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lvnleah · 16 days

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011. | Beach days

word count: 1.6k

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March 9th 2024 | 36 + 2 days pregnant.

“Jesus Christ, how much stuff did you pack!” Leah playfully groaned as she rolled your suitcase in, Keira following closely behind her.

You shrugged and laughed as you poured yourself a glass of water, “Just enough to last me while we’re here!”

Leah shook her head, Keira laughing behind her, “Babe, we’re here two days, not two weeks!”

“Oh c’mon, Le!” Keira said to her best friend, “Y/N’s never been a light packer and now she’s pregnant she’s obviously going to need more stuff!”

“Keira‘s right, babe.” You smiled, “I do need more stuff now I’m pregnant because you know I can’t decide anything!”

“These are going to be two days of hell with you two ganging up on me,” Leah muttered under her breath.

Leah had the rare weekend off as she didn’t have a game so you and her decided to fly out to Spain to watch Keira play. She was playing away against Sociedad and you’d booked a little beach house for a few days so you could all spend time together.

Leah rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. Despite her complaints, you knew she was happy to be here as it would probably be the last time in a while you’d get to go away together before your baby boy arrived.

The beach house was perfect, nestled just a stone’s throw away from the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore could be heard from the kitchen.

“Alright, let's get settled in before we head out to explore,” Leah suggested, eyeing the towering stack of luggage. “I’ll take the big one to the bedroom.”

��I’ll help!” Keira chirped, grabbing a smaller bag and following Leah down the narrow hallway.

It wasn’t often you all got to be together like this, with Leah and Keira’s demanding schedule it was hard to arrange trips together like you used to. This trip was a rare gem, and you were determined to make the most of it.

A few minutes later, Leah and Keira returned, slightly flushed from the exertion. “Okay, rooms are sorted. Who’s up for a walk on the beach?” Leah asked, already slipping off her shoes.

You grinned, “I’m in! Let me just grab my things and we can go.”

Suddenly, a sharp tightening sensation gripped your abdomen. You winced, placing a hand on your belly as your other one gripped the counter.

"Y/N, you okay?" Leah asked, noticing the change in your expression.

You took a deep breath, trying to relax. "I think it's just Braxton Hicks," you said, trying to sound reassuring but feeling the discomfort all the same.

It soon passed and you were able to carry on. You’d been having practice contractions for the past couple of weeks, they felt like mild period cramps but your midwife reassured you it was normal.

As the three of you strolled down to the beach, the sand warmed beneath your feet. Leah and Keira were chatting about their upcoming matches. You knew these two days would pass in a blink, but for now, you were perfectly happy right where you were.

The beach was almost deserted, with a few scattered tourists soaking up the late afternoon sun. You found three spare sun beds and laid out a blanket, sitting down with a sigh of relief.

“Would you be alright if I went in the sea with Kei?” Leah asked, her voice soft.

You nodded. “I’m good, Le. I'm a little tired, so I’ll just read my book.”

She kissed the top of your head. “Sounds good, shout for me if you need me okay?”

“I will,” you agreed, watching Keira as she waved for Leah to join her. “Go be big kids like you both are!”

Not even thirty minutes later, you find yourself being smothered by a dripping wet Leah. “Leah!” You screeched, “Jesus Christ!”

Leah laughed, her wet hair clinging to her face. “Just wanted to cool you off a bit,” she teased, giving you a cheeky grin.

You playfully swatted at her, trying to shield yourself from the cold droplets. “Well, mission accomplished! Now get off me before you soak everything!”

Keira joined in the laughter, drenching water from her hair as she approached. “You know she won’t stop until you’re completely drenched, right?”

“I’m starting to realise that,” you said, struggling to keep a straight face as Leah continued to hover over you.

“Alright, alright, I’ll behave,” Leah conceded, stepping back but not before planting a quick kiss on your cheek. “But only because I love you.”

“You better!” you replied, still grinning. “Now, go dry off and let me enjoy my book in peace.”

“Sure you don’t want to come in?” Leah asked you.

You shook your head, patting your belly. "I'm good here, thanks. I'll stick to the sand for now."

Leah kissed your forehead and smiled, running back to the water as she raced Keira. You settled back into your sunbed, opening your book and trying to distract yourself in the story. However, the discomfort in your lower back kept pulling you out of it. Shifting positions didn't seem to help, and after a while, you gave up on reading.

