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fkinkindagauche · 8 days ago

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How You Turn My World, You Precious Thing

Written for @steddie-spooktober day 30 prompt - "Where in the hell did you find that costume??"

Rating: Explicit | WC: 2,271 | CW: None | Tags: Getting Together, Blow Jobs, Coming in Pants, Steve Harrington's Bisexual Crisis (brought to you by David Bowie)

Title is of course from "Within You" by David Bowie from the Labyrinth soundtrack.

"I don't understand why you're doing a couples costume with Eddie," Steve said, a look of disgust on his face. "Am I not your platonic soulmate? Have I been replaced?"

Robin sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face. "For the last time, Steve, I just wasn't interested in any of your costume ideas, and I was interested in Eddie's."

"So, to be clear, you discarded the idea of going as Goose to my Maverick to go as the moody teen to Eddie's David Bowie from a children's movie?" Steve asked, hands on his hips.

"You haven't even seen Labyrinth, dingus, don't sound so unimpressed," Robin replied. "Eddie put together a pretty great costume. And my costume was a lot cheaper to put together than a believable Goose costume would be."

"Yeah, because it just looks like something you would wear, only you have a hideous black wig on," Steve said, giving her a once-over. "Sometimes I doubt your commitment to our soulmateship."

He wasn't going to let this go. They'd all gotten close in the months since the worst spring break on record. He even hung out with Eddie on his own sometimes. But that didn't make the knee-jerk friendvy reaction any less jarring. (Robin had told him "friendvy" just sounded stupid, but he preferred to consider it an adorable and genius portmanteau of "friend" and "envy").

Robin sighed as they pulled up to Vickie's house. She was hosting a Halloween party, mostly for theater and band geeks, but Steve hadn't exactly gotten any other invites so he agreed to come. Any chance he could take to bust out his highly flattering Maverick costume in an attempt to get laid.

"I think you're actually really gonna like Eddie's costume," Robin said, giving Steve a significant look as they walked toward the house.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply.

She shrugged. "I saw the looks you were giving him when we went to the Hideout last weekend."

Steve spluttered, blushing. He'd been avidly avoiding acknowledging his nascent attraction to Eddie to himself in his own mind, and he certainly wasn't ready to talk about it with Robin. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here for one purpose only - boobies."

Robin groaned and smacked him on the arm. "You're disgusting," she said.

"Would you prefer breasts? Knockers? Bosoms? Jugs? Tits?" He rattled them off so quickly she couldn't get a word in between them.

"Jesus, Steven, stop it," she said, shoving him harder. "I can't take you anywhere."

Steve graciously left off his litany of boob euphemisms once they got inside, Robin scanning the crowd.

"Eddie!" she yelled, walking over to a corner where a man with long, spiky blonde hair was standing, wearing incredibly tight pants with knee-high boots, and a ruffled shirt under a black vest.

Steve looked around for a few moments, searching for Eddie, until Robin approached the corner and pulled the blonde man into a side hug. He turned, and Steve let out a shocked gasp, realizing it was Eddie.

"Where in the hell did you find that costume?" Steve asked, mouth hanging open as he took in Eddie's elaborate make-up to go along with the clothes. "And where's your real hair?"

Eddie threw back his head and laughed, baring the long line of his neck, now draped with multiple necklaces. Steve swallowed hard, eyes drawn to the light dusting of chest hair he could see in the ample amount of chest exposed by the open neck of the shirt.

"Is that vest supposed to look like a corset?" Steve asked, enthralled as he reached out a hand to touch it, feeling the warmth of Eddie's skin through the fabric. His eyes tracked further down, to the obvious bulge he could see in Eddie's tight pants. "I thought this was a children's movie!" He knew he was blushing, could feel the heat in his face.

Eddie locked eyes with him when he finally looked back up, smirking. "Eyes up here, big boy," Eddie said. Steve's face grew even redder, and he wanted to melt into a puddle of goo on the floor and never look at Eddie again.

Steve felt his dick stir in his pants at the thought of Eddie's cock, right there in front of him, practically on display. He couldn't manage to get any words out, just kept staring at Eddie with his mouth open.

"Everything okay there, Harrington?" Eddie asked, smirk changing to a look of confusion. Robin was looking at Steve with something like glee on her face.

"I need to… use the bathroom," Steve managed to get out, turning away from them and pushing through the crush of people to a hallway. He managed to find an open bathroom and slipped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him as he slid to the floor against it.

He put his head in his shaking hands, trying to slow his racing heart. He couldn't really deny it anymore. He was attracted to Eddie. He'd never been attracted to a man before, bar that one fleeting moment in the shower with Billy Hargrove, when he'd been simultaneously aroused and infuriated.

But Eddie - he was something else entirely. Steve was finally admitting to himself , here on this bathroom floor, that he was physically attracted to Eddie. He'd known for a long time that he loved his smile, and his laugh, and his self-deprecating humor, and his willingness to help any of his friends, whatever they needed. Now he was finally acknowledging a physical attraction, and he was fucking terrified.

A knock on the door interrupted his spiral.

"Steve? You in there?" Eddie's voice asked.

"Can you send Robin in?" Steve asked pathetically.

There was an awkward pause. "Um. She said she had something she needed to do and that I should go check on you. I don't know where she is."

Fucking typical. Robin was trying to play cupid in the midst of his bisexual crisis.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asked when he got no response from Steve. "You sick or something? Can I come in and help?"

Of course he wanted to help. Saint fucking Eddie.

"I'm fine," Steve said, sighing. "Go away."

"You don't sound fine, man," Eddie replied. "Fucking wait a minute okay?" Eddie yelled, probably to someone in the hall. "Steve, let me in," Eddie said in a lower voice.

Steve stood and opened the door. Eddie came in and shut the door behind him, locking it again.

"You gonna puke?" Eddie asked. "You and Robin must've been going hard before you got here."

Steve looked at Eddie again, with his delectable wispy chest hair and his stupidly beautiful smile and the sizable bulge in his pants. Steve made an impulsive decision, the only kind he seemed capable of making these days. He put both hands on Eddie's chest and pushed him so his back was against the door, then leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't that different from kissing a girl. He could feel the beginning of Eddie's stubble coming in, scratching lightly against his chin, but his lips were just as soft and warm as a girl's. Eddie gasped into his mouth, tensing up for a moment before relaxing against Steve, kissing him back.

Steve tentatively licked over Eddie's lower lip, and Eddie opened his mouth, allowing Steve's tongue inside. Steve slowly licked into his mouth, tangling his own tongue with Eddie's, moving to explore the roof of his mouth, the sides of his teeth. He pushed a hand into Eddie's ridiculous wig, pulling it askew, as Eddie wrapped his hands around Steve's hips and pulled him more firmly against himself.

Steve could feel Eddie's cock now, hard against his thigh. He slotted a leg between Eddie's thighs and pushed up. Eddie groaned into his mouth and pressed down onto Steve's leg as Steve moved his thigh back and forth, rubbing. Steve was sure Eddie could feel his own cock now, straining against the confines of his jumpsuit.

Steve's hips involuntarily bucked up into Eddie's hip, seeking friction. Eddie's tongue was meeting his in a ferocious clash, both of them vying for control of the kiss. Steve broke off first, trailing his lips down Eddie's neck, to the vee in his shirt. He bit the skin there as one of Eddie's hands came up to grab a fistful of his hair, tugging.

Steve sucked a bruise into Eddie's skin next to his tattoo, one that would be visible when they returned to the party. Eddie was panting above him, still grinding his cock down onto Steve's thigh, when Steve dropped to his knees.

His absolute favorite thing to do with women was give head. He felt a sudden urge to see if that was the same with men. He looked up at Eddie, who was staring down at him with a shocked look on his face, one hand still fisted in Steve's hair. His wig was askew, tendrils of his curly brown hair escaping around the sides, and his makeup was smudged from their frantic kissing. Steve had never seen anyone more beautiful.

Steve tugged lightly at Eddie's pants, giving him ample opportunity to push Steve away. He didn't push Steve away, so Steve pulled harder, bringing the skin-tight leggings down. As Steve had suspected, he wasn't wearing underwear beneath them, and his cock sprang free, hard and huge.

Steve had always thought himself well-endowed, compared himself to the other guys in the locker room and found himself above average. But Eddie was in a whole other league.

Steve's mouth dropped open as he considered that he may have made a huge mistake. How was it even going to fit? He took a deep breath, psyching himself up, then bent to lick a bead of precum off the head.

Eddie thrust his hips up minutely, clearly struggling hard to keep himself under control, and let out a breathy gasp. The hand in Steve's hair tightened as Steve licked around the head, taking just the tip into his mouth. He held the base of Eddie's cock in one hand, like he remembered girls doing with his, as he slowly sank further.

Steve pressed his tongue against the underside of Eddie's cock as he began to move his mouth up and down. He was only getting about a quarter of his cock into his mouth, but Eddie seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, if the increasing amounts of precum he could taste were any indication.

"Fuck, Steve," Eddie said as Steve hollowed his cheeks out to provide more suction. Eddie was making little breathy noises, like aborted moans, and Steve could feel the strain in his hips as he tried not to fuck into Steve's mouth.

The weight of Eddie's cock on his tongue combined with his musky scent and the noises he was making were enough to have Steve's cock aching. He started to cup himself with his free hand, pressing his palm into his cock and rubbing as he sucked Eddie off.

Just as his jaw was beginning to ache, Eddie seemed to lose control of his hips, starting to thrust into Steve's mouth a little. "'M gonna come soon, Stevie," Eddie said between breaths. "Might want to vacate the area."

Steve snorted back a laugh, pulling off to say, "Come in my mouth."

Eddie thumped his head back into the door and groaned. "Fucking shit," he said under his breath as Steve took his cock back in his mouth.

Steve started to press his palm harder into his own cock as he bobbed his head on Eddie's, spit slicking his hand now and making it easier to stroke the length of Eddie's shaft that wasn't in his mouth. Steve could feel his own orgasm building, spurred on by the moans falling from Eddie's mouth.

As he felt the first hot spurts of Eddie's cum in his mouth, he rubbed frantically over his own cock, bringing himself to orgasm as he swallowed every drop of Eddie's cum. Steve continued to suck long after their orgasms were finished, enjoying the feel of Eddie's cock softening in his mouth.

Eventually, Eddie tugged at his hair, and Steve finally let his cock slide out of his mouth. He wiped a bit of cum or spit off the side of his mouth and looked up at Eddie.

"If I'd known dressing up as David Bowie would get Steve Harrington on his knees I would have done it a long time ago," Eddie said, pulling Steve up to stand. He reached for the zipper on Steve's jumpsuit, but Steve stilled his hand before he could start to undo it.

"Not going to let me reciprocate?" Eddie asked, looking a little hurt. "Was it just a little experiment for you?"

Steve shook his head vigorously. He grabbed Eddie's hand and moved it down to the wet spot spreading near his cock. "Not at all. Got a little carried away."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up. "You came in your adorable little jumpsuit while you blew me?"

Steve nodded, blushing.

"Fuck, you're unreal. I'm dressing up as Bowie every day," Eddie said.

Someone banged on the door, startling them, and yelled, "What the fuck are you doing in there? Some of us have to piss!"

"Shit. I didn't even get to see you naked," Eddie said, pouting.

"Next time," Steve said, reaching for the door as Eddie pulled up his pants.

"There's gonna be a next time?" Eddie said, eyes twinkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

"There's gonna be a whole lot of next times," Steve said, opening the door.

divider by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

#steddie #steddie fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #stranger things #my fics #steddie fanfic #steddiespooktober

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lychniis · 4 months ago

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⚘ — SILVER FOX // JING YUAN.

i. SYNOPSIS : your lands refuse to grow your crops and the days trickle down to the last vestiges of your desperation. and so, you call upon a huli jing. ( jing yuan x reader )

ii. WARNING(S) : this is so messily written guys look away IKUHGFGH, fox spirit jing yuan, not much romance, it's pretty short to and is mostly a brain blurb spare me.

# masterlist

He comes to you quietly in the dark, after nine nights of praying — first as a small silver furred fox, then a man with moonbeams in his hair, pattering out of the shadowed corners and into your line of sight.

He seats himself on the floor before you and you place your offering forth: one fish, painstakingly hunted from the nearest river and some unseasoned rice in a chipped wood bowl. You think of your dead lands, and the starvation and the despair and the debt slinking at the bottom like a pacing tiger and you tell yourself to be brave. There’s more to lose, turning him away with fear. There’s far more to lose, with your dead lands.

“Pour me a cup.” he speaks up, passing you a jar of baiju, then two glasses. “And one for yourself too.”

“Yes sir…lord…” you stutter and do so, first for him, with yours after.

The fox spirit laughs. You prickle up, staring into the clear drink with helplessness pulling at your throat. “Are you nervous? Just call me Jing Yuan.” He takes a sip before he settles with his fish and rice. “You’ve fed me, after all. I’m less inclined to eat you now.”

You shoot him a horrified look.

“I jest.” he sighs after a few bites. “Now tell me, what do you need? You can ask me for one thing.”

You stutter. “I…” Replenish our fields. “I…I don’t know.” It feels like too much. Like an offer too willingly handed out with an air of ease. It was foolish, you think now, dealing with gods and spirits and their chaos. Foolish.

He barks, and you have a feeling that perhaps, he is unsurprised. “You humans seem rather indecisive sometimes,” he admits. “I could never understand your ways. My forests and land are mine and I simply take what I need.” The gold in his gaze reflects into the rippling baiju. It’s a sun, a fire, a molten piece of metal. It burns. He doesn’t lie. They are his, for his claws to tear and reap and devour.

Still, you speak. “I’m not sure what to expect.” you admit, feeling stupid. Jing Yuan smiles. There’s a flash of white, the deathly glint of a too-sharp canine and you wonder if they’ve tasted blood. You might not be the first in the end. Huli Jings could be benevolent on one good day and let in abundance. On others they revel in the miseries of men.

“Your caution isn’t uncalled for.” he muses. “But I keep my word, if that’s an assurance. I can heal illnesses, replenish your fields, win you a few battles. Maybe even spark some lightning if you like that.” he waves his hand as he rattles out his points. “And maybe I could bless you with a child. But I see no spouse and I doubt you need another mouth to feed.”

Your face flushes. “Your generosity is appreciated.” you look to the side, a little lost. The lands. The lands meant the crops could grow The lands meant the debt from those two catties of rice could be paid off. “My lands.” you finally relent. “Replenish them please, milord.”

Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. A calculating shift darkens sunny aureate to simmering amber. “Is that all?” he asks again.

“Yes.” you nod solemnly. “That’s all.”

“Alright then.” he muses. “Wake at dawn tomorrow and plough the soil. Do not stop till it’s done.” he tilts his head. “I reward hard work, and I trust you will earn it.”

“Of course.” you reply quickly. A part of you is peeved that no divine design is thrown aloft, no spectacle or show. But the unabashed authority, almost expectant in a sense, humbles that voice down quickly. It’s fair you put your salt into it. It’s fair. “I will. Thank you, milord.”

( There is always more to lose. Food, medicine, comfort for the coming winters; and what is plowing to your fields compared to the aching pangs in your stomach that scream and scream and scream for more than the meager bit of dried vegetable and rice you have once a day? )

Jing Yuan’s lips curl. He finishes the last of his fish, stifles back a sleepy yawn. You blink — and he’s gone, leaving behind the cleaned utensils laid before you.

You do what the Huli Jing asks of you. The sun bares down on your back. The plow is slippery against the sweat in your hands. Still, you work, and work, and work till you collapse into the night after the deed is done and every bit of dirt is scoured off rocks and dug into.

The next morning, you see the first signs of it.

The tiny bits of green poking out of the damp earth.

There is a silver fox within the bushes, watching you with an air of smugness. Your eyes meet and you smile at it, a little more than grateful and it stills, the tiniest wag of it’s tail betraying some contentment, at least.

( You place another bit of fish out for him that night. An empty plate is returned to your doorstep later ).

AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

#&&. my writing !!#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #x reader #jing yuan x you

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imagine-darksiders · 18 days ago

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Eden's Heir, chapter 6.

Prison break.

Summary: You manage to get your hands on Vulgrim's precious artifact. War is nice to you in his own, strange way, and Strife is his usual self.

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War has never been one to hide his true motivations behind crooked smiles and sly glances. Their eldest, Death, used to say that of all the Nephilim to be born from the dust of angels and demons, War was always the most forthright. Abnormally so.

