for maybe a second before it collapsed and fell like sharp, near lethal snow.

Soon after, darkness followed, but not the slow pull of sleep or even death, but quite literally something pitch black and devoid of colour that crept into your vision, or lack of.

Before you knew it, the world was taken away from you and as was your remaining hope.

Essentially, you were left unable to see.

At least maybe temporarily, or so the doctors had otherwise claimed, feeding you a false sense of promise that the light could one day return. Days, maybe weeks all blurred together in perpetual darkness otherwise, so it didn’t take too long for your hope to fade.

The recommendation was to wear eyepatches over your eyes, or rather, a dual patch to both protect your eyes as they heal as well to hopefully make the gradual return of vision not feel so overwhelming.

You hated the things if you were honest; the very feel of them resting atop your eyes only served as a mocking reminder of just how easy it was to ruin the course of your life within mere seconds.

Your boyfriend however, as sweet as he was, tried to see you through it all. His calm and kind voice was the only consistent thing throughout your entire experience. He was always there to guide you when you couldn’t find your way—telling you it was all going to be okay—even if that word no longer made sense to you.

What was it… to be okay anymore?

Everyday, you looked forward to his calming voice and his gentle touch, except for when you didn’t; at least not anymore.

It was a subtle shift in the air, but something had changed.

When he walked into the room, something about his presence felt off. He greeted you the same way that he did before and the sound of his voice was familiar enough, but there was a different quality to it. It wasn’t wrong, at least not exactly, but something about the way he spoke had suddenly felt unnatural.

The way he touched you felt slightly… off, too. His touches were usually light against your skin; yet whoever this was, seemed to apply an uncomfortable amount of weight against you.

The scent in the room, the scent of his cologne that he wore was the exact same, although it was certainly faint, as though stale.

Maybe you were just going insane…?

It wasn’t that unlikely, you supposed. The trauma was life altering enough and after being in a loop of total darkness for the last couple of weeks, it was highly probable that the very last strings of your sanity were finally on their last threads. This whole thing was disorienting enough, since you essentially lost what you knew as the entire world in just a matter of minutes, so maybe it was the case of your senses being elevated a little too much.

It was a possibility, right?

Your mind was probably to blame, playing sneaky and cruel little tricks on you and feeding into the exhausting paranoia of losing one of your most vital senses.

The feeling however still persisted deep down. It was a creeping unease that would sink to the depths of your stomach and bubble away into poorly digested yet festering doubt every time he would reunite with you.

His laughter, while soft and familiar, now carried a hollow tone. His breath felt somehow hotter, his words felt almost… rehearsed. Your heightened remaining senses be damned; you knew it in the core of your very being that you weren’t crazy for picking up on such things.

It was the way his footsteps walked down a methodical path on his way to be with you. or how he hesitated to say your name, instead calling you sickly sweet nicknames that he had otherwise never before in his life used on you.

It was strange, but the company of someone you supposedly had loved for the last five years, had become almost foreign to you.

At one point, you reached for his hand while lying down next to him in bed and your fingers grazed against his, only for you to pull back away in an instant. His soft palms were now calloused and you could feel strange sorts of sutures line up his wrist in brushing retaliation.

You continued to try and drill in the idea that this had to have been all in your head out of desperate delusion, hoping, praying even, that it was the fault of the darkness for twisting everything into something so vile.

But still, that nagging feeling persisted. It wasn’t fear clouding your judgement; it was an innate warning to trust your gut to understand that something was actually terribly wrong.

You didn’t dare question him however, because after all, this person—whoever he actually was—was the only one who had fed you, bathed you and cared for you. How could it not be him? You kept telling yourself that it had to be because you were otherwise stumped on all other plausible explanations.

Whoever it was that tucked themselves away next to you in bed and idly traced haunting patterns in your skin was not the person you once knew.

It was absolutely, without a doubt, someone else.