You watched Leah and Keira splashing around in the water, their laughter carrying over the waves. It was heartwarming to see them so carefree, but you couldn't ignore the growing ache in your body. Being this far along in your pregnancy, every little thing seemed to take more effort and cause more discomfort.

Finally, you let out a frustrated sigh and sat up, rubbing your belly. The thought of another few weeks feeling like this was almost unbearable. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you quickly wiped them away, not wanting to ruin the moment for Leah and Keira.

But Leah had already noticed. She jogged out of the water, concern etched on her face. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, kneeling beside you.

"I'm just... I'm so tired of being pregnant, Leah," you admitted, your voice cracking. "I feel huge, uncomfortable, and everything hurts. I just want our baby to be here already."

Leah pulled you into a gentle hug. "I know, babe," she whispered. "It's almost over. You've been so strong, and you're doing an amazing job."

Keira, sensing the shift in mood, joined you both. "Hey, it's okay," she said softly. "It's hard, but you're almost there. And you're going to be an incredible mum."

You sniffled, leaning into Leah's embrace. "I just feel so... helpless sometimes. Like I can't do anything without getting exhausted."

Leah kissed your temple. "You're not helpless. You're growing a whole new life inside you.”

“How about we head back to the house and make some dinner?” Keira suggested, “A good meal and some rest might help."

You nodded and Leah helped you to your feet, and the three of you made your way back up the beach. As you walked, Leah kept an arm around you, steadying you with every step. Once back at the house, Leah ordered a pizza whilst you settled on the sofa and Keira cut you some fruit up.

“Here,” Keira said, handing you a plate of fruit, “Le’s just ordering a pizza.”

You accepted the plate with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Kei. This looks great."

Leah came back into the room, holding her phone. "Pizza's on its way. Should be here in about twenty minutes."

You nodded and leaned back into the cushions, trying to make yourself comfortable. "Perfect.”

Leah sat down beside you and Keira laid down on the long bit of the l-shaped sofa. The pair bickered over choosing which movie to watch before finally settling on Notting Hill.

When the doorbell rang, Leah jumped up to answer it. The smell of pizza filled the house as she returned with a couple of boxes. She set them down on the coffee table and began to dish out slices for everyone.

As you took a bite, the comfort of the warm pizza was a distraction from your earlier discomfort. The three of you chatted and laughed, enjoying each other’s company. Leah and Keira’s laughter made you forget about the aches for a while.

After dinner, you all settled in for another movie, with Leah curling up beside you and Keira picking out pitch perfect this time. You felt a bit better just being with the people you loved, sharing a quiet evening.

Leah noticed you yawning, “Want to head to bed soon, babe?”

You nodded, feeling a little embarrassed about how exhausted you were. “Yeah, I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

As the movie came to an end, Leah helped you up from the couch and guided you to the bedroom. She made sure you were comfortable before heading to have a shower.

When Leah came out of the shower, her hair damp and her face freshly washed, she found you struggling to pull your hair up into a ponytail. Your movements were slow and your face reflected the frustration of the day's discomforts.

"Hey, let me help," Leah offered, moving behind you and taking the hair tie from your fingers. Her touch was gentle as she gathered your hair, smoothing it back with ease. "There we go, all set."

You sighed in relief, "Thanks, Le. My arms are just aching so much! I don’t know what I’d do with you.”

She kissed the top of your head, her lips lingering for a moment. "You'd do just fine.”

You slipped into bed, pulling the covers up and settling into the soft pillows. Leah joined you a moment later, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

"You okay?" Leah asked softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

"Yeah," you murmured, closing your eyes. "Just tired and ready for Finley to be here."

Leah rubbed soft circles on your hips. "Soon, babe. Really soon.”

#awfc x reader #lvnleah #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #the williamson’s

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little-diable · 3 months

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The Devil's Son – Cowboy!Tommy Shelby (smut)

I am surrounded by all things cowboy at the moment, so I wanted to pull Tommy into this – I feel like he would have been a good cowboy in the 1800s. The instrumental song „Baptized and Buried“ by Will Harrison set the mood. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader is chased by a few men through a canyon, she is close to dying, but then a handsome stranger rips her from death's grasp. A stranger she won't ever part ways with again.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected piv, mentions killing and being close to dying, quite some fluff, set in the 1800s

Pairing: Cowboy!Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (4.3k words)

picture from Pinterest, credits to the owner

Part 2

Her heart was pounding in her chest, it was whispering to her body, to find the last remaining strength to make it out of this chase alive. She could hear their shouts echoing through the canyon, followed by the sounds of their horses following her along the unsteady path. Her life was about to end, (y/n) could tell that she only had a few more seconds on her hands before a shot would pierce her skin, letting her drop on the cold ground.