Even among his ilk, he was the odd-one-out. Too fair, too just, 'getting to be a little too much like those damned birds.'

Why? Because he doesn't care for lies? As if Angels can't be just as underhanded and amoral as demons. Still, those who threw critique his way usually ended up leaving sadder but wiser, and often sporting broken bones and a new gap between their teeth courtesy of either himself or Fury. Death was more the sort for dolling out verbal degradation, and Strife... Well, Strife wasn't around a lot when War was still a whelp.

Regardless, perhaps it's that very forthrightness that means it doesn’t concern War in the slightest to be staring at you as he is, nor that you’ve been casting several, perturbed glances up at the underside of his chin before snatching your eyes away again every few seconds, evidently rattled by his unwavering attention.

Conversely unashamed and indiscreet, War has absolutely no qualms about frowning down at the small human in his arms, regarding you as one would a piece of mildly interesting trivia he’s never encountered before but is determined to decipher.

Truly, you’re nothing at all like the humans he’s heard about.

Humans aren’t fighters. Eden was a historically peaceful place, the name itself synonymous with Paradise. And yet only moments ago, War had borne witness as one of its prior denizens pulled a tiny blade from out of nowhere, and with a feverous desperation carving lines into your face, you’d plunged that blade into the hand of the gumptious demon who snatched you up.

… Belatedly, War realises he’ll have to tell Strife to be more thorough the next time he goes snooping for hidden weapons.

Humans adapted well to their new home on Earth, faster than anybody thought they would. They’re sturdy and solidly built, well-defined in body, and often ungainly in how they carry and present themselves; perfectly suited to learn the pursuits of agriculture, crafting and gathering.

You, however, stand as a stark contradiction to your entire species.

You’re soft. Graceful in your extravagant raiment, but inarguably fragile, far more-so than your fellow human, which is saying something.

War has felt the jarring give of your skin under his blade.

Strife has not.

War has tested the pressure of his grasp on your limbs and found them astoundingly delicate.

… Strife has not.

It’s why his brother’s actions riled War so fiercely after throwing you across a Creator-forsaken pit of lava onto this stone platform. He’s not certain Strife quite grasps the magnitude of the situation, nor the implications of a human being here in the first place. For you to turn up in the Void, speaking Common, dressed like a pampered Seraphim… it raises a series of rather urgent questions.

But to even have a hope of getting them answered, he and Strife ideally need to keep you alive...

… If only he could figure out how to get that notion through his brother’s thick skull��

Blinking out of his musings, War sees you raise your eyes to peer up at him again, although in this instance, much to his unspoken surprise, you don’t look away. Whilst certainly anxious, there’s a spark of something else tangled within the labyrinthine strands of your unusual irises, something that nearly has an invisible thread tugging at one corner of his mouth.

At last, it seems you’ve rediscovered the same nerve that called you to defend yourself from the demon.

“Put me down,” you utter quietly in a voice that quavers with the effort of keeping it level. You even maintain bold eye contact as you say it.

Again, War almost has to admire your gumption to demand something of one of the Four...

Almost.

If he were a curious Nephilim like his brother, he would probably concede that, yes, there is something about you that invites fascination. Like a mystery that hasn’t yet revealed its secrets.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, merely holds your watery gaze expectantly until you either remember yourself and lower your eyes or-

“Please, put me down?”

And just like that, War’s unspoken admonition is knocked off its tracks.

He hadn’t been expecting… He thought you’d just…

… Oh.

In hindsight, he supposes it was rather foolish of him to expect a human to adhere to the same social rules as another species, and he has to remind himself that just because you’re still meeting his stare, you aren’t being deliberately provocative.

Just… naive.

But why would you know of his reputation? Or of the tall tales whispered by nervous, fledgeling angels who like to try and frighten each other with stories… Stories about what happens to those who are unlucky or unwise enough to look the Horseman, War, in his eye.

Your ‘please’ is foreign to him. He knows of its usage, of course, but to hear it spoken so liberally… It’s as though you assumed ‘please’ was what he was waiting for. Is offering it a human’s way of showing deference?

Curious…

“Ahem…”

The sound of a throat being cleared snaps through War’s thoughts like the crack of a whip.

Quick as a flash, the scowl that had been gradually lifting from his expression slams back into place, and he turns his heated glare onto Strife, who stands in front of him with his arms folded neatly across a silver chest and his helm cocked to one side, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“You done being greedy, or are you gonna share?”

War’s scoff, and your huff occur at the same time, leading the two of you to share a brief glance before the former gives his eyes an exaggerated roll and finally, finally obliges, lowering you to the ground as swiftly as he can while maintaining a strange air of caution that betrays how breakable he thinks you are.

Large, metal gauntlets slide out from underneath your legs, depositing you on a flat piece of stone that’s relatively clean of demon blood.

The very instant you’re free, you only hesitate long enough to squeak out a hurried ‘thanks!’ before tearing yourself away from the gauntlet that hovers behind you and stumble several paces off to the side, putting some much-needed distance between you and the Horsemen. You almost trip over the train of your dress in the process.

Clinging to your elbows, you have to stuff your teeth into your lower lip to stop the sound of despair bursting out through pursed lips.

Your legs may as well be replaced with toothpicks for all the support they’re giving you. Terrible possibilities have begun to swirl across the mire of your brain.

What if you hadn’t found your nail file in time…?

What if Strife had never returned your bag?

You shudder, overwhelmed by the feeling that you’ve landed on the right side of a coin-flip, by no other will than dumb-fucking-luck.

You’ve never come that close to certain death before. You never want to come that close again.

At your back, unseen, Strife gives you a fleeting once-over, only returning his eyes to your veil when he doesn’t spot any immediate damage.

With his typical flair for bad timing and inability to read a room, he stretches his mouth into a hidden, cocksure grin, gives an approving nod and declares, “You did good, kid.”

Giving a harsh sniff, you tip your head towards the ceiling and let out a sharp, brassy laugh, utterly devoid of humour.

“Good?” you echo, rounding on the Horseman, your lungs still feeling two sizes too small when you draw breath, “GOOD!? I could have died! I almost did!”

“Almost!” Strife parrots eagerly, venturing a few steps towards you and spreading his arms out wide, apparently unbothered by your brazen reproach, “You almost died. But you didn’t.”

“That isn’t reassuring, Strife!” you wail.

Shaking fingers lift to try and thread through your hair, only to meet the barrier of your veil. Thwarted, you let your arms flop bonelessly back down against your sides and curl your hands into fists. “I’m not…-!”

But the words won’t come. Instead, you fall silent, realising how redundant it would be to say, ‘I’m not like you,’ out loud.

Christ, what an understatement.

You’re not the type to look at an ‘almost death’ and consider it a triumph. It’s a nightmare. You want to avoid death! That’s the most human instinct of all.

You shouldn’t even be here. You’re not like these two larger-than-life beings from another world. You can’t shoot guns like a master marksman, you can’t swing a sword that’s longer than you are tall, and you certainly can’t make impossible jumps that seem to defy gravity itself.

Hell, you can’t even stand up to your own fiancé and his family…

Sullen, despondent, you allow the adrenaline to seep out of you like water from a leaky pail, leaving you with limbs that feel far too heavy, and a head that’s tired as death.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” you eventually murmur to yourself, resisting the urge to scrub at your eyes lest you spread mascara all over your face. Your heart thunders inside your chest, palms slick with the heat, but more so with the creep of dread that rises in your belly as you picture the demon’s rancid maw in your mind’s eye and grit your teeth, unable to quell the waves of anxiety crashing against you like breakers that pummel a rocky cliff.

All the while, Strife is busy trying to pluck a response from midair, racking his brain for reasons as to why you can’t just ‘get out of here.’

Then, to his surprise and your own, the silence is broken, and it’s War’s stoic voice that brings a pause to the hopelessness dragging your soul down into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a Slag Demon.”

Blinking, you knit your brows into a frown and lift your eyes to the Horseman’s hoodless face. “Excuse me?”

And War, evidently sincere in every aspect, assumes you didn’t hear him, and repeats himself. “That was a Slag Demon.”

Once again, your eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks. “Yeah, I… I heard you,” you reply falteringly, “I just-“

“That demon,” he cuts you off, sending you a pointed look, “was forged in the deepest blast furnaces of Hell. They’re deceptively fast, almost invulnerable, and notoriously hard to kill.”

When he falls silent and doesn’t continue for several moments, you shift your weight and awkwardly drawl out, “… Oh-kay~?”

What the Hell is he getting at?

The way he’s peering down at you is… odd, you decide. He still has that perpetual scowl on his face, but the eyes under his furrowed brow seem… brighter, somehow, not quite as piercing and disparaging as they were before.

You’re not sure you like it any better.

Appraising you for a few more seconds, War gives a solemn nod, and states, “You found a weakness. You used what you had at your disposal to gain the upper hand.” Then, after taking a brief moment to consider his next words, he must eventually deem you worthy of them because he averts his gaze and scowls off at the distant stalactites, grunting, “It was a good kill.”

… Your jaw nearly hits the ground.

And judging by the way Strife’s helmeted head snaps around to send a wide-eyed stare at his larger brother, you suppose War must not say this sort of thing very often.

Looking down at yourself, you take in the meringue wedding dress, the ruffled tulle and overall extravagance of your attire.

“But…” Your tongue darts out apprehensively to wet your lips, “But I didn’t even kill it.”

Turning away from you, War begins to march back over to the grate, stopping only long enough to retrieve his enormous sword from the ground.

He barely takes a second to mull over his next answer as he slings the blade into its proper place along his spine. “You created the opening that gave Strife a clear shot,” he tells you, coming to a halt above the iron bars set into the floor and twitching his head towards you, his profile obscured by long, ice-white hair, “It counts.”

And with that, he reaches up to thread large, metal fingers into his hood and flips the crimson fabric up and over his head, once again hiding his face in dark, familiar shadow.

For… quite some time, you’re left speechless, gawping at the back of War’s head, and reeling now from the near-death experience and the unexpected approval of one of the scariest men you’ve ever met. A glance down at your hands confirms they’re still shaking, fingers tight and rigid like the bones under your skin have locked up.

“…Well,” Strife chimes in, heaving his massive shoulders in a shrug, “Good thing I don’t mind sharing.”

Sauntering over to you, he lifts an arm as if he’s about to drape it across your back, but the moment you see him coming, you lurch into motion and start after his brother, following the path War had picked through the dead imps, all the while trying to avoid glancing down at their cold, dead eyes.

Only thrown for a moment, Strife is quick to recover, waltzing after you and continuing, “So! Big day. You killed your first demon, kind of. How d’you feel?”

Your mouth twists up into a grimace. “Like I’m going to pass out, throw up, have a heart attack then die. In that order.”

Which is eerily similar to how you felt walking up the steps to the church.

The panic is… well, it’s definitely still there. The threat of a downward spiral haunts the edge of your mind, always keeping itself in the periphery. But for now, War’s stoic assessment has apparently shocked you so much, it broke the nosedive you were about to take into a total fit of hopelessness.

The Horseman beside you barks out a laugh and takes a few loping steps until he’s swaggering along beside you, the heavy ‘clunk’ of his boots drowning out the ‘clicks’ of your heels. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a closer eye on you, next time.”

“Next time?” you sputter, brows shooting up towards the top of your veil, “I-I am not planning on doing this again.”

“Eh.” With a dismissive waft of his hand, he replies, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now c’mon! Sooner we get the artifact, the sooner we can be outta this heat.”

Well. You suppose you have to agree with him on that front.

The sudden clatter of metal skittering across the ground nearly has you jumping out of your shoes.

At your side, Strife jerks to a halt, his boot lifted halfway off the ground and his helm tipped down to search for the thing he’d inadvertently kicked with the toe of his sabatons. His keen eye latches onto it at once, and he utters a sound of intrigue at the back of his throat.

Following his gaze, you hone in on the little object that’s still skidding several paces away from you before it slides to a stop, laying small and shiny on the dark stone.

Stooping down, Strife reaches out a hand to gather the little object into his palm.

“Huh, guess it was knocked when I shot that big bastard...” he mutters, rising to his full height and unfurling each finger one by one, peering down at his prize, “I thought you didn’t have any weapons in there.”

Turning towards you, he holds up your bloodied nail-file as he jerks his chin at your bag.

Admittedly, you’re surprised to see it again, and even more surprised at the surge of gratitude that courses through you at the prospect of being reunited with something from the real world.

“Technically speaking,” you sniff, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “A nail file isn’t a weapon.”

Bringing it close to his visor, Strife tilts his head and squints at it, humming dubiously as he runs the pad of his finger over the coarse metal, giving the end a testing tap.

“… It looks like a dagger,” he points out, “… A very small dagger.”

“Or a toothpick,” his brother grumbles up ahead.

“Well, it isn’t either of those things… It’s just something I use to keep my nails tidy…” At the incredulous glances you receive – one from Strife and one from War who deigns to cast you a bemused look over his shoulder – you breathe a weary sigh and thrust your hand out towards the former of the pair expectantly. “Look, can I just… have it back?”

In truth, you half expect him to refuse, whether to simply get a rise out of you or to mitigate your temptation to attack them with the nail file – not that you’d be so foolish.

So, when Strife extends an arm and holds your ‘weapon’ out towards you, you can’t help but let your jaw drop open in undisguised shock.

“Sure,” he says breezily, “I ain’t gonna keep it. More of a gun man, myself. And War’d be embarrassed to be seen with a blade this small.”

You don’t know whether you’re supposed to take offence to that or not.

“Here,” Strife offers again, lowering his upturned palm in the private hopes of coaxing you closer when you just continue to gape at his appendage, “Take it.”

Warily, you start inching your hand up towards his, keeping your eye on the silver helm and those piercing, golden eyes that drill right into you with attentive wonder.

Swallowing thickly, you dare to flick your gaze down to the nail-file, still sitting pretty at the centre of his palm… Up this close, you spot something that threatens to turn your stomach inside out.

“Ew! There’s blood all over it!” you exclaim, retracting your outstretched hand like he’s trying to give you a live snake.

Indeed, it isn’t the silvery metal that’s glinting in the firelight, but a coating of thick, shiny blood that’s already begun to dry on the file’s roughly-hewn surface.

Strife – who had given a start at your exclamation – pauses, then blinks and cocks his brow down at the offending blood sticking to your weapon.

“Oh, so-rry, Princess,” he chuckles, lifting the file to his cowl and wiping it several times against the fabric, smearing dark flakes of blood into the wool before he holds it out towards you again, “That better?”

Tipping your nose into the air, you give the file a thorough once over. Deeming it adequately clean, you at last reach up to pluck it from his grip, holding it gingerly between your thumb and forefinger. “Much. Thanks.”

You’ve turned away before you can see his eyes glow brighter, considerably pleased with himself.

By the time he stops sticking out his chest, you’ve already reached his brother, stopping a respectable distance away near the opposite side of the grate.

War doesn’t even spare you a cursory glance. Instead, he stands still and strong as a statue, his frost-blue eyes scrutinising the bars with rigid focus.

You don’t dare ask him why he hasn’t retrieved his ‘artifact’ yet.

“Hey, War. What’s the holdup?”

Apparently, you and Strife are on the same wavelength. How disconcerting.

A metal elbow suddenly brushes against your side as a titanic body disregards your own personal space and sidles up next to you, pulling a gasp from your lips that goes entirely ignored while Strife addresses his brother over the top of your head. “You gonna grab the artifact or what?”

Grumbling under his breath, War raises his eyes to fix his fellow Horseman with a stony scowl.

“The grate,” he retorts darkly, tossing a hand at the ground as if the answer should have already been obvious, “It’s locked.”

“Oh,” Strife answers flatly, though it isn’t long before he plants a decisive fist on his hip and declares, “Well, then we’ll just have to find the key…” Swivelling around in place, he casts an eye around the chamber and adds, “Maybe the demon had it?”

… You hate to point out the obvious, especially when you haven’t been invited to do so, but…

“Um… You mean the demon that just fell over the side?” you venture.

A thick, uncomfortable silence ensues, during which you’re sure you must have offended him somehow, because Strife’s body goes utterly motionless, and War huffs a breath through his nose.

“… I see your point,” the former concedes at last, and you realise he isn’t angry, just... bashful.

Another derisive sound escapes from the larger Horseman’s mouth, prompting Strife’s helm to snap towards his brother. “Well, you’re the strong one,” he gripes, “Just tear out the bars.”