Someone pretending to be him.

~~~

The doctors had been cautiously optimistic concerning your recovery; a phone call with the person who had initially treated you had revealed that while the accident had been devastating, your future might not be in ruins just yet. With time and provided that you were correctly taking the medicine that your boyfriend had been giving you, you should actually begin to heal.

There were signs to look out for in your returning vision; flickers of light, passing shadows and the like. They warned you that it might at times seem alarming, but it was all positive; a sign of healing, if you were lucky enough.

And much to your delight, you started to indeed notice hints of your vision returning after a while. Exercised moments without the eye patches would reveal partial sight in the form of colourful blurring patches manifesting within your view. It was something so little yet so hopeful, but you couldn’t help but cling to the fleeting glimpses of colour that painted your vision with almost elated anticipation.

Anything but constant darkness.

If you could at least see colour, even if it wasn’t so clear, then suddenly the future wasn’t as bleak as before.

Yet, every time you thought you were getting better, the progress would soon slip away every time he visited.

Just like the initial shift, it all started subtly. The brief casted moments of light would be stolen from you the second that he left the apartment, leaving you behind in a suddenly plunged black void and whenever you would mention this in a call to the doctors, they were simply perplexed. According to them, if you were seeing positive changes in your vision, then it should be improving—not deteriorating.

They told you that they would arrange for your partner to pick up a changed strain for the medication, hoping that an adjustment to your treatment should guide you in the correct direction.

But try as you might, the pattern continued to repeat itself, again and again.

You would heal and then the lights would go out.

You could have sworn that it was his doing somehow, even if the assigned blame was insane in its own right. With every touch from his tainted fingertips, he would somehow weaken you despite being otherwise gentle. It was so odd, because it was like he eluded poison from every stroke against the contours of your flesh.

You soon grew to fear contact with him as a result; dreading any sort of contact with the impostor who claimed to be your lover, lest he would damage you again. It was as though every time his fingertips brushed against your skin, he changed something about you and with every recurring visit, it only got worse.

You kept trying to talk to him about it, hoping that his once warm personality would return and tell you that you were wrong about your assumptions but you never got such comfort.

Again and again, you would ask him something of the same sort of variation, “I’m getting worse, aren’t I?”

But there would be no comfort that followed.

“Don’t be silly,” he would often taunt, almost, his words always so playful as they flicked off of his tongue with hidden venom. “Why would you feel worse, huh? That’s so funny to me, because you shouldn’t. I’m taking such good care of you, silly. You should be feeling better.”

His voice was soft when he spoke too, like smooth dripping honey against your weary ears. “Maybe you’ve got it all wrong, even. You’re feeling worse from me not being around. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep you running, safe and sound.”

His words were now more erratic, almost playful. He no longer carried the same patterns that your partner once did with his speech. You wanted nothing more than to pull away from this monster—because that’s what he must have been—to escape from him, to scream at him to leave you alone because how dare he pretend to be someone you loved?

And yet you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you did nothing, resigning yourself to just sitting there, laying there as he would continue to purr falsely planted reassurances into your ears with promises that you prayed that he would not keep.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he would say, “I’ll be right here, always. Watching every last bit of you unravel—I mean heal. We’re in this together, right? I’ll stay with you until there’s nothing left—I mean, until you’re fixed right up.”

You could only sigh and endure, the ache behind your eyes getting gradually worse, as if something was pushing and pulling inside of your skull somehow; messing around internally, poking and prodding in places that should have remained untouched.

It didn’t take long for your body to feel wrong, like it wasn’t put together correctly anymore.

Like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

You could have sworn that your skull was contorting under your skin, slowly twisting and waning through whatever pressure his passing touch would apply.

Sometimes, late at night (or what you assumed to be night), you would lie awake and feel things moving inside of you; slowly, and deliberately—as though something was crawling beneath your flesh.

And all you could do was just sit there.

Broken, blind and waiting for the next visit.

For the next time that this thing wearing your boyfriend’s persona would return and wrap its hands around your body once again, uttering sweet little lies while tearing you apart from the inside.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” he would murmur or rather, mock, “I’m here for you, after all.”

But it wasn’t going to be okay.

That much you did know.

In fact, you had a very good idea that nothing was ever going to be okay ever again.

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