But even though Death was reaching for her with its cold fingers once again, she was determined to keep on running, to take risks she normally wouldn’t even dare think of. She had nothing to lose, if her life was already on the line, she could at least leave this life behind with one last adrenaline rush.

The wind was blowing through her hair, letting the strands dance in the air while the fabric of her dress grew dirtier by the second. She had lost her shoes a while ago, forced to keep on running with bleeding feet that were about to throw her off her balance.

(Y/n) risked to look back for a second, to catch the sight of the men who were chasing her, a foolish mistake that distracted her from the man and his horse who were about to reach her, coming at her from her left side. With a scream leaving her, (y/n) was picked up and thrown over the horse, with her body somewhat pressed against the man’s front as well as against the saddle.

Even though her body begged her to throw herself off the horse, her mind told her to rest, to enjoy the few seconds where she didn’t have to run with her bleeding feet. Her thoughts were silenced the second a shot went off, letting the bullet meet one of the stones close to them. Only now it began to dawn on her that the man wasn’t with the others, he wasn’t part of the group that kept chasing her.

For a moment, she lifted her head to look at him, to study his sharp features, the piercing blue eyes that reminded her of the ocean she had last seen when she had been a child, and the salt-and-pepper hair partly hidden beneath his dark hat.

“Hold on.” His gruff voice rang in her ears as she tightened her grip on the saddle while trying to bite down her scream as he suddenly turned the horse left to make it up a hill. Shots kept echoing through the air, followed by screams (y/n) desperately tried to drown out.

Only as they made it up the hill to get more distance between them and those who were chasing them did the man allow the horse to slow down. She felt his hands on her waist, and without another warning, she got shuffled around once again, to find herself sitting in front of him, with his front pressed against her back.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t speak another word, not while the horse gained speed once again and the man tightened his grip on the reins. (Y/n) had to fight against the need to press herself closer to him, cosied along by the whispers of her exhaustion.

“Don’t thank me yet, girl.” Before (y/n) could even form a single word to reply with, she heard the others once again, not giving their chase up just yet.

……

“Hold on, I’ll carry you to the creek.” It felt as if hours had passed since they had finally managed to shake off the others. And yet they had barely shared any words until he had decided on a spot to spend the night at.

“What’s your name?” She mumbled the question while he carried her, holding tightly onto (y/n) as the sound of the creek running along filled their silence. He kept quiet as he sat her down on the ground, only to reach for her feet to clean the dirt and blood off her skin. The man touched her carefully, a touch so soft and intimate, (y/n) wondered if she was only imagining things.

(Y/n) couldn’t stop admiring him, the soft lines gracing his features, the concentration swimming in his piercing pupils. He was handsome, more handsome than all these men she had met back home and even on the journey down here. She had to stop her hands from reaching for him, wanting to touch the skin that looked unusually soft, even though he seemed to spend most of his time out on his horse, guided by the sun.

“My name’s (y/n).” She tried once again to lure some information out of him, perhaps sharing her own name would encourage him enough to speak. For a second, his eyes met hers, he seemed to study her as if he was trying to figure out if she was lying to him, but he let his eyes flicker down to his hands moments later. Wordlessly, he let go of her now clean feet to rise back to his feet.

“I’ll walk back up, take your time if you want to take a bath, it’s probably your last chance for a while.” Heat flushed through her at his words, hyperfocusing on the fact that he wouldn’t leave her behind in the middle of nowhere, but would take her with him, wherever he was planning on going.

A sigh clawed through (y/n) as her fingers began to unbutton her dirty dress. It didn’t take her long to shuffle out of the slightly torn fabric, to let it drop to the ground while she sunk into the creek to wash herself clean. Her body was aching and the water was cold enough to soothe the pain clinging to her muscles, reminding her of the chase she had somehow survived, and the fear that had clung to her all throughout it.