Now it’s War’s turn to stop and ponder. He casts a sideways glance down at you, regarding you briefly from the shadow of his hood. By the time you’ve lifted your eyes to his face, he’s already turned away, cracking his neck with an audible ‘Pop!’

“Very well,” he rumbles.

It’s a little prideful of him – and Creator knows Death would expect better - yet War can’t help but wonder if you’ll be awed by a show of might. Maybe you’ll be afraid... Moreso than at present.

Pounding a fist into his gauntlet, he lowers his immense bulk down onto one knee and slides his fingers around the bars, rolling his shoulders as he prepares to demonstrate the raw, physical strength of the Red Ri-

“-Can’t you just… reach in and grab it?” you ask, cleanly derailing War’s train of thought and knocking the wind from his sails, “I mean, it looks small enough to fit through the bars, right?”

… Well, War supposes that’s a fair suggestion, but for one not-so-small problem.

Without turning to look at you, War simply holds up his gauntlet and flexes the metallic fingers into a fist. “I would not get my knuckles through,” he states simply, bobbing his head sideways at his brother, “Nor would Strife.”

“Oh,” you falter, shrinking backwards and stuffing a canine into your bottom lip whilst the Horseman curls his hands around the bars once more.

“Um, why don’t I take a crack at it then?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself wishing you could snatch them out of the air and stuff them back behind your teeth.

Of all the fool things you could have said, why on Earth would you offer to put your hands anywhere near a stone that’s glowing like raw Uranium?

But it’s too late.

Strife has turned a thoughtful, wide-eyed gaze onto War, who returns it with the slightest parting of his brows.

“… Why didn’t we think of that?” Strife posits.

Before you can verbally – and physically – backtrack, War has already twisted his torso about and wrapped his colossal fist around your forearm, notably aiming for the one he hadn’t sliced open with his sword.

Warm metal engulfs your appendage all the way up to your elbow, and though you try to resist, he hardly seems to notice your efforts as he tugs you towards his side, then lowers his hand, leaving you with no choice but to follow its weight and drop to your knees in front of the grate, wincing as they bump against the hard stone beneath your dress.

“Here,” he says firmly, allowing you to snatch your arm back in favour of pointing his finger down at the glowing crystal, “Reach down and take it.”

Curling your hand into your chest, you give your head a shake and protest, “I can’t!”

“You just said you could!” Strife rebuffs.

That you did… “But-!” Wracking your brain, you add, “But what if it’s like… radioactive or something!?”

Visibly, the Horseman balks. “Ray-dee-oh… what?”

War’s eyes start to roll towards the ceiling as he listens to your back and forth with his brother, and he considers whether it would have been faster to rip the grate out of the stone after all.

You proposed a solution however, and in his frank opinion, you ought to stick by it.

The massive gauntlet enters your peripheral just as you open your mouth to shoot another argument up at Strife, but no sooner have the metal tips of War’s fingers ghosted across your arm than you wrench it away, whipping around to face him with startled eyes.

Hastily, you hold up your hands in surrender.

“Okay! Alright!” you acquiesce, “Jesus, just… give me a second…”

Flicking part of the veil over your shoulder, you lean forwards and brace yourself with one hand on a bar, lowering your torso down to stretch your other hand down and into the pit below, fingers blindly fishing around for the Vulgrim’s precious artifact.

When they brush against a warm, smooth surface, you can’t refrain from yelping and snatching your hand back as if it had moved.

The leathery smack of a gun being drawn from its holster reaches your ears.

“You okay?” Strife demands, shifting his weight restlessly.

Swallowing back your embarrassment, you nod and reply, “Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s just hot!”

“Hot enough to burn you?” War cuts in with a rough growl.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you brave another go, reaching down and brushing your fingertips hesitantly over the surface of the crystal. Though it is disconcertingly warm to the touch – no doubt from the ambient heat in the atmosphere – you realise with a third stroke that it isn’t anywhere near as hot as you feared it would be.

“No,” you sigh, only partially relieved.

The massive presences surrounding you relax slightly.

“Good,” Strife murmurs, raising his voice to add, “Can you get it loose?”

You can, as it turns out. Quite easily in fact. The crystal isn’t being held in any kind of clamp. To your mounting astonishment, it seems to simply float in midair.

“This is so freaky~,” you sing to yourself as you slide your palm down the long side of it, feeling for the pointed base and cupping your fingers around it with an audible gulp.

The whole crystal seems to buzz and hum under your touch, sending an eerie tingle racing up the length of your arm and raising the hairs all the way up to the back of your neck.

According to all sense and reason, this thing is nothing more than a pretty, pink crystal. But here, where sense and reason have been turned on their heads, pulled inside out and shaken up like a vodka martini, the thing in your hand is no more a mere crystal than the Horsemen are mere men.

Trying very hard to ignore how much the fluctuating thrum beneath your fingertips reminds you of a pulse, you clench your jaw tight, close your eyes, and pull… with a little too much force.

It’s lighter than you expected it to be. Nearly weightless. And it slips straight through the bars of its prison without even dinging against the sides.

Letting out an undignified bleat, you teeter backwards and land painfully on your backside, the crystal smacking against your bosom before falling from your trembling fingers and sliding safely into the soft, white fabric of your skirts.

Cracking your eyelids apart, you blink down at your lap, chest stuttering on a breath. “I… I got it?”

That was…decidedly easy…

Well, aside from almost getting eaten by a demon in your quest to find the damn thing.

The soft, pink glow of the crystal lights up your face as you peer down at it, glittering off your wedding dress and bathing the fabric folds in warmth.

“Wow,” you hear yourself whisper.

With cautious awe, your fingers wander towards it and slip gently around your rescued prize.

You’re so busy admiring the smooth, faultless lines that you don’t notice the shadow of a hand falling across your shoulders until War’s gauntlet has slid beneath your arm.

Aside from blurting out a squawk, you helplessly have to let yourself be lifted with unnerving ease onto your feet, still clutching the crystal close to your breast.

“Good job, kid,” Strife declares, slapping a palm on your back.

If War’s fingers hadn’t tightened around your arm at the moment, you’re sure you’d go tumbling over onto your face.

The force of the larger Horseman’s warning growl sends tremors through his gauntlet and down into the toes of your shoes, rattling the teeth in your skull.

Strife, pleasantly unfussed by his brother’s idle threat, leans over your shoulder as War releases you, and together, you all stare down at the crystal in your arms.

“Wonder what this thing’s worth to that soul-sucking ghoul,” Strife remarks after nobody breaks the quiet hush that’s fallen over you, as though he can’t bear to sit in silence for too long. Bringing his gauntlet up to rub at the chin of his helm, he thoughtfully adds, “We could always convince Vulgrim to throw in a little extra…”

At his suggestion, a tiny frown-line blooms to life between your brows. It is a very pretty gem… but while you know next to nothing about demons, you aren’t sure you like the idea of trying to bargain with one, not when your run-in with one of Vulgrim’s ilk had almost ended so disastrously.

You don’t know if it should come as a shock or not when War’s shoulders bristle moments later, and he bares his canines at Strife, his cavernous chest puffing up until you have to lean sideways to avoid getting jostled by it.

“The artifact, in exchange for information,” he snarls dangerously, “We will honour our agreement.”

‘Honour among Horsemen of the Apocalypse?’ you muse privately, ‘Wonders will never cease.’

Though only in War’s case, evidently. Strife just heaves an obnoxious sigh and tosses his helm back, “Ugh, you have no ambition… Why’ve you gotta be such a killjoy?”

War’s lips start to curl even further apart.

“So!” you quickly interrupt the broiling fracas, “We’ve got the… this thing-“ You shrug the crystal in your palms. “-H-how exactly do we get back?”

That, at least, gets the pair of bickering brothers to fall silent and pivot their attention from one another onto you. War’s expression is still as stony as ever, but you consider it a win that he looks marginally less murderous.

“Huh,” Strife says, “That’s a good question.”

Rumbling at the base of his throat, War grunts, "It would be prudent to find a way out of this realm as quickly as possible."

"Oh?" A mischievous glint sparks in his brother's keen gaze. "And here I thought you were.... warming up to the place."

Unbidden, a short puff of laughter is scoffed right off your tongue, more amused by how bad the joke was than the joke itself.

Either way, Strife's chest fills out proudly as his helm quirks towards you, one eyelid flashing closed behind the visor in a wink.

Oblivious, War just grumbles, "You know your humour escapes me."

And quick as a whip, Strife returns, "All humour escapes you."

Giving a brusque shake of his head, the larger Horseman decides it isn't worth getting into this argument for the umpteenth time. Turning his attention down to you and the crystal in your hands, he beckons with a gauntlet for you to step closer.

"Come. If we retrace our steps, we may be able to-"

You never get to hear the end of his sentence.

It isn’t that you’re particularly unlucky, you think… God, you hope. You’ve never thought yourself significant enough that the Universe would have it out for you personally, after all.

But when the ground suddenly disappears from under your feet in a blinding flash of vivid, blue light, and the deafening rush of air buffets your dress and boxes your eardrums, you can’t help wondering if you’ve somehow - in some unwitting way - slighted the powers that be, and now they’re playing their revenge card.

Which is a hassle for you, because you’ve had just about enough of portals and getting whisked off to places unknown for one day.

The last thing you see as you throw your head up and open your mouth to release a scream that’ll be sucked away with you as your atoms once again rearrange themselves to fit through a spatial rip, is Strife’s luminous, golden eyes flaring hotly like bursting stars – a direct contrast to the cool, ethereal blue of his brother’s, who’s own gaze opens up in surprise and, you think, alarm, one gauntlet outstretched in your direction.

And that’s all you manage to glimpse before the light overtakes you, and your body is yanked like a fish on a hook into the luminiferous aether.

#Eden's Heir #Darksiders #Darksiders Genesis #Strife x Reader x War #polyamory #Friendship #Reader #fem reader #x reader

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fiber-optic-alligator · 5 months ago

Note

(Not a request dw) (I had to get this idea out of my head real quick.)

The idea of Drift swallowing his Little One to protect them from another mech trying to take them for themselves. The pair of them had been sitting, and idly chatting (Even if it was mostly a one-sided conversation.) when another mech had come along. Clearly interested in getting their servos on a tasty little human. It'd start with Drift growling lowly as a part of his warning to the potential human-thief that it'd be a bad idea to try his patience. Obviously he'd want to talk things out first, but a small possessive part of Drift loathes the idea of being separated from His Little One. So the "chat" is intermingled with his growling.

The next action Drift would take if the intruding mech persists. Would be to scoop his Little One up to keep them out of reach of the other mech, the growling of his engine growing more intense to dissuade the mech from taking things any further.

But if all else fails, Drift is probably just gonna make a show out of swallowing His Little One. Before growling loudly one last time out of possessive irritability, and walking away from where he'd been seated. He loathes acting like that, as it reminds him of his Deadlock days, but he wasn't about to let his Little One be stolen away by someone who wasn't going to be Nearly as careful with them as he is. It just wasn't going to happen. Speaking of which, he has some apologizing to do to His Little One after he gets back to his Habsuite, and retrieves them from his tanks. Oh dear.

Ok, but, the feeling of being swiftly (But carefully) swallowed by Drift while he's growling up a storm would be Far more jarring than the experience of being swallowed typically would be. The world around you shaking rhythmically, loudly as peristalsis drags you further down into Drift's humid depths. But even when you know Drift would never hurt you, (On purpose) being swallowed, and so thoroughly rattled by his animalistic growls fills you with dread as you sink deeper within him. You land in his stomach as he lets out a more aggressive growl. His tanks clench close around you, just as possessively as your mech is behaving externally. But when you feel him get up, and walk away his tank releases it's hold on you allowing you to breathe again.

It's different when he growls with you in his tank, than when he purrs. The sounds of his gentle purring lulls you to sleep most nights, and results in only a slight shaking sensation. But his growls rattle you to your core, and leave you feeling threatened by the typically placid mech. Drift, who loves you too much to let you leave fall into the servos of someone who can't give you the care you need. Like he can. Like he will.

HRRRRRRRGH THIS IS SO GOOD!!!!

I’m sorry I HAD to write something about this. I know this wasn’t a request but this scenario is honestly so, so good. The way you worded it was beautiful. GOD, what I wrote isn’t half as good as what you sent but I was inspired. What I wrote isn't a carbon copy of your idea, but I still really enjoyed putting this idea into story form. GOD I STILL CAN'T GET OVER IT. Drift certainly does love you too much to let you be taken by someone else. He loves you too much to let you leave. After all, you are is little one. There's no changing that.

PLEASE let me know if you like the little story I wrote. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THE INCREDIBLE ASK! I'm gonna look back at reread at least twenty times now lmao.

WARNING! WHAT IS WRITTEN BELOW THIS CONTAIN SOFT VORE. If this is something that makes you uncomfortable, please do not read!

“Hey, are you going to have that?”

Drift looks up. The mech staring back at him is stocky and short. He has some grime splattered across his chassis and arms: oil. An engineer. A name does not stick to the face, and Drift takes a quick moment to try and recall it. Nothing.

“Excuse me?” is all his confusion will allow him to say.

“The human.” The stranger gestures to the table. “Are you gonna have it?”

Drift looks down. On the table is a datapad displaying a sparkling’s story with funny little illustrations. Observing the pictures is you. The library is a quiet place. Drift comes here frequently to either read or simply clear his mind. He enjoys bringing you along as well; ever since you found out there was a library aboard the Lost Light, you have shown a strong fascination with Cybertronian writings. He doesn’t know if you get the gist of what they mean, but you give him such excited, pleading looks when he lets you observe them, that he can’t help but let you indulge. So, he provides you with simple readings. The ones with pictures are what you seem to enjoy best. You’d sit there for hours if you could, looking at the datapad and trying to quietly sound out the Cybertronian words to yourself. It’s not something you do well, but Drift finds it so adorable. You attempting to mimic his language just proves how clever you are.

He loves to watch you do this, and he frequently jumps in to help you say certain words right. Most of the time the two of you are quietly repeating them to each other in a sort of simple lesson. It’s one of the many things the two of you do as a bonding experience. Primus, Drift loves it.

So who the hell is this random mech to barge in and interrupt by asking if he can have you?

“Um.” Drift chuckles in disbelief. “They’re not for sale. Sorry.”

“Oh, no, nonono.” The mech shakes his head and laughs too. “I don’t want to buy them from you. I want to borrow them. I’ve never had the chance to get my servos on one of these little beauties. It’s rare to find a human that doesn’t already have an owner.” He leers at you, swiping his glossa over his lips. “If you let me have a taste, I’ll pay you. However much you want, name your price.”

You, who has been silently observing this entire interaction, shrink back nervously. Drift sees the way you look at the other mech in fear, and his mood immediately darkens. Something sour builds in his spark. He slowly reaches forward and curls his digits around you. It’s an obvious display of possessive protection.

“They’re. Mine,” he growls. The sound is deep and dangerous, continuing on after he spoke his words. Though he doesn’t notice, you are clearly shaken by it. Chirping softly, you press your hand against his palm, trying to get his attention. But he only tightens his hold, never breaking eye contact with the threat before him.

“Dude, I know they’re yours.” The other mech is clearly unaffected by Drift’s hostility. “You can spare a bit of time with them, can’t you? C’mon, just let me have a taste.”

He makes a grab for you. Drift’s instincts kick in, and he snatches you away. You yelp when he presses you against his chassis. He makes a mental note to apologize to you later, but right now he needs to play the part of big bad mech. There can be no sign of weakness here. This stranger is clearly bent on stealing you from him. He won’t let that happen. You are his little one. His.

Drift rises to his pedes, his growls elevating. The other mech doesn’t show any ounce of care and growls back, armor rising to clack. “I’ve waited for so long to try one of these things,” he says. “This might be my only opportunity! Just let me have them!”

“They aren’t a thing,” Drift hisses. “They are a human. And if you can’t show them the proper respect and care they deserve, then you have no right to own this one, let alone any.”

“You think just because you're third in command to the captain that you can lecture me on how to treat a human?” The mech gets into Drift’s face and flashes his fangs. “You don’t even know me! I’m not going to hurt it! I just want a taste! Is that so hard for you to allow?”

“When it comes to a bot like you? Yes. It is.” Drift doesn’t waver. He’s taller than this mech. Stronger, too. Faster, and better at fighting. If it comes down to such actions unfolding, then so be it. He will do anything to protect his little one.

Speaking of you…you cower in his servos, trying your best to appear invisible. He looks down at you, debating on how to handle this. The other mech obviously doesn’t intend on backing off any time soon, and if things do come down to a fist fight, he obviously can’t defend you like this. His best option for keeping you safe is swallowing you.

The engineer puffs out his chassis and revs his engine. It’s a challenge.

Drift accepts it. But not in the way he is thinking.

He raises you high above his faceplate and lets you drop a little, until he has the back of your shirt pinched between his forefinger and thumb. You kick your legs and squeal, alarmed, and his spark wrenches at the sight. He wants to comfort you. He needs to comfort you. But he can’t, not while he’s making a show of this in order to prove he isn’t someone to be messed with. So despite how disgusted he is with taking advantage of your fear, despite how this makes him feel like a little piece of Deadlock is rising from the grave, he goes through with his decision and decides that if he wants to keep you protected, he needs to scare the other mech off…even if you are scared shitless too.

He lets you go. Your high-pitched scream is abruptly cut off when you land in his intake and he quickly snaps his jaws shut. Slicking you up with solvent, he tilts his helm back and swallows you, swiftly, but gently. He makes sure the other mech can see you travel down his throat. You are nothing more than a little bulge that disappears into his chassis and is quickly consumed.

The engineer stares. His mouth is open like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

Drift licks his lips and continues growling, as loudly as he can. He watches the other mech’s helm lower, optics on the floor. Intimidated. Good.

“Never come near me or my human again,” he says. “They’re mine. Do you hear me? Mine.”

The challenger offers no protest. Drift pushes past him and leaves the library, not looking back.

You have never seen this side of Drift before.

When he swallows you, he is always careful with you. He takes things slow, allowing you to move along with his pace, giving you every opportunity to tell him no, you don’t want this right now.

However, this case is entirely different. He didn’t even give you a chance to gather your bearings before he was tossing you into his mouth and gulping you down with a rushed sense of urgency. Oh, he was gentle. Of course he’s always going to be gentle with you. But after watching the way he interacted with that strange mech, who you know wanted to eat you just from the way he had been looking at you like a lion looks at a fresh piece of meat, you can understand why he’s being so quick. This is being done for your preservation.

But god, that doesn’t mean this isn’t terrifying.

Everything around you shakes as you are pushed deeper and deeper within him. His esophageal muscles are tight, the rolling sensation of being swallowed not as soothing as it should be. His growls ring in your ears and leave you feeling rattled. He sounds dangerous. He sounds like an animal.

It scares you.

When you make it to his stomach, you are practically shoved inside. There is no chance to catch your breath, no opportunity for you to nestle in and get comfortable. The walls move in to give you the tightest squeeze of your life. You are squished uncomfortably between living cables that pulse with the bright, possessive desire to never let you go. Every angle is taken up by him. All you can see is blue biolight. And all you can hear are his throaty rumbles.

There is no end to it. Even when you feel his stomach gently sway with the rest of his body as he walks away, the organ only holds you closer, gurgling possessively. You feel like you are being told that you are his. Because you are.

You should be consoled by this fact. But no such feeling comes to compete with the claustrophobic dread that fills you.

Drift is fuming when he stomps back into his habsuite. He paces back and forth, then drags his chair back and sits in it with a heavy puff of exhaust. Tapping his digits against his desk, he imagines his fist grabbing that engineer by the back of the helm and smashing his faceplate into the nearest wall. How dare he? How dare he just waltz up to him and ask to taste his little one? The nerve of some bots!

I’ll have to put in a word to Ultra Magnus, he thinks. That engineer should be dismissed. He shouldn’t even be on the Lost Light. Disgusting behavior like that should be punished. It has to-

He hears a soft whimper. His digits halt their fidgeting. He looks down at his middle and has his internal sensors scan your little form. Your heart rate is through the roof. Your breathing is erratic and unsteady. And…oh no. Oh, no, no, no. You're trembling.

He loosens his grip on you and gives you room to move. But when that doesn’t do the trick, he decides that keeping you in there while you are in this state will only distress you further. So he clenches his tank muscles again, and pushes you upward, back through his esophagus and into his mouth. He slips you into his servos with practiced ease, turning you gently so you are on your back. You are covered in his solvent, chest heaving as you look up at him. Then, to his horror, you turn away from him and curl up into a little ball. You are still shaking. His spark sinks.

He gently deposits you onto his desk and fetches one of his fluffiest blankets to wrap you in. You don’t resist him. You just sit there, giving him those big sad eyes you have whenever you are scared.

“Little one?” Drift whispers.

You chirp softly and hide your face. He whines. “No, no, don’t do that.” He hooks his index digit under your chin and tilts your head up. “Look at me, little one. Please.”

You're still so afraid. He realizes that his big act in front of the engineer really affected you. Guilt rises. There has to be a way to get through to you and show you that he’s still the gentle Drift you know.

He leans forward, cupping you close. Lowering his helm to be at your level, Drift coos out the call you always make when you want his attention. “Hello,” he murmurs in the foreign tongue. “Hello. Hello, hello.”

You perk up a little when he mimics your calls. Tentatively, you say it back. “…Hello.”

Drift beams. “Hello, little one.” He ruffles your hair, chuckling when you lean into his touch. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I…I had to show him that you are mine. I don’t want anyone trying to take you from me. They could hurt you. And if that happens…I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

You seem to understand that he’s asking for your forgiveness. Sighing, you shuffle forward and reach out, pressing your hands against his nose. You chirp; much of it is indecipherable. But then…you begin to speak. Not in your language. In Cybertronain.

“Love you,” you say to him. “Love you…love you, Drift.”

He doesn’t know when you learned it. But he knows it’s the first time you’ve said it. He is your first I love you.

He can’t contain himself. Drift purrs louder, cuddling you. “I love you too, little one. I love you so, so much.”

You like cuddles. You deserve them. Today was a rough day for both of you. But knowing you still trust him is relieving. And he promises you…he swears to you, he will never allow anyone to try and threaten you again.

#gator answers #gator writes #desperation vs domestication #drift x reader #tasty au #first contact au #transformers first contact #transformers first contact au #soft vore #safe vore #sfw vore

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justagalwhowrites · 8 months ago

Text

Yearling - Ch. 32: Promises

Joel adjusts to life in Jackson after his brush with death. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-31 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: References to canon-typical violence. Smut :). No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 9.5k

A/N: Hi y'all. If you're still looking at this fic but have skipped the last few chapters because of spoilers, this is a pretty safe chapter to jump back in at. You do need to understand that Joel was nearly killed in an encounter with an unnamed person while on patrol and that someone was looking for him in particular to have the context for this chapter. If you have any questions, feel free to DM me.

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

December, 2027

“No.”

“Baby…”

“I said no, Joel.”

You stalked off to another room and Joel could feel your frustration from where he sat on the couch.

He sighed, debating whether or not to follow you or if he should stay where he was and let you cool off.

It wasn’t the first time the two of you had had this discussion over the last six weeks.

Joel had made significant recovery since the incident in November. His leg had mostly healed, though he still walked with a slight limp. But he could breathe deeply without feeling the burning pain of broken ribs now. And the parts of him the doctors had to cut away so he would survive - part of his liver, part of his intestine, one of his kidneys - no longer constantly hurt to the point of occasional agony. Everything was tolerable now, if not necessarily what it was before.

As a result, he was starting to go a little stir crazy. Admittedly, the doctors hadn’t cleared him for anything too strenuous - though he wondered how much of that was your doing versus theirs - but he wanted to start preparing to go back to the life he had in Jackson. One where he felt fulfilled, like he had his place in the community and a way to contribute.

You, however, weren’t too happy with that plan.

Joel sighed and got up from the couch, the muscle in his leg burning as he did. Things still hurt and pulled at first - and he was sure getting on a horse would be uncomfortable at best - but it would pass. Or he’d get used to it.

Either way, he wasn’t content with continuing to sit in his house and rot.

“Sweetheart,” he said, finding you in the kitchen.

You closed the fridge door with too much force, making the jars of canned produce inside rattle.

“No,” you said, adding milk to a cup of tea on the counter. “Find a place to sit, I don’t want you spilling hot tea all over yourself.”

“I’m not a kid,” he said, a little defensive. “I know perfectly well what I’m capable of…”

“No, you don’t,” you said, leveling him with a glare before returning the milk to the fridge and pointing to his spot at the table. “Now sit.”

Joel squared his jaw for a moment before going for the kitchen table - trying to walk with as little a limp as he could manage even though it fucking hurt - and sitting down there. He took a deep breath as you got the mugs of tea and carried them to the table, setting one in front of him and the other in front of the seat he’d come to think of as yours. You settled in beside him, holding the mug with both hands, seemingly determined to not actually look at him.

“We need to talk about it,” he said gently.

“I’m not going to discuss you going out there to get yourself fucking killed, Joel,” you snapped. “I’m not doing it, I’m not going through that again. End of story.”

Joel tried to remind himself that he wouldn’t feel any differently if he were in your position. He couldn’t blame you for it.

You’d been a mess when he woke up. It had just taken him a few minutes to really realize it.

It was like you couldn’t get close enough to him once you were against him, clinging to him as you tried to not disturb him or put any weight on him. But once he got you settled, you fell asleep quickly.

Joel, however, was wide awake. Part of him was afraid to go to sleep again. He didn’t want to not wake up, he wasn’t confident enough that he would. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious but it felt like he’d slept enough for a lifetime.

So he just held onto you. He soaked up the feel of you in his arms, a sensation he thought he’d never have again. He tried to pick through the fog of his mind, remember what had happened before, but it felt so far away, nothing but a haze of blood and hurt before your voice was there. After a while, he left it alone.

But you didn’t sleep the way you normally did. At first, you seemed stiff, like you were still conscious enough to be worried about hurting him. That didn’t last too long. Your whole body relaxed, as limp and pliant as you were when he’d just made you come again and again. But you almost never actually found rest that way. Even with Joel beside you, there was part of you that was always tense and ready to defend yourself. A byproduct, he was sure, of years of torment that could strike at any time. You only slept that way when you were at the point of total exhaustion, when your body physically couldn’t be on guard anymore.

As much as he wanted to talk to you - ask you what happened, how you were feeling, how long he’d been like this - he wanted you to rest more. You needed it, your whole body desperate for it. So when his door opened just as the light in the room shifted to the pink and orange of dawn, his hold on you tightened ever so slightly.

Carol, one of the doctors, didn’t even notice him watching her come in at first, nearly jumping out of her skin when she realized that his eyes were open.

“Joel!” She yelped and you stirred ever so slightly against him. He held you tighter.

“Shhh,” he hushed her before whispering, soft and low. “She needs her rest. Don’t think she’s had much of that lately.”

“But…”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “Let ‘er sleep. Can look me over in a bit.”

She rolled her eyes but left all the same and he watched you, lost in you. You’d survived. He remembered being afraid that you wouldn’t but you had, and so had he. He trailed his fingers gently over your exposed skin, marveling at the softness of you, that you loved and trusted him enough to let your softness be this close.

The sun was high when the door opened again, not easing open this time but flying, Ellie tearing into the room in a blur of wild hair and disheveled clothes. The door smacking into the wall made you wake with a jolt and he held you close as he felt that tension shock back into your limbs.

“Joel!” Ellie barreled over to him and he couldn’t help but smile as she skidded to a stop at his bedside as you sat up.

“Hey baby girl.”

“You’re awake,” her voice was thick as she sat down near you at the edge of the bed. “Fuck, I didn’t…”

“Are you OK?” He asked, trying to look her over.

“I’m fine,” she waved him off. “You scared the shit out of me but I’m fine. The doc said I needed to get you to let her look you over? What the fuck, Joel?”

“Joel!” You looked down at him, wide awake now, his head propped up on pillows.

“You needed rest,” he shrugged.

“You needed to be examined by a doctor!” You snapped, unfolding yourself from your place at his side. He tried to hold onto you but you leveled him with a glare. “After everything we did to get you here alive, don’t even start.”

He tried very hard not to laugh.

“Whatever you say, baby.”

He seemed to frustrate you a lot after that. You talked to the doctors more than he did, never leaving his side and listening to everything they said with a hard look on your face. He tried to ask more about what happened to you - he remembered you bleeding and your face was still damaged but healing - but you changed the subject back to him immediately every time.

Joel was ready for things to go back to normal as quickly as he could manage but you were nervous, hesitant. The first time you dared leave him at the clinic, something happened with a horse and Olivia came to get you. It was the third day he was awake and you were gone long enough that he was able to get out of bed and try to walk on his own. He didn’t make it very far, all but falling into a chair near the door after using the wall to haphazardly balance as he went. The chair smacked into the wall and Joel heard scrambling from the hall before Carol threw open the door, her eyes wide and panicky before she saw where Joel had ended up.

“Are you trying to get yourself hurt?” She demanded as she helped him back to bed.

“No,” he said, defensive. “I’m tryin’ to get myself back to normal…”

“Joel, you’re 60 years old…”

“Don’t remind me.”

“…And injuries take time to recover from. You’re not a young man anymore, you can’t push yourself the way you used to.”

“I’m not a young man anymore,” he agreed as she helped lower him to the bed, his body seeming so hulking and large beside hers. “I can’t afford to waste time bein’ useless.”

“Recovery isn’t useless,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “If you’re not going to listen to me then you need to listen to that woman of yours, Joel. Take it easy and don’t do things like get up without someone there to help if you need it.”

Carol was nice enough to not tell you about the fact that he got out of bed and walked to the chair, at least. But she had distinctly sided with you in all matters related to his recovery after that, as had Tommy, Ellie, Maria and Savvy.

It didn’t help that there were clearly conversations happening that no one wanted to tell him about. He heard raised voices from the front room of the clinic one day, you and Ellie going back and forth about something he couldn’t quite make out until there was the sharp boom of Tommy’s voice ending the conversation.

“Care to tell me what that was this afternoon?” He asked as you settled into his side to sleep after Ellie and Tommy had gone home for the night.

“Depends on how pissed off you want to be,” you replied, draping your arm gingerly over his chest and settling in with your head on his shoulder.

“Not gonna piss me off,” he said gently. You had shrugged out of the button down of his that you’d worn that day before climbing in bed, stripped down to the tank top below and he could feel your skin so easily like this, his hand skimming over your bared arm. You pressed yourself closer.

“Yes it is,” you said quietly, stretching and kissing his throat before settling at his side again.

“Can’t go the rest of our lives without shit pissin’ me off, baby,” he said gently. “Don’t think I can handle you treatin’ me like glass the whole time, either.”

“I just worry,” you said softly. “I don’t want to do this without you, can’t give you a damn heart attack because Ellie has some scheme…”

“So it’s Ellie that’s causin’ the trouble,” he said.

You groaned.

“Fine,” you said. “Better not get all worked up and just let me handle it. Trust me when I say I have it, Joel, I really do…”

“Baby.”

You sighed again.

“From what Tommy was conscious for and what little you remember,” you said slowly. “The people who… those people. They were after you. Specifically you. And Ellie… she hasn’t taken kindly to that.”

“Alright…”

“She wants to go find them,” you sighed. “She thinks she can handle it…”

“No,” he said, already moving to get up but you held him down.

“Joel.”

“She’s not doin’ that…”

“I know she’s not,” you said, still holding him in place. “I told you, Tommy and I have it handled.”

“I don’t want her to go after them,” Joel said, letting himself relax back into the mattress and your hold on him eased. “Don’t want any of you putting yourself at risk on some damn fool mission…”

“I know.”

“She needs to get that shit outta her head…”

“I know, Joel.”

He sighed.

“This is such a fuckin’ mess. All of it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said quietly, nuzzling in closer to him. “All that matters is you’re alive and you’re here. We’ll figure it out.”

You figuring it out, apparently, just meant keeping Joel under lock and key for the foreseeable future. Your jaw was set tight across the table and you fidgeted with your mug, your thumb tapping out a stuttering rhythm on the handle.

“I need to contribute,” Joel said gently. You glared at him. “Sweetheart…”

“You can contribute without leaving Jackson,” you said. “Your value here isn’t limited to going on fucking patrol…”

“It’s a big part of my value, Baby, yeah,” he said. “I don’t got a lot of skills…”

“You were a contractor before,” you snapped. “You think buildings here don’t need to be repaired? That things don’t need to be constructed? Do that, let them take you out of the patrol rotation.”

“I’m not gonna hide,” he said, trying to get you to look at him even as you seemed bound and determined not to. “I want to get back out there, I want to do my part…”

“Your part doesn’t include getting fucking murdered, Joel!”