Whoever the stranger was, at that moment it felt like he was godsent, protecting her from Death’s grasp–allowing her to once again escape it.

She let her hands rub her limbs clean before climbing back out of the creek. With the afternoon sun burning down on her, (y/n) found herself resting on the grass while drying. Her thoughts raced, thumping through her mind like whispers she couldn’t shake. Even though every part of her mind screamed at her to not trust the man, to keep her distance from a stranger who could easily sell her in the next city, her body was still hooked on the way he had pressed her to him while riding and how he had taken care of her wounds.

With a sigh clawing through her, (y/n) rose back to her feet to pull her dress and undergarments back on, while trying to ignore the dirt sticking to it. Her feet were still hurting as she walked back to the stranger who had made camp for them with a small fire burning, and for a while, all (y/n) did was look at him, letting them both drown in their thoughts.

……

“Can you tell me where you will take me?” The morning was still young, the cold breeze teased their limbs as they kept riding. Tommy had woken her a while ago, no words had been shared between them as they had saddled his horse to move once again. The night had been just as quiet, nothing had left his thin lips, not even a single word, but (y/n) had been grateful for his silence–it allowed her to figure out whatever she wanted to do now that she was free again.

“We will reach town in about three days, there you can decide what you want to do. I have to keep riding north.” A hum managed to break out of (y/n). She had no plan, didn’t know where to go from whichever town he was taking her.

“Why were these men after you?” The man’s low voice pushed heat through her body, making her skin tingle from the way his breath clashed against her neck. (Y/n) felt awfully comfortable in his presence, more safe than she had in years, protected and appreciated, almost.

“I,” (y/n) cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to offer my body to them, but they ignored me and tried to take me with them anyway, so I killed two of them and lured them into the canyon. My horse didn’t make it, so I kept running.”

She felt him tense behind her. Whatever was going through his head forced him to tighten his grip on the loose hanging reins, making her eyes focus on his slender fingers to wonder how it must feel to have him touching her.

“I should have killed them.” His voice was low, dripping with an unfamiliar kind of anger that left her shuddering. Even though neither knew much about the other, there was something keeping them connected, something that ran deeper than just kindness one would offer a stranger.

“It’s alright, I’m grateful you found me.” She couldn’t stop herself from finding his hand to squeeze it. The man didn’t react to her touch, at least not for a moment, but then he slowly let go of the reins to interlace his fingers with hers. (Y/n)’s heart skipped a few beats in her chest, it was whispering to her about things she didn’t understand and had never felt before, things that were now cosying her along.

“My name is Tommy Shelby.” A grin found its way to her lips, and with a soft chuckle leaving her, (y/n) leaned back further to rest against his chest.

……

“Have you been travelling for long?” She was resting against his saddle, close to the fire that kept warming them. Tommy was sitting next to her, with his arms crossed over his chest and his back also pressed against the saddle.

(Y/n) couldn’t stop her eyes from drinking him in, every part of his handsome appearance. Not once had she felt this drawn to a man, unable to let her thoughts rest as she imagined the most sinful things.

“I have, for years. I take on jobs every now and then, but it’s been mainly just me and the horse.” Her hands moved slowly, it seemed as if they had their own will, still hooked onto the memories of how it had felt to hold onto him. Their eyes met as her hand found his, letting their fingertips meet slowly to give him a chance to pull away.

Something in his eyes shifted, something that whispered to him while he opened his arm to pull her against his side. (Y/n)’s head rested on his chest, she could hear his slightly accelerated heartbeat while his hand ran up and down her side. This was everything she had once been warned of by the nuns who had raised her–handsome strangers who could lure you closer with pretty promises only to chase their luck for a night before disappearing.

But with Tommy it was different, she knew he wouldn’t run, not from the woman he had rescued as if Death itself had called for him, knowing it wasn’t her time to go just yet.

“It must get lonely.” Slowly, she lifted her head to look back up at him. The fire offered just enough light to illuminate his features, adding even more colour to his bright pupils. He looked godlike, but the darkness simmering inside of him was anything but godlike, he was a godless man, a sinner through and through.

“You’re never alone out here if you listen carefully enough.” He stroked a few of her strands out of her face, letting them rest behind her ear to offer him a better view of her face. Their eyes held eye contact as he cupped her cheek to run his thumb along her skin, mapping out every inch she allowed him to study.