“I sure hope it doesn’t,” he reached out and took your hand, his thumb running over your knuckles. “I want to be here, with you, for a good, long time, baby. But I can’t… I can’t be something I’m not. And I’m not someone who just lets other people take on all the risk while he sits at home, on his ass…”

“Joel.”

“You say you love me,” he said. You actually met his eyes with that, glassy and wet at the edges.

“Of course I love you,” you said, not as harsh now. “I love you so goddamn much, I can’t lose you, I can’t, do you understand me?”

“I know, Baby,” he reached out, his large hand cupping your face. “And I’m not planning on going anywhere. But I can’t be the man you love by hidin’ away and waitin’ for trouble to come to someone else. I need to be the one to handle it. Me. I need to take care of my own business, need to look after you, need to take care of our girls. I can’t do that here, acting like I’m not capable of doing my part. I’m going back out there, Baby, and I’d like to do it knowin’ that you’ll still be speaking to me when I get back.”

“You don’t get to ask me to watch you hurt yourself,” your voice was thick. “I will not watch you die, Joel. I’m not going to do it and you don’t get to ask me to.”

“I’m not,” he said gently. “But, Sweetheart, if I am gonna go? I’d like to go out as myself. And that means going back out on patrol.”

Your eyes searched his for a moment before you all but collapsed against his shoulder, your arms snaking up around his neck, a sob cracking through you. He put his arms around you, rocking you gently.

Part of him had been waiting for this to happen. Beyond when he caught you off guard when he first woke up, you’d been nothing but strong and stoic. The only time there was a hint of anything else was when the two of you went to bed at night. You clung to him then, Joel swallowing any hint of hurt you accidentally caused when you held him tight. You breathed him in deep, pressed as much skin to him as you could manage. Sometimes, those deep breaths were shaky ones, like you were trying not to cry. He just held onto you, wishing you’d say something - anything - so he’d know how you were feeling. But you didn’t. So he took care of you the best way he could while you were focused on taking care of him.

“It’s alright,” his hand spread wide over your back, keeping a slow and steady rhythm as it ran up and down your spine. Your tears were racking, choking, making your whole body shake. “You’re OK, I’ve got you, s’alright…”

“I can’t,” you sobbed against him. “I can’t, I can’t… you can’t leave me, Joel, you can’t.”

“M’not gonna leave you, Baby,” he said softly. “I promise you. I’ll always come home to you.”

“You can’t know that,” you sniffed, your sobs calming to sniffles. “Seeing you like that…”

“I know,” he said quietly. He’d seen you nearly dead enough times, he knew. He understood it. “I’m sorry, Baby, I’m so sorry…”

“Then why are you insisting on trying to go back out there,” you sat back from him. “If you understood it, you’d stay here with me and with Ellie and Savvy, you wouldn’t do this. Not to yourself, not to me, not to them…”

“I know,” he said again, looking in your eyes, begging you to understand. “But that girl… she took a lot from me, baby. A few organs, more time than I really want. Almost took my future with you and the girls. Not gonna let her take who I am, too. And I need to go back out there. Not gonna just hide in here, afraid, for the rest of my life.”

Your eyes searched his, wide and wet, and then you sighed.

“I have conditions. If you expect me to be OK with this…”

“Of course,” he said quickly. “What are they?”

“You go out with Tommy or me,” you said. “No one else. I don’t trust you out there with Jesse or fucking Gene…”

“They were tryin’ to do the right thing…”

“The right thing was saving you,” you snapped. “You go out with Tommy or with me or not at all.”

“Alright,” he said. “You or Tommy. At least to start.”

You glared at him for a moment but you pressed on.

“You don’t even think about going out until you’re fully cleared by both doctors,” you said. “None of this second opinion bullshit, they’re both on board or you don’t go.”

“I can do that,” he nodded slowly. “You’re being very reasonable, Baby, I’m impressed…”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughed a little and tugged you closer to press a kiss to your temple. You melted into his chest, head nestling against his shoulder so that your nose brushed his neck.

“I promise, I don’t have a death wish,” he said, thumb tracing a path over your arm. “I always want to come home to you. I just need to do this, too.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I’m just… I’m so scared with you. All the time, I’m so afraid. It’s different than with Savvy, I’ve always been afraid with her. Scared I was gonna drop her or accidentally hurt her or not teach her the right thing or teach her too much. Scared I couldn’t save her. She’s my heart just walking around outside my body, I’m used to being afraid with her. But it’s different than how I feel about you and I just… I’ve never loved someone the way I love you and I don’t know how to live with being afraid of losing that.”

He took a deep breath and held you a little tighter.

“Know the feeling.”

It was just a few days to Christmas and preparations were in full swing. The tree was up in the middle of town, lights lined the buildings, Julie had been hoarding supplies for some kind of holiday cocktail that she claimed was a surprise that you were highly skeptical of. You, Ellie and Savvy had picked a tree for his living room just the week before and set it up, Savvy standing back with a slight frown on her face the whole time.

“What’s up, baby girl?” Joel asked, sitting in an arm chair as he watched you and Ellie decorate. His leg wasn’t quite up for standing that much yet.

“It’s just…” She looked at him for a moment and perched on the arm of the chair before looking back at you. “People really did this before? Put trees in their houses?”

“Yeah,” Joel smiled up at her. “They did. Biggest holiday of the year for a lot of the world, trees inside stores and offices and shit, too.”

She crossed her arms, her brows knitting together as she frowned.

“She never did this with me,” she said quietly. “I read about Christmas in a book once but it didn’t talk about this part and she didn’t talk about it much when I asked and… I don’t get it.”

Joel nodded slowly. Savvy was still warming up to you. She seemed skeptical of your motivations, of your intentions, of everything you said. It was hard to tell how much of it was teenaged cynicism and how much was rooted in her feelings of abandonment. But since you’d all but moved into Joel’s house, she’d been around you more and more and you did your best to let her guide it. He could tell how much it was killing you, though. He knew the feeling well, remembering back to the days when Ellie wouldn’t even look at him. He could tell how badly you wanted to cling to her. He saw how much you wanted her to stay close and tell you everything in the way you hung on her every word, the way you watched the door for a full minute after she left to go back to Ellie’s. But you needed her to be OK with it more. That just didn’t make things any easier.

“What did she tell you?” Joel asked, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t rise over the Christmas carols you’d put on the stereo.

“Stuff she did with her parents,” she shrugged. “That her brothers would tease her about being bad… None of this stuff.”

“Well,” Joel said slowly. “Think she told you the important stuff.”

She looked at him, skeptical.

“The important stuff ain’t the decorations, it’s the people,” he said. “She couldn’t give you the other things so she told you about your family. Don’t think she was trying to hide anything from you. She shared with you what mattered.”

She nodded slowly and looked toward the tree again until Ellie turned around and called her over to put an ornament on the tree. You bit your lip as you watched her do it, your eyes wide and soft and you hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder, giving her a squeeze when she stepped back to look at her handiwork.

Joel was steadfastly trying to focus on the holiday instead of the tension that had settled over the town since his attack. Patrols had been ramped up, sending people out in small groups instead of pairs. There were growing signs of people present in the wilderness, more xes on trees and remains of fires. Tommy had told Joel - much to your chagrin - that the prevailing theory was they were marking Jackson territory, the signs always found at the edges of where patrols ran. As though someone was watching for where they could seize power. Everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting for something worse to happen.

But the build up to Christmas seemed to have taken everyone’s minds off the looming threat. Joel was thankful for it. It seemed to have lightened your mood some, too - part of why he decided to bring up the patrol issue yet again.

He didn’t tell you that he was set to see Carol the next day to hopefully get cleared for patrol. And… other activities.

The cruelty of the timing of the attack hadn’t been lost on Joel. He’d just gotten you back, hadn’t even had 12 damn hours with you before he had to leave for patrol and then almost never came back. But he’d lived and, while you’d been close ever since, you weren’t close enough.

He wanted you.

That wasn’t quite right, he always wanted you. He was pretty sure he’d wanted you since the moment he first saw you. He was beyond that now. He needed you so bad he ached with it, his whole fucking body hurt with it sometimes. But you wouldn’t touch him without the doctors saying it was OK. Even though, at this point, he was starting to think it was medically dangerous to be so fucking wanting.

“Are you goin’ to the stables today?” Joel asked, holding you close. You nodded against him. “You think you’ll be done in time for the movie?”

“Definitely,” you said. “Savvy’s never seen a Christmas movie, not missing that.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Been meanin’ to ask you something,” he said.

“Hm.”

“Think you’ll be my date for the dance tomorrow night?” He asked. You pulled back from him and glared, your eyes still red. He smiled a little. “Know I left it to last minute but I’m hoping…”

“Of course I’ll be your date,” you shoved him ever so lightly. “Who else am I gonna go with? Been cooped up here with you for the last month, all my other prospects have given up on me…”

He laughed and kissed you.

“Guess you’ll just have to be my girl, then.”

“Guess so.”

He kissed you again, deeply, firmly. But it was different than so many other kisses he’d shared with you over the past few weeks. There was heat behind it. A twinge of need and want that tasted so familiar on your tongue. You moaned and adjusted so you were closer to him, your body curving, leg hitching up over his so you could press your mound against his thigh. He gripped you tighter, pulled you closer, but you pulled back with a groan.

“Baby,” he breathed but you shook your head.

“Not going to risk hurting you,” you panted.

“Not gonna hurt me…”

“Not sure I trust your judgement,” you gave him a final, chaste, peck on the lips. “I’ll see you tonight, walk over with you and the girls.”

“Have a good day,” he said.

“I will if you take it easy,” you replied, extracting yourself gently from his grip and heading out the door.

He watched you leave and waited for a few minutes to make sure you were gone before he got up, too. It was almost Christmas and there were things he wanted to do.

***

Joel looked far too pleased with himself, his hand on your thigh as you sat beside him at the Tipsy Bison. You had one of Julie’s special cocktails - something she called the Grinch and tasted like mint - and were well on your way to being tipsy for the first time in months.

Savvy and Ellie were sitting with some friends - Dina, Jesse, the boy from school you suspected Savvy had a crush on named Kyle - and looked to be having fun. You hoped Savvy would talk to you about it later. She’d been opening up a little bit more, never fully pulling away like she had for so long. You took what you could get, thankful that she was willing to speak to you at all.

She’d gone with you, Joel and Ellie to the movie the night before. It was Miracle on 34th Street. She seemed to enjoy it, smiling and watching the screen in wonder, soaking it all in. It was bittersweet to see. You’d always wanted to be able to give her these things, the kinds of things you remembered loving as a girl at the holidays. But there was a certain cruelty in it, too. She’d never see a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, never visit a mall Santa. Jackson brought her closer to the life you’d led as a girl but it was still so far away and it was hard, not being able to share it with her.

But Ellie had talked her into spending Christmas Day with you and Joel. You’d damn near kissed her when she told you and you felt a little like you had as a child on Christmas Eve, the greatest gift you could have ever asked for, spending the day with Savvy, Joel and Ellie all together.

But Joel seemed as excited as you were, a small smile tugging at his lips as you sat across from Tommy and Maria.

“Can’t believe it’s Christmas again,” Maria said, taking a drink of his beer. “Swear, time goes by faster and faster every damn year.”

“I’ll take time goin’ faster as long as that means it’s still goin’,” Joel replied.

“Know that’s right,” Tommy shook his head a little, half smile on his face. “We’re all still standing and after the last year, seems like the best I can ask for.”

“Y’all doing anything special for William this year?” You asked, turning your cocktail glass slowly in your fingers. “He’s getting big enough to know what’s going on now.”

“Santa’s planning to make a visit,” Tommy smiled a little. “He’s been pretty good lately, figure that should be rewarded.”

You smiled back, looking toward Savvy. She was facing the boy on the bench next to her and his fingers traced the outside of her knee and she smiled.

The music changed, the strains of the song familiar. Hallelujah. You looked toward Joel and he smiled a little wider, the change so subtle you doubted anyone but you would notice.

“This is hardly a Christmas song.”

“There’s an argument to be made,” he said. “Heard it on the radio sometimes at Christmastime, it counts.”

He took his hand off your thigh and held it out to you. An offering.

“C’mon, baby,” his eyes were hot on you. “Call it an early Christmas present.”

You put your hand in his and let him lead you to the dance floor. You draped your arms over his shoulders, fingers trailing through his hair as he tugged your body close to his.

“See?” He said, tracing your nose with his. “Not so bad.”

“Helps when you’ve got a good partner,” you smiled a little. “How’s that leg of yours doing?”

“Good as new,” he said. “Definitely isn’t gonna keep me from dancing with you, that’s for damn sure.”

You laughed a little before you nestled your head against his chest, sighing contentedly.

“I’m so glad you’re still here to dance with,” you said quietly as you swayed with him. He gave you a gentle squeeze.

“Me too,” he said softly, almost sadly.

“I feel like I wasted so much time,” you whispered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes and making your throat tight. You got like this a lot lately, this haze of what almost was hanging over you. “I should have known better and…”

“Hey,” he said, pulling back from you just enough to look in your eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t waste anything. I gave you a lot of shit to work through, more than you ever should have had to deal with. You did what you needed to do, s’not a waste.”

“What if I’d lost you?” You asked softly. “What if I never came over that night, what if…”

“What if a lot of things,” he cut you off. “Doesn’t matter. We got here. That’s the important thing.”

He pulled you back against him and you pressed your ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“Gotta ask,” he said, tone lighter after a moment. “Never had any of those fancy dance classes you had. How do I hold up compared to the guys who did?”

You laughed once, burying your face in his chest for a moment.

“Best partner I ever had,” you said.

He chuckled a little, his lips brushing your forehead.

“Good.”

You held him closer, moving with him slowly on the dance floor for a while. You weren’t sure how long. You let yourself get lost in him. The way he swayed in time to a rhythm your body was more in tune with than your mind, the way he felt so warm as he wrapped around you, the way his heart beat and the rise and fall of his chest were constant and stable. The way he was whole in your arms. It was like you could finally relax into that reality, you’d reached a point that you weren’t just scared anymore. He was here, he wasn’t going to fade away to nothing in the night. His heart would keep beating, his chest would keep rising, you wouldn’t need to find a way to do this without him.

“Ready to go?” He asked softly after what felt like a while. “Want to get you home.”

“Yeah,” you said, separating from him enough to look at him. “Let’s go.”

You went and said your goodbyes to Tommy and Maria and Joel stopped by the girls’ table - scaring the shit out of Kyle by the look of it, Kyle’s eyes wide and terrified - before lacing his fingers with yours for the walk home.

“What did you say to them?” You asked, walking close enough to him that you could feel the slight limp he had now.

“Told ‘em to get home at a reasonable time,” he shrugged. “And no boys behind closed doors. Don’t want that Kyle kid gettin’ any ideas…”

You snorted.

“It looked like you threatened to castrate the boy,” you said. “I don’t want anyone taking advantage of Savvy but I don’t want everyone terrified to date her, either.”

“Didn’t get that specific with it,” Joel said, a little defensive. “Just made it clear that someone was watchin’. And that someone was me.”

You smiled and shook your head a little.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said. “But… thank you. For taking care of my daughter.”

He looked at you, his face serious as you came to a stop at his front walk.

“Course,” he said. “She’s an amazing kid, Bambi. You did a great job with her. And… might not deserve it but… feels like she’s mine, too. Love her like she’s mine. Hope that’s OK.”

You looked at him for a moment, his eyes soft and warm, the lines of his face familiar landscapes. For a moment, it was as though your heart had broken open with him, cracked down to the center because the love you had for him couldn’t be held there anymore. You pulled him close to you, kissing him soft and deep.

Or it started that way, at least. But his body against yours, the sharpness of your love in your chest, the taste of him on your tongue pushed you into desire. It didn’t take much to spark it - it had been so long since you’d had him - but once it was there, it burned hot and fast, swallowing the reminder that you should keep yourself under control quickly.

“C’mon,” Joel said against your lips, breathless. “Let’s go inside.”

You nodded and followed him inside, using the short walk from the street to his front door as a chance to try to get the want that was flaring inside you under control. It was too soon, it had to be too soon and you weren’t going to risk Joel’s health just because you were aching to have him as close as possible.

Joel pulled you back against him as he he closed the door behind the two of you, tilting your head to give him better access to your mouth, his fingertips sinking into your skin as he gripped you tight. You swallowed a moan and tried to keep yourself from giving in even as you pressed yourself closer to him.

“Joel,” you breathed, pulling your lips from his, his hands still holding you against him. “We… we should stop…”

“Don’t need to,” he said, kissing you gently again.

“Joel…”

“Went to the doctor today,” he kissed over the line of your jaw, following the curve of your bones up to your temple where his lips lingered. “Said there’s a lot I’m allowed to do now. Including everything I want to do to you.”

He trailed kisses down to your neck and you moaned as his lips pressed into the sensitive skin there.

“I’ll beg if I have to,” he whispered. “But I need you, baby. Need to have you close, need to be inside of you.”

“Fuck,” you panted, eyes closed, fighting to focus. “Are…” his mouth found a particularly sensitive spot, kissing and sucking you gently and sending goosebumps spreading over your skin. “Jesus… are you… are you sure? I don’t want you gettin’ hurt…”

“I’m sure,” he said softly, finally pulling his lips from your skin to look in your eyes again, your body cradled against his. “Bein’ apart from you has damn near killed me. Need to feel you.”

“Need you, too,” you breathed, caving to your baser instincts. “Please, Joel.”

He kissed you again and you could taste the desperation on his tongue, heat pooling between your hips. He guided you toward the stairs as he shrugged out of his coat and pushed yours off your shoulders and down your arms. He left both in a heap on the floor, keeping his mouth against your own until the two of you were at the base of the stairs. You only separated long enough to go up them, Joel pulling you back against him on the second story landing.

You let him guide you, tried to focus on being gentle with him instead of pulling him to you and pressing him against you the way you wanted.

But you could only resist so long. You tugged at his shirt, pulling at the buttons until you could shove it down his arms and toss it to the floor, too. He did the same with yours, discarding it in the hall before pulling you into his bedroom, nudging the door closed with his foot. It wasn’t long before you were both naked next to his bed, bodies pressed close and tight, his cock thick and hard and weeping against your stomach.

You took control then, turning him in your arms so that he was against the bed. He lowered himself back onto it slowly, his grip on you gentle but secure so you were on his lap, straddling him as you kissed him.

“Really fucking missed you,” he whispered, kissing down your jaw to your neck to your chest. He rocked his hips up against you, his thick shaft nestled against your clit, the motion making you moan. “Goddamn, missed you so much.”

His hands slipped over your skin to your breasts, cupping and cradling them before lavishing his hot, wet mouth over the soft swell of flesh there. He sucked a nipple into his mouth with a needy groan and you couldn’t help but roll your hips against him as he did, your tight, hot center clenching and gripping at nothing, desperate for something to pull deep inside. Joel’s tongue teased the firm nub between his lips, licking and sucking you, making you moan and rock yourself against him on his lap before moving to the other breast, giving you the same treatment there.

“Joel,” you whimpered, fingers tangling in his curls. He pulled his mouth from your chest to look in your eyes, his gaze soft and hot like starlight.

“Think you can come like this for me?” He asked softly. “Want you to come for me, want you to be so wet and soft inside for me, think you can do that?”

You just nodded and his hands slid around to your back as he buried his face in your throat before going back to your breasts as he rutted his thick, dripping length up against your clit, the silken firmness of him pressing close and tight against your wet heat. You ground your hips down against him, desperate for more, to be as close as you could be to him, his body determinedly angled to keep you from working him into you. There was a tightening ache in you, the burn of need for something that was just out of reach making your head spin and pleasure spool.

“Just gotta come for me,” his voice was hot and needy. “Just come for me, all you gotta do. Just come, just come, please baby, just come, want to feel you come like this, you can give me that, know you can…”

His desperate words were what you needed, the tension in you rising until you felt like you were going to break with wanting before your orgasm hit you hard, a wave of pleasure rolling over you. It was sharp, you hadn’t come in weeks, and you could feel all of it. How your clit throbbed against his cock, how your entranced pulsed and grasped at the root of him, how it seemed like your entire being was trying to pull him into yourself.

“Oh fuck,” he held you tight to him, his cock pressed tight against you, so firm that you could feel him against your pubic bone. “Fuck, just like that. Gonna feel so good inside you baby, gonna be so goddamn good, just get all that come all over me, feel so good drippin’ all over me.”

You dropped your head to his shoulder, body going limp for a moment as your orgasm finished. Joel cradled you to him before going to adjust you on the bed but you stopped him, sitting up again and pressing back on his shoulders.

“Baby,” he groaned but you took his face in your hands and tilted his head so you could kiss him, really kiss him, the kind of kiss that was more hungry and consuming and claiming than anything else.

“Let me,” you whispered when you pulled your lips from his just enough to speak. He let you adjust him then, until he was flat on his back in the middle of the bed, your folded legs bracketing his thighs. You stroked his cock - wet with your come and leaking his own arousal - before rising onto your knees to notch his thick head at your entrance. Joel’s hands went to your thighs, his thumb tracing the scar there, the one from the knife you’d taken to the leg when trying to save him. His eyes were trained on it, his fingertips digging into your flesh more sharply there than your other leg. His eyes traced up your body to the scar at your stomach, just as harsh and red and raw as the one at your leg.

“Not tonight,” you said quietly. His eyes found yours. “It’s not about that tonight.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, his callused hands slid up your thighs to your hips and you eased down onto his hard length. You moaned as you took him into yourself, his thick cock sinking into your soft heat. He felt so good inside of you, your body remembering just how to make him a part of you. It had been weeks but it didn’t matter, he was built into you now, he fit into you the way no one else ever could, filling and stretching you totally. His breaths stuttered as more and more of him entered you, his fingertips clutching onto the soft flesh of your hips and ass harder and harder with every inch of him that worked its way into you. Just as the ridge of his head ghosted against the back wall of your channel, your hips met his and you let yourself adjust for a moment, savoring the feel of him inside you that way.

Joel was panting for breath below you, his eyes tracing over your body again and again as your channel gripped him.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he looked in your eyes as he said it. “Most beautiful goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

You just moaned a little, your hands coming to rest on the broad expanse of his chest, fingers splaying wide over his skin. But you didn’t move otherwise. He felt too good like this, so deep inside you. You almost didn’t want to move, didn’t care if you didn’t make yourself come with him in you. He was deep inside and he was secure there. You could feel how whole and alive he was, the way his cock throbbed, the pulse of him, the comforting heat. Like this, he was yours. Unquestionably, undoubtedly yours and no one could take him away from you.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” his fingers tightened on you. “I… fuck… I need you to move, baby… I can’t keep goin’ like this, I need… I need you to move, need to feel you, please baby, please.”

You didn’t respond. You just started to rise on his cock, moving your hips slow and shaky over him, making him groan. When just his head was left barely inside your entrance, you thrust back down, his cock splitting you open again, his head falling back, mouth open in a desperate gasp.

You rode him like that for a while, you weren’t sure how long. The slow and aching lift, the devastating reclaiming as you took him again and again almost meditative. You watched each other, lost in the feeling of your bodies together, working in tandem to become something more than just yourselves.

Eventually, Joel tugged you closer, tilting you down until he could reach your face, his large palm curving over your jaw, his thumb pressing into your cheek.

“C’mere,” he whispered in the dim light of the moon on the snow outside his window. “Want to feel more of you.”

You folded yourself into him, your bodies aligned, his cock still buried deep but your chest now against his, your lips overing over his own, noses against each other. Even in the night, you could see the different shades of brown in his iris like this, all of them soft and full of love for you.

His hand slid to the small of your back, tilting your hips just so and holding you there as he started thrusting up into you and making you whimper.

“Let me,” he said softly.

You just nodded, letting him gently work himself into you again and again. The strokes were aching and smooth, almost rocking as he moved inside of you. The deep, full press of his thick cock into all the soft parts of you that existed because of him, the brief moment of feeling so full and whole before the tender rhythm he set within you pulled him back again.

“Joel,” you whimpered, so desperate. You weren’t sure you could even say anything else, every other word you’d ever learned reduced down to the only one that mattered in that moment.

“Together,” he said quietly, never breaking his rhythm. “OK baby? Together.”

You just nodded quickly. Your body was getting tighter and tighter and you kept your eyes on his, breathing the same air, feeling the press of his warm, soft skin into yours as your orgasm built alongside his.

“You’re close,” he said. It wasn’t a question and you didn’t need to answer. He could feel you and you could feel him, too. “I’m gonna come, want you to come with me. Going to fill you up so deep, baby, going to feel me so deep and I need to feel you, too.”

His hand that was on your back pressed into you firmer, taking root at the base of your spine and pushing your hips lower so his cock was deeper longer, his hips pressed against your clit with more heat and tension and, for a moment, it felt as though your entire body was on fire with need before the band of pleasure that had been winding tight inside you snapped. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, rushing out from your core and flooding through the rest of your being just as Joel pressed your hips down and flush with his, holding himself deep as he came with a strangled moan. Your channel fluttered around him, rippling and pulling him into you as he pulsed deep inside. You could feel him so clearly against and inside you, every inch of his skin, every throb of his cock, every gasping breath. You kissed him then, bodies connected in every way, until your orgasms eased and you went limp on top of him. Your head nuzzled against the side of his neck and you breathed in the scent of his skin as you came back down to earth, his arms keeping you flush against him as his cock softened inside of you, the combination of his come and yours already dripping out of you.

“Never goin’ that long without you again,” he said softly, his fingers tracing slow and easy abstract patterns over your skin. You hummed in agreement. “I’m gettin’ to be too old to be so deprived.”

You laughed a little.

“Should start being more careful then,” you said, reaching out to card your fingers through his hair.

“Well now that I have the proper motivation…”

You laughed again and closed your eyes. He held you like that for a while, until goosebumps from the winter air started prickling over your skin. He took you more firmly then, slipping his soft cock from the safe, soft warmth of you and slipping you down beside him on the bed. He pulled a blanket over the two of you and you sighed contentedly. He tugged you closer and you happily obliged, your legs tanging with his as he brushed your hair back before holding your face gently in his large hand. You just smiled a little, eyes on his. He smiled back, just enough that his cheek dimpled.

“You’re still feeling OK?” You asked quietly after a few minutes.

He laughed lightly.

“Whole lot better than OK,” he replied. “I’m amazing. Always amazing when I’m with you.”

You smiled a little wider.

“You know,” he said slowly. “I had a lot of time to think when I thought I was about to die.”

Your smile shifted to a frown but his didn’t, not really. His gaze was just soft, gentle. Like he was trying to leave himself as open as he could to take as much of you in as possible.

“I remember more of that than anything that actually happened in that room. Didn’t have much in the way of regrets,” he continued. “Had you to thank for most of that. Ellie and I had made things right, I was thankful for that. I was thankful you’d come back to me, even if it was just for a night. Thankful I got to tell you I loved you one last time…”

“Joel,” you whispered. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“I saw Sarah,” he said quietly. Your eyes went wide but you stayed silent. “When I was unconscious, I saw her. She was someplace good, somewhere that was bright and warm like her. And there was part of me that wanted to stay with her, take care of her and make sure she was OK. But… most of me wanted to come back here and be with you and the girls. And Sarah… she told me that it wasn’t my time yet. Told me I still had things to do here, that I needed to take care of you and Ellie and Savvy and I just… I knew she was right. I felt it, more than I’d felt so many other things, I felt that. I belong here, next to you. I don’t want to have any regrets when it comes to you but right now… well, I got one big one.”

“What?” You asked quietly, your heart beating faster.

“That I almost died before having the chance to live as your husband,” he said. Your breath caught. “But you saved me, gave me a chance to do it right. And I don’t think I deserve to ask you for a damn thing but I’m hopin’ you’ll let me, anyway. Will you give me that chance? Will you be my wife, will you marry me?”

Your heart was beating so fast that you could hear your blood in your ears. You reached out, hand trembling, and cupped his cheek.

“Of course I will,” you said softly, voice thick and wet. Joel smiled, tears glistening in his eyes, and he kissed you, gentle and deep and lovely, a kiss empty of expectation and full of promise.

When you separated, you just looked at him for a moment, taking him in, the man who would be your husband. The whole concept made you laugh, the sound bubbling up in you.

He just smiled.

“What, baby?”

“I just…” you paused, still laughing a little. “It’s the end of the world, how do you even get married now? Not like there’s a courthouse…”

“Well,” he said, rolling away from you for a moment and reaching into the drawer of his nightstand. You propped yourself up on your elbow and frowned, watching as he rolled back with a small wooden box in his hand. “Figure since the paperwork part don’t exist anymore, we can do it whatever way you want to but…” he opened the box. Inside was two rings, both dark metal, one band slender, the other thick. “Thought I’d make sure this part was covered.”

“Oh Joel,” you sat up all the way, letting the blanket pool around your hips. You took the smaller ring from the box and held it up, looking at it up close. “Where did you find these?”

“Made ‘em,” he said, sitting up, too. “They’re from one of Ares’ old horseshoes. Figured it was only appropriate…”

“They’re perfect,” you breathed, turning it over in your fingers for a moment before looking at him. “Could we… I mean, I know it’s fast but… would you be OK if we just did it now?”

“Did what?”

“Got married,” you said, watching him. “I understand if you want to wait or want the girls there but…”

“How do you want to do it?” He cut you off.

You smiled a little.

“How about we just make promises to each other.”

He smiled back.

“I like it,” he took his ring out and set the box aside. He held it out toward you and you took it before putting your ring in his palm. The two of you faced each other, blankets in your laps, knees brushing under the covers.

He took a deep breath.

“I promise I’ll love you with every part of me,” he said. “And I promise I’ll keep lovin’ you until there’s none of me left.”

“I promise to love you every second of the rest of my life,” you replied. “And every second of whatever comes after, too.”

“I promise to protect you,” he said. “Promise to never let anything hurt you.”

“I promise to take care of you,” you said. “And look out for you and protect you because where you go, I go.”

“I promise to love your girl like she’s my own,” he continued. “And I promise to take care of her and do everything I can to make sure she’s safe and happy.”

“I promise to love Ellie like you do,” you said. “I promise to help guide her and protect her and give her the life she deserves to have.”

You looked at each other for a moment, tears in your eyes, before Joel gently took your left hand in his.

“Think they used to say ‘with this ring, I thee wed,’ or something like that,” he said, thumb tracing your knuckles.

“That sounds right,” you smiled a little.

“Alright then,” he said, lining the ring up with your finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

He slipped it into place. It fit perfectly, settling at the base of your finger with a soothing sense of finality. Joel lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed you there, his lips lingering on your skin for a moment before releasing you. You held his ring tight in your palm for a second, warming the metal, before taking Joel’s left hand. You lined the ring up with his finger and took a deep breath before looking him in the eye.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

You slipped it into place, lacing your fingers with his once it settled where it belonged. You smiled, looking down and seeing his ring on your finger before looking back at him again.

“Think I get to kiss the bride now,” he said.

You laughed.

“I think so, too.”

He pulled you against him gently and kissed you all soft and deep, his lips holding every promise he’d made to you and, for the first time since the end of the world, you knew what it was to feel secure.

Next Chapter

A/N: ❤️

And that's all I have to say about that.

And that there's a lot more story to come. We're not quite to the end yet, I promise.

Thank you for being here and for reading. Love you!

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123@ashleyfilm

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #smut fic

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auroravictorium · 2 years ago

Text

would've, could've, should've (k.b.)

if i never blushed then they could've never whispered about this.

Summary: kaz blames himself for reader's kidnapping, and reader fights back as best she can.

Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship) Word Count: ~3.9k Warnings: heavy violence (kicking, punching, gun is mentioned but not used), mentions of blood, reader is repeatedly knocked out via ether Genre: angst + action

Author's Note: not as much kaz in this one, but fret not! he appears more in the next piece, which is already in the works and should be up in the next few days! i hope you all enjoy!

grishaverse masterlist

(GIF from capinejghafa)

The leatherbound volume slammed against the creaky door of Kaz's office the moment Inej shut it behind her. Splinters rained down onto the floor, and he glared at the mess.

His gloves were tight against his knuckles, where he gripped his cane, and his chest heaved with fury. Raw anger coursed through him; for once, he could not feel the slime of a corpse against his skin. Instead, rage had set his flesh alight, burning away the feeling of death. The harbor was absent, recoiling in favor of the temper he fought hard to keep in check as much as he could in the Barrel.

Kaz reached for his jar of ink and threw it as hard as he could against the door. But the sight of ink and glass spraying across his office did little to ease his anger or the panic rising in his chest.

He hunched over his desk, his gloved palms pressing flat against the surface. His breathing was too fast, his shoulders trembling as his mind wandered. Pekka Rollins hired mercenaries to take you. They were taking you south. Who knows what they had planned? Who knows what resources they had at their disposal?

Who knows if a few hours ago would be the last time he ever saw you, and it was tinged by his inability to choke out how he felt? Before you left, you'd squeezed his hand and murmured three simple words.

I love you.

It was funny how three words from your lips made him feel like he wasn't Kaz Brekker, like he didn't regularly hurt people or steal or threaten violence against those who got too close to his business for comfort. With just three words, you made him feel like maybe some part of him could be Kaz Rietveld still.

And he didn't fucking say those words back, though his throat burned and his mouth opened and:

"No mourners," he said instead.

"No funerals," you responded, with no idea how much he wanted to tell you he loved you back. No clue of how the words sat on the tip of his tongue, tasting like the fruit his father pretended he didn't see Kaz and Jordie swiping from the harvest. Tasting like a part of him he thought had drowned, a part that you pulled to shore and put air back into.

He didn't fucking say it. He should've said it.

Kaz squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear you in his mind: Breathe. Think.

He couldn't think, and there wasn't enough oxygen in the room for his lungs. All he could think about was you, at the mercy of some mercenaries who probably didn't give a damn that he was Kaz Brekker and could gut them without blinking.

Kaz slammed his palms against his desk hard enough that his skin stung beneath his gloves. He grabbed his cane from where it fell and limped around his desk and past the mess of his office. His door trembled on its hinges as he ripped it open and stormed past; he moved over to the crumbling stairs and brought the blunt end of his cane down on a step he knew was particularly creaky.

The entire staircase rattled, and Kaz heard the quiet shuffling of feet as Inej, Jesper, Nina, Wylan, and even Matthias started coming up the stairs. They stopped on the landing when they saw Kaz, shadows cast across his face by a dim oil lamp in the corner and icy eyes darkened by anger, turned the color of the True Sea.

"Mercenaries, you said?" Kaz said quietly, gaze flickering to Inej. "Hired by Pekka Rollins."

Inej nodded, reigniting his fury. But not at her, nor at Jesper. Being angry with them had never crossed his mind, though he saw their haunted faces as they sized him up and tried to figure out how much he blamed them for Y/N's situation.

Kaz clenched his jaw and turned on his heel. "Meeting. Now." He stormed back toward his office and kicked the inky glass shards out of his way as he entered his office. They skidded across the floor, some disappearing beneath furniture, others twirling until their sharpest edges pointed upward.

The Crows piled into Kaz's office. Jesper leaned against the wall with Wylan, ducking his head and looking down at his hands. The hands that, just an hour ago, had shot at mercenaries in an attempt to protect his friend. The hands that failed him. Wylan slipped his hand into one of Jesper's and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Nina sat in the chair across from Kaz's, and Matthias stood within reach. His eyes tracked Kaz as he moved from his desk to the smudged window and back. For once, Matthias could guess what the demjin was thinking, could see it on his face. Kaz was angry, yes, but Matthias could read the terror written beneath from the grip on his cane to the ticking of his jaw.

He found himself sympathetic toward Kaz, and Matthias didn't often feel anything but mild vexation toward the man. As he glanced down at Nina, nervously tracing the shape of her thumbnail with her fingertips, he understood Kaz's fury; if someone took Nina, he would respond the same way. And Kaz would be the first person he'd call to get her back.

"Where do we start?" Inej said quietly, positioning herself at the window and glancing at the street below. She twirled one of her knives across her knuckles, unable to keep her hands still.

"Describe the mercenaries," Kaz finally said. He clenched his fist around the crow's head of his cane as he sat to take the pressure off his leg. It was difficult to sit down; he wanted to be on the streets, burning the city to ashes to find you. But he would be of no use to you if he didn't have a plan and his leg went out beneath him. Think, Brekker. "Then we make a plan, and we get Y/N back."

SIX HOURS LATER. NOON.

You awoke to the feeling of a carriage rattling along an uneven gravel road. The back of your head thumped against the carriage window, and your skull ached from the repeated impact against the blacked-out glass. Air seared against your nose and throat with every breath you took, and it was a struggle to open your eyes with the heaviness weighing them down.

Two of your captors sat across from you, their masks on and eyes on you. One held a stained rag and a brown bottle in one hand, and the other pressed a gun to your forehead. Out of instinct, your fingers twitched to disarm him, but you quickly found that your hands were tied behind your back with sailing rope, and your ankles were bound with the same material. The rope chafed against the skin of your wrists and ankles, and it took every ounce of your self-control to not show your fear or pain.

"Now, don't make any sudden moves," the man with the gun said calmly. His voice was thick with an accent. He clearly wasn't from Kerch; you guessed he was a sailor by training and a mercenary by choice, if the rope around your limbs was any evidence.

You sized him up and considered your immediate instinct to spit in his face. He wouldn't shoot you in close quarters and, if your suspicions were correct, wouldn't dare injure you without a particular gang leader's go-ahead. You didn't have many options, and anything seemed more appealing than sitting there with a gun against your temple.

A wad of spit went straight into his eye, and you swung your legs upward toward his head to jerk yourself into a sitting position. It lacked decorum and grace, but you didn't have much room to move. Unfortunately, your feet only struck the man's shoulder, making him hiss and lower his gun. He shoved your legs off him, and you teetered on the edge of the bench opposite your captors.

Son of a bitch, you thought. You would've said it aloud had it not been for the man with the bottle opening his cargo and dunking the liquid inside onto the rag in his hand. The sickly sweet smell from earlier struck your nostrils, and you immediately shut your mouth. Your lungs burned as you held your breath, but you refused to pass out again.

When I get my hands free, I'm gutting you and using you as fish bait. You wiggled around to cause as much mayhem as possible, hoping to distract from the jerking of your shoulders as you fought against your bindings. You brought your feet down on the bottle man's boots, making him grimace and nearly drop the toxin. "She's a fighter, ain't she?" he snarled. "Open her mouth."

The first man lurched toward you, dropping his gun into his lap and grabbing your face with his hands. You writhed, jerking your head to the side to free it as you locked your jaw shut as tight as possible. Your teeth ground together, and black spots danced around your vision from the beginnings of a lack of oxygen. You could either breathe in the toxin that knocked you out or pass out of your own volition; both choices led to you being no closer to escaping.

Save your energy. You didn't want to give in. You didn't want to see your friends' faces swimming in your mind, warped and twisted by whatever your captors were poisoning you with.

You had no choice.

You let the man think he had successfully pried your mouth open, and you bit down hard on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He roared, jerking his hand back and cursing in Ravkan. His blood filled your mouth, and you gagged on the bitter taste, spluttering to get it off your tongue. It dribbled down your face, onto your clothes.

"Touch me again, and you'll lose the hand," you hissed. You spat at the first man again, and red speckled across his face like grotesque freckles.

With a fierce glare at your captors, you inhaled deeply. The relief of your lungs expanding was quickly counteracted by the weight of the toxin pulling you down, and you collapsed back onto the seat of the carriage, your head colliding with a sickening crack against the door handle.

SIX HOURS LATER. DUSK.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were in a dark cell. The rope had been removed from your limbs, but the skin burned from chafing. A searing pain threatened to split your skull in half, and you could hardly turn your head to take in your surroundings.

As your eyes adjusted, you could see a single oil lamp in the corner, unlit and covered in dust. Beside that was a bucket filled with water; you could tell the water wasn't clean from the horrid smell wafting toward you, and you held back a gag. Gingerly, you sat up from the makeshift pallet of ragged blankets you'd been set on.

Bad idea. Immediately, the world swam before you, and a violent wave of nausea overtook you. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat and carefully laid back down to ease the throbbing discomfort in your skull. You pressed a hand to the back of your head, and it came away slick and red. Shit. How were you supposed to fight your way out of here if you couldn't even sit up without the world doing flips?

A metallic clang echoed down the hall, and you turned your head toward the sound. Pain shot down your neck and spine, and you could barely suppress your hiss of pain; your pain was forgotten as a pair of boots stomped into view. You lifted your gaze to find none other than bottle-guy, looking unhappy to have found you awake. He wore no mask this time, and you took the chance to scan his face and memorize every detail so you could describe him if you made a ran for it. Smeared with dirt and grime. Dirty hair of unknown color. He looked like just about every sailor you'd ever met.

He grimaced at you like you were the problem, and you glared back at him. "I was hopin' you'd die in your sleep," he said matter-of-factly. His eyes, dark as night, skimmed your form, and disgust crossed his face. "I can't figure out why we were hired to deal with ya."

"You don't seem to be the brightest bunch," you shot back. You pushed yourself onto your elbows and surveyed your captor with just as much distaste. With some satisfaction, you noted some of his buddy's blood had stained the hem of his trousers after you spat it. "You'll be lucky if Pekka Rollins doesn't have your head after you're done with me, just to cover his tracks."

Your captor barked a laugh. "I'd like to see him try, sweetheart." He drummed his knuckles against the metal bars of your cell, and his eyes roamed over you again. A predatory glint shone in them, and his hand dropped to the ring of keys on his belt. "Now, what makes you special enough that he's willing to hire us instead of doing the dirty work himself?"

He unlocked the door to your cell and stepped inside. You kicked yourself into a sitting position and shoved yourself back against the wall. The world did somersaults, and you fought hard to keep from collapsing again as the blood rushed from your head and black spots danced in your vision.

The man crouched before you and reached out as if he intended to stroke a finger down your cheek. You shoved his hand away and nearly lost your balance. "Don't touch me," you snarled.

He just laughed again. "Feisty, aren't you?" He reached out again, and you kicked your leg up as hard as possible between his legs. He grunted and dropped his hand, slumping to his knees.

Taking the opportunity, you pushed yourself forward enough to swing your fist toward his face. With terrible vertigo and the feeling like you were about to collapse into a useless heap, you were pleased when your hand collided with his nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprayed across your knuckles and down his face, and he reeled back with a shout of surprise.

"You bitch!" he growled, bringing his hand to his face and glowering at you over his fingers. He lurched forward like he might strike or strangle you, and you kicked out again with much less force than the first time. Your strength was waning, and he knew it. He caught your ankle and pushed your leg away with ease. But before he could get any closer, a hand grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him back.

"Now, Sergei, don't antagonize our guest," a new voice said. His voice was quiet and thick with a Fjerdan accent. You looked up while blinking away the blurriness in your gaze and found a third man who hadn't been in the carriage with you. Judging by the ease with which Sergei obeyed him, you knew he was in charge. He reeked of authority and pride.

"What, want the chance to do it yourself?" you snapped. Though he pulled Sergei away before he could bash your head into the wall, you didn't appreciate the man looking down at you like he'd done you a favor. You couldn't help but bristle as his eyes roamed your body, and you would've curled up to cover yourself if you could will your body to move. "I didn't think mercenaries went so low as to kick someone while they're down, especially when they intend to hand them over to someone else."

He wasn't as tolerant of your spite as Sergei was. Without releasing Sergei, he brought his foot down on your knee. The joint seared beneath his weight; your kneecap threatened to shatter, and the tendons nearly snapped as he pressed down until it almost bent in the wrong direction. You cried out, your head falling back against the stone wall. The impact agitated the gash on the back of your head, and you could feel blood soaking your scalp. It seeped down the back of your neck, and a soft groan of pain slipped past your lips.

"It might be wise for you to consider that we can do what we wish to you until Pekka Rollins arrives," he hissed. He dropped Sergei, who gingerly got to his feet with a smirk playing on his lips. If you could, you'd shoot them both to see if they would still be smirking. "I suggest keeping your mouth shut and your limbs to yourself."

A haze of pain clouded your vision, the adrenaline of inflicting some revenge on one of your captors dissipating. You forced yourself to nod, hoping he'd take his weight off your knee before your traitorous tears of agony could fall. You blinked them away, and a trembling sigh escaped you as the Fjerdan stepped back and off your knee. Immediately, you pressed a hand to the tender flesh and whimpered as a sharp ache shot up and down your leg.

Definitely bruised, and the kneecap might be broken. How the hell am I supposed to get out of here like this?

He left without another word, taking Sergei with him. As he passed, Sergei grinned through the bars at you, his teeth glimmering like a monster's, and offered a taunting wiggle of his fingers. You dropped your gaze to the ground and your outstretched legs before you, one swollen and the other scraped from who knows what.

You heard Sergei laugh as he moved down the hall after the Fjerdan leader, and the sound rang in your ears long after he was gone. Mocking, gleeful, haunting.

Tears slid down your cheeks without your permission, and you impatiently wiped them away. There's no time to cry. You thought of Jesper and Inej, who had definitely told Kaz about your disappearance by now. If you thought of them and how strong they were under pressure, maybe you wouldn't think about the searing pain in your body. If you thought of Matthias, damn near unbreakable, perhaps you could channel his strength. Nina, her bravery and wit, no matter the situation.

Your friends, your family, who had to be trying to find you.

Your thoughts drifted to Kaz. His scheming face. His smirk. His fingers laced with yours. The fierceness in his eyes. How he looked at you before you left, with glimmering eyes and hair falling into his face from running his fingers through it too many times. Kaz had looked at you like there were a million things he wanted to say, to do. A rare moment of softness that made your heart ache as you considered where you were now.

Somehow, you managed to slip into an uneasy sleep. You dreamt of men with masks and blood seeping from your mouth as you inhaled the sickly sweet toxin they kept giving you. Behind the masks, they laughed and laughed, even as you began to choke. It was impossible to break from the nightmare; something held you down, kept your eyes shut.

Finally waking was a mercy, though you should have feared whatever awaited you once you awoke. Blinking slowly and fighting against lingering fatigue, you noticed two bowls of thin broth had been shoved into your cell. The scent had long faded, and dust floated in a thin layer on top.

How long had it been since you were last awake?

You forced yourself into a sitting position, ignoring the aching of your muscles, and you investigated your injuries. Your knee was severely bruised and couldn't bear the weight of even your fingertips on the skin, and dried blood crusted your scalp and the back of your neck.

Eat, you thought. You needed to regain some of your strength if you stood a chance at surviving whatever Pekka Rollins had planned for when he arrived. Even better, perhaps you could escape before surviving him was necessary.

You dragged yourself across the stone floor toward the bowls of broth. It felt like your muscles hadn't been used in days, and your right knee dragged painfully against the ground as you crawled to the bars. When you made it, your breathing was ragged, and your face was coated with a thin layer of sweat. It was a struggle to focus on one of the bowls of broth as each throb of your head rattled your vision; you nearly knocked a bowl over but caught it with trembling, clumsy fingers.

What the fuck are they giving me? How have I been weakened so quickly?

You propped yourself up on one arm and used the other to lift a bowl to your lips. The broth felt like acid on your dry mouth, but you forced it down. It tasted like nothing, and you wondered if you would've been better off taking your chances with not eating it.

No. Eat.

You finished the bowl of broth and reached for the second. Already, some moisture had returned to your mouth. Your mind was less muddled, the fog in your brain cleared by the sensation of something other than the toxin passing your lips. Before you could start sipping the second bowl, you heard boots scraping down the hallway.

Your head snapped up, and you grabbed the two bowls, stacking them and then scrambling backward using your legs and free hand until your back hit the wall. Keep nothing behind me and my eyes ahead. The skin of your fingers whitened as your grip on the bowls grew tighter, and you waited for your visitor to arrive.

For a moment, you couldn't see who it was. A gas lamp shone brightly outside the bars, and you turned your head. Spots twirled in your vision, and you blinked them away. When you opened your eyes, you immediately wished you hadn't. Your second wish was that you had a gun. Your third was that the man before you hadn't been born in the first place.

Pekka Rollins stood outside your cell in a perfectly tailored suit, untouched by blood or dirt. In your state, covered in dirty and torn clothing, you could have felt like nothing more than a bug beneath his glare.

That was what he wanted, and you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

Instead, you lifted your chin and the full bowl of broth. Feigning bringing it to your lips, you kept your eyes defiantly on him as you took one slow sip. Pekka Rollins just watched with a note of amusement in his eyes. He was too happy to see you before him like this.

His smugness was the match needed to light your anger, and you were all too happy to be ignited.

You launched the bowl across the cell and watched as watered-down broth soaked the front of his suit and slivers of porcelain sprayed into the hallway and onto the floor of your cell.

You only hoped you would get the chance to do worse.

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jadeleechsupportgroup · 5 months ago

Text

Closet Prison

“And those pitiable robes return once more to their closet prison.”

You get trapped in Malleus’s closet. Well done.

malleus x reader

cw: none

also on ao3

You are starting to wonder how many different job titles you have collected so far in your short tenure at Night Raven College. Even if you gathered several of them under the ‘Janitor’ heading that Crowley had so proudly bestowed upon you on the first day, there were enough now to make for one hell of a résumé: Glasswork Repair Technician, Antique Plumbing Specialist, Magestone Recovery Agent, not to mention every version of the word ‘therapist’ that existed. Now, you suppose, you could add Laundry Cleanliness Coordinator to the list.

“I demand to speak with someone at once! This is an outrage!”

Ah, yes. How could you forget Customer Service Punching Bag.

You peek out to the front reception area, hiding between hanging garment bags and swiping your over-steamed hair out of your face. You could have easily - and correctly - guessed at the owner of the voice for several reasons, primary among them 1. This happens every week and 2. Anyone would know that voice because no one ever gets to stop hearing it.

No one is coming to his rescue, even though you know you are not the only one on a shift today. But you are the closest one to the door. You balance your fingertips on the white paneling and close your eyes, steeling yourself for battle, your best and brightest fake smile serving as both armor and weapon. You tuck your lint brush into your back pocket in case you need something portable that won’t leave a mark.

“Why, Sebek, fancy seeing you here,” you say in a voice not your own. Your Customer Service Voice is a different person. You don’t know her. “You’re looking very well.”

“No, I am not!” he shouts, rattling the change in the tip jar on the counter behind you. Before you can have a chance to react, he shoves a garment bag with a paper receipt into your face. “You have made a grave error, and you must pay for it immediately!”

Your smile wanes, but you stay strong. “Me? In particular? Are you sure?”

“Who else would have committed such an unforgivable act, human?!”

You fold your arms patiently. “Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the error of my ways?”

Sebek flings down the garment bag in disgust. You catch it, somewhat, but its heft and size make for an awkward movement, something Sebek no doubt enjoys. “Since humans are of such feeble mind, I shall, as they say, ‘spell it out for you.’”

His chest heaves, and you brace yourself for the volume that’s about to assault you and anyone else within a three-mile radius.

“You have misplaced the ceremonial robes belonging to the great Malleus Draconia!”

The urge to beat him over the head with the tip jar strikes you abruptly, but you file it away. Inside, a very small part of you does panic - did Malleus bring some valuable, irreplaceable robes from home? But then you realize what Sebek means, and all you can do is wonder whether you could make assault with a deadly weapon look like self defense.

You put on your Voice again. “Like, his orientation robes? I didn’t even see those come in.”

“Of course not! And now they have landed in someone else’s filthy, unworthy hands!”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” You hang up the offending garment bag and check the receipt. Sure as shit, it has Malleus’s name on it. You refrain from suggesting this is all part of an elaborate prank. It would be funny, but you’ve heard enough of Sebek’s voice for one day. “I’ll get it sorted out.”

“See that you do! And that you prepare an apology for Lord Malleus at once!”

You force yourself to take a deep breath and hold it until he storms out the door. The tip jar lives to see another day.

You go over the books and cross-check a few numbers. A simple mistake - someone accidentally skipped a line on one side of the page, so now the entries are misaligned. You check the tag on the inside of the robes and find Leona’s name embroidered on the lining.

The prospect of hiking across campus with a heavy garment bag longer than you are tall is hardly enticing, but you don’t have much of a choice. The last thing you want is for Sebek to come back in ten minutes demanding to know why you haven’t fixed everything by now. You pull on your coat and head outside.

It’s cool and cloudy out - probably normal September weather for some, but you hail from somewhere hotter this time of year, and you’re already cold. The chill hastens your steps as you make your way across the stones and grassy pathways to the Hall of Mirrors. You wish you had a giant mug of hot cocoa or spiced apple cider. One of each, you decide as you step through the Savanaclaw mirror.

The jump still leaves you queasy, but the warm humidity of the pocket dimension embraces you and eliminates the cold clinging to your shoulders. You wander past groups of students, trying to catch glimpses of their faces while avoiding eye contact. You don’t recognize anyone, so with a sigh, you plod toward the main building.

A tall beast-eared student leans against the wall of the entryway like some kind of bouncer. You’re hoping he’ll ignore you, but he stands to his full height and blocks your path.

“You lost?” he asks gruffly.

“I need to give these to Leona,” you say evenly, losing some of the bravado that empowered you against Sebek earlier. “His robes got mixed up with someone else’s.”

He leans in and sniffs the air around you, prompting you to move away, bringing a satisfied glint to his eye. His ears twitch, but he finally backs off and resumes his post. “Go on.”

You find yourself breathing a little more deeply in a vain attempt to slow your heart rate. It would not do to pass out from a panic attack in the midst of all these predators. It occurs to you that you don’t know where to find Leona, but you really don’t want to ask any of these people for directions, so you start wandering. You’re up the stairs and halfway down the hall when a door opens and a familiar head of sandy brown hair ducks out of it.

“…last time I help that guy with anything,” he grumbles to himself. He glances up at you, and his dour expression lifts a bit. “Hey, what’re you doing here?”

“Hi, Ruggie,” you say, breathless from the stairs. “I have Leona’s robes.” You have to pause for one huge breath. “They got switched around at the cleaners.”

Ruggie cackles. “That explains a lot. I’ll swap ’em out - he just went back to sleep.”

“Thanks.” You hand him the garment bag. He disappears back into the room, then returns with a different bag. Unfortunately, it’s no less long or heavy. You decide to fold it in half, hoping it will be a little easier to carry. “Best of luck with…whatever he’s having you do this time.” You gesture vaguely at the closed door.

“Haha, yeah.”

You’re almost too warm from all this manual labor by the time you re-enter the Hall of Mirrors, but the shock of cold that smacks you full force on the other side of the Diasomnia mirror leaves you instantly shivering. Is it always this cold in here? How does anyone stand it? The fog curling around the clusters of thorns at your feet does not help. Unlike at Savanaclaw, you don’t see any students milling about here. Just a long, lonely stone walkway winding up through the mist to the castle.

You hope just a little that the doors will be locked and you’ll have to leave, but no luck. The massive wooden doors are propped open, though nobody is standing guard here. They probably assume (correctly) that no one would waltz in here without a reason.

You try not to make it too obvious that you’ve never been in Diasomnia before, but there are plenty of things to gawk at in the lavishly-appointed lounge. Fine leather seating, antique wood tables that look like the much nicer versions of the ones in your dorm, expensive imported rugs - yet even with all that, and the flickering green candle flames dotting the room, the whole space feels…vacant. Lacking. And cold. So cold you can smell the stone.

“H- hello?” you call out, losing what little courage you had remaining. You consider leaving the garment bag on the nearest chair and escaping to safety, but a set of footsteps catches your attention.

“Why, good afternoon,” says a sunny, cordial voice completely at odds with your surroundings. He smiles and tilts his head to one side. “What can I do for you?”

“Lilia, right?” you guess, and to your relief he nods in response. “I’m just returning these.” You set the garment bag down, suddenly aware of how badly you were scrunching it. “Malleus’s robes,” you add.

Lilia blinks his bright cerise eyes. “Oh, that must be where Sebek went in such a hurry.” He allows himself a light chuckle. “You didn’t need to come all this way just to bring these back.”

“Yeah? Sebek was ready to burn me at the stake for it, so…” You frown over the state of the garment bag. You didn’t mean to crumple it so badly, but it just got so freaking heavy after more than a few minutes. “Would it be alright if I brush these out before I go? They probably got wrinkled, and I’ve reached my quota of stake burnings for the month.”

“Of course!” Lilia seems a little overjoyed at the idea of a visitor, but at least he is polite and appreciative of your efforts. “Right this way.”

You have to endure another set of stairs, passing by an enormous bat-winged chair at the top that would be practically comical in any other situation. Lilia trots along merrily ahead of you, humming to himself as you study the iron latticework of the huge windows lining the hall. Outside, you catch glimpses here and there of the gargoyles that stand guard along the parapets. The green firelight casts shadows through the grating that appear to bring their carved stone faces to life.

“Do you like architecture?” Lilia asks, bringing you out of your musings.

“Yeah, I guess so. This is all…very different from what I’m used to.”

“Well, you are certainly free to stop by at any time. We love having visitors.”

Lilia stops at a set of double doors and tugs them open before leading you inside. He looks about to say something when his watch chirps at him. He checks it curiously. “Hm? Oh, of course. We have a club meeting - I nearly forgot.” He offers you another kind smile. “I’m afraid I must take my leave, but I trust you can find your way out?”

“Pretty sure.” You balance the garment bag on one arm while you try to open the closet doors with your other hand. There’s an absolutely frigid draft in here, strong enough to disturb the curtains, and you wonder if Malleus is one of those monstrous types that sleeps with the windows open. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and be careful with that door. It can stick a little.”

With that, he bounces out of the room.

You hook the hanger over the closet railing and unzip the bag. The damage is minimal, actually; the robes’ heavy brocade fabric is pretty resilient as long as it’s dry. But you spot a few dozen hairs that must belong to Leona. You’re glad you brought the lint brush now.

The cold draft of air spills over your shoulders and freezes your hands. This is getting downright ridiculous. You step back into the main room and go to close the windows, but they’re already closed. The breeze is just there. You grumble to yourself about having two hot cocoas and two apple ciders upon your return home and go back to your work.

Malleus’s entire room looks like it hardly receives any use at all. Whether due to his position as housewarden or his family name, his closet is larger than what you would expect for a dorm room, large enough to stand in comfortably. (Although, for him, you think, perhaps not, as his horns might brush the ceiling. That would be funny.).

You can hardly concentrate because it’s so damn cold. You finally get fed up with it and pull the closet door most of the way shut behind you, leaving just enough of a gap for light to enter. The relief is instantaneous.

You carefully brush and straighten the robes, ensuring all the stray hairs and lint fluffs are removed, trimming a stray thread here and there. You run your fingers over the specially tailored openings in the hood. They’ve been hand-sewn by an expert, even adorned with their own decorative embroidery. You appreciate the craftsmanship, knowing that few people would notice it, let alone care.

As if enraged by your attempts to thwart its presence, the draft of air returns with a vengeance and slams the closet door. You jump - at the noise, the sudden inky darkness, the freshly chilled breeze - and, feeling indignant about it, you push on the door.

Only, it doesn’t open.

You try again to no avail. Then you try pulling on the door, just in case, but it budges even less. You push against it with your shoulder, wondering if this is Sebek’s magical idea of a joke or a punishment, but you’re fairly certain he would rather die than leave you unattended in Malleus’s room. You listen carefully, but you hear no footsteps or voices. Lilia already said he was leaving.

Okay, calm down. Think. And keep throwing yourself into the door while you do it.

You can’t understand why it’s not working. Maybe there’s a magic seal on it. Or maybe you’re just weak. Weak and pathetic.

Frustration turns into a combination of anger and fear and sad. You hate that you’re not able to open the damn door. You hate that you’re getting so worked up over not being able to open the damn door. You hate that thinking about that isn’t enough to make you stop.

“Hello?” you try calling out, but there’s no response. You yell a few more times and knock on the wood for good measure. It changes nothing.

You slump down to the floor and try to breathe. It’s not the dark or the enclosed space that gets to you. Good thing, too, or orientation day would have been a lot more graphic for your audience. It’s just that the whole thing makes you feel…

…stupid.

Your eyes are adjusting to the dark, for all the good it does you, which is hardly any. And the cold breeze has now permeated the supposedly impenetrable barrier, so you’re shivering now, too. You reach up and feel the hem of the robes that caused you all this trouble.

Well, it hardly matters now.

You tug them off of the hanger and snuggle into them. A gentle, woodsy perfume wafts up from the depths of the silk lining, subtle but strong in the enclosed space. You press the fabric to your face and draw in a deep breath. The smell soothes your nerves - fallen leaves, pine needles, fresh rain, even a touch of mycelium.

You don’t have forests around where you’re from. You’ve been to them a few times, sure, on camping trips and one brief foray into the world of hiking, but none of them smelled quite like this.

You lie on your side and stare up in the general direction of the ceiling. The breeze hits your face, so you pull the hood down to shield yourself. You would laugh at how ridiculous this is, but you’re too worn out to care. You roll onto your side and let your eyes loll shut.

“-classes today?”

You mentally tell the voices to go away. You haven’t slept this well in ages.

“They were adequate. I shall go to the library later to acquire some other materials.”

You don’t want to get up. Even though you’re not really that comfortable…

“Excellent idea, my liege! I shall be honored to acquire all the necessary books for you!”

Your eyes shoot open. You’re not dreaming anymore.

The past few minutes - hours? - come back to you, and you scramble to sit up, fumbling with the robes you were using as a blanket. You’re about to try the door again when the voices come back.

“Do not trouble yourself on my behalf, Sebek. I am quite capable.”

“It’s no trouble, my liege!”

You sink back against the wall and try to control your breathing. You don’t even want to imagine what Sebek will say if he finds you like this. Whatever it is, it will cause permanent hearing loss.

You sit in the dark and wait.

“Very well, Sebek.”

“Thank you, Lord Malleus!”

You grit your teeth in annoyance and wish Sebek would go buy a personality since he doesn’t have his own. No wonder Malleus looks to be in such a dour mood all the time. He must have eternal patience to tolerate someone like that. You wouldn’t last ten minutes-

Light suddenly bursts in front of your eyes and blinds you. You squint and hold up one hand to shield your face against the brightness.

Malleus blinks down at you.

You wonder, briefly, what this must look like to his eyes. You, disheveled, wrapped in his ceremonial robes, on the floor of his closet. You are positive that every blood cell in your body is rushing to your face.

You don’t even have time to stand up.

Malleus steps inside and closes the door, plunging you into darkness once again.

“Wh-?”

“Shhh,” he whispers with hardly a breath of air. A rustle of fabric, and his hand locates yours without any of the blind searching you would have done. He helps you stand.

“Behold, Silver! I have been chosen to accompany Lord Malleus to the library!”

“Sure thing, Seb…”

You giggle before you can stop yourself, then clamp your hand over your mouth in a vain attempt to shut yourself up.

“S-sorry,” you stammer hopelessly. “I didn’t, um. It’s a long story.”

Heat soars to your face when Malleus closes his hand over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he says again. You can’t see a thing in the dark, but you can tell he’s listening. He must still faintly hear their voices. You have no idea. You can’t hear a thing over the fervent hammering of your blood against your bones.

You have no idea how long you both stay like that, unmoving, but eventually he pulls his hand away from your mouth. You take several panicked breaths even though you were breathing just fine.

He seems alarmed. “Have I injured you?”

“No, no. Sorry.” You give up and laugh, first from nerves, then relief. “I’ve just been stuck in here for…hours, I guess.”

A bulb of green firelight winks into existence and hovers above your head, where it casts sharp shadows over Malleus’s features. You think of the gargoyle statues. But rather than fierce and intimidating, he looks amused.

“Lilia mentioned that you dropped by to return my robes,” he says. “Did he not warn you about the door?”

You scoff. “He said it sticks a little. Not that I would need inhuman strength to open it.”

Malleus reaches forward and gently tugs the hood off of your head. You forgot you’re still wearing the robes and start to pull them off, but he stops you.

A smile seems to flit across his face, though it may be a trick of the light.

“They suit you,” he says with a low, delicate laugh that turns your heart upside down in your chest. “At least someone has found a use for them.”

“It was cold in here,” you reply lamely.

He leans in close enough that the heat from his breath dances across your nose. “And now?”

You are certain he can hear your pulse louder than you can. One hand is still holding yours, but the other he lifts to the side of your face, brushing the backs of his fingers over your cheek and ear before sweeping through your hair. You close your eyes and sigh into his mouth.

He holds you as though you are fragile, yet something he does not intend to let go. He mirrors your movements, letting you choose how deep or delicate the kiss, sliding his hand down your back to hold you closer. Everything shows that he wants to be careful with you.

Fireworks burst in your heart and under his hands. You reach up to his face, run your fingers through the liquid silk of his hair. Forest and rain and fresh earth overwhelm you, and you realize faintly that it’s not a cologne or anything artificial. It’s the smell of his skin.

You barely nudge the side of his horn with a fingertip. He laughs against your lips and has to pull away.

“Sorry,” you say breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to…”

Malleus brushes your fingers against his mouth, then cradles your hand to the side of his face. “You simply caught me by surprise. That is all.”

“You first.”

You catch sight of his grin before he snuffs out the green flame. “I only wish this had happened sooner,” he says, wrapping both arms around you. You do, too, though what he next murmurs against your ear suggests that his reasons differ slightly from your own. “What a marvelous hiding place.”

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