The sound of something howling in the distance filled her ears, followed by the sounds of the soft breeze. Nature was everywhere, it followed them like a shadow they couldn’t shake, forever accompanied by the world's greatest wonders.

“How is it you’re not married? A woman like you must have many suitors.” A soft chuckle left (y/n) as she shuffled even closer. She had her hands resting on his chest, almost pressing him against the saddle while getting lost in his eyes. For Tommy she would give up every plan, every promise she had once made, whatever he’d ask of her, she’d do it.

“I ain’t one for sitting around at home to raise children while my husband is off to work, I guess no man wants a woman with such an unbending will.” She didn’t see it coming, didn’t expect Tommy to pull her in for a kiss before another breath could be inhaled into her lungs. But the second their lips met, something shot down her spine, something that forced her closer to him to deepen the kiss.

“Well, I guess one man’s loss is another man’s gain.” Tommy murmured the words against her lips before he kissed her again. Her chuckles rumbled through the both of them, filling the night that wrapped them in their comforting veil. His hands tightened their grip on her frame, he held her close like only a husband would hold his wife.

“We should get some sleep, we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.” He parted from her slowly, leaving her dazed and slightly confused. With only a hum breaking out of her, (y/n) found rest on his chest once again, and with one last squeeze of her waist, Tommy kept holding her while sleep called for them.

……

“Wait, let me help you.” Minutes ago they had rode into the town, finding their way through busy streets until they had reached the house they were now halting in front of. Tommy helped her down from the horse before he reached for his saddle. No words were spoken as they walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

She wanted to ask questions, unsure who they were about to meet and what Tommy had in mind, but the second the door was pulled open, any question she had wanted to ask was silenced. (Y/n) could instantly tell that the woman was related to Tommy, let it be from the way she carried herself or how she was staring at him with something his eyes had carried these last days–remorse, guilt, longing for his home.

“(Y/n), that’s Ada, my sister. Ada, that’s (y/n), a friend of mine.” (Y/n) tried to ignore the ache inside her chest at being called his friend, she also tried to ignore the confused gaze the beautiful woman shot her, before she stepped aside to let them both in.

“It’s late, Thomas, you should have told me you were coming. People talk in this town, they’ll accuse me of giving the Devil’s Son shelter.” A slight smirk began to widen on Tommy’s lips at his sister’s words. (Y/n) tried not to listen to the conversation as her eyes began to wander, taking in their new surroundings. The furniture seemed expensive, just like the paintings gracing the dark walls, she didn’t fit in, felt overly out of place with her dirty dress, her uncombed hair and the dirt clinging to her cheeks.

“Do they still call me that?” Tommy reached for (y/n)’s hand to pull her along. Ada muttered something under her breath, words (y/n) couldn’t pick up on as Tommy pulled her into a room, letting the door fall shut behind them. She didn’t get a chance to speak up as Tommy’s lips met hers, instantly silencing any thought she couldn’t shake.

He pressed her against the door while he let his hands wander, letting them find the buttons of her dress. They didn’t break the kiss once, not as he reached the last button, not as he pushed the dress off her shoulder to let the dress drop to the ground. Goosebumps covered her skin as the cold air teased her limbs, kissing every inch Tommy wanted to explore with his hands and mouth.

“How about a bath? We should take advantage of Ada’s hot water.” The words drew an excited gasp from (y/n). Only now did her eyes find the bathtub, something she hadn’t seen in weeks, perhaps even months. Tommy disappeared from her side to reach for the bucket placed close to the tub, and with one last kiss pressed to her lips he left the room, in search of hot water.

(Y/n)’s tired legs carried her closer to the window, and with her arm covering her naked chest, she let her eyes take in the dark street lying to her feet. She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen now. Could she ask Tommy to take her with him wherever he was going? Would he even want her around?

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you into the bath.” Tommy poured the first two buckets of hot water into the tub. He disappeared from her sight moments later, all while (y/n) shuffled out of her undergarments to sink into the hot water. A sigh left her at the sensation–it felt like a hug, a cosy blanket tossed over her cold body to soothe her pain and those aching muscles. She watched Tommy appear and disappear a few times before she found him shuffling out of his clothes too, finding his way to the tub to pull her against his chest.

“Thank you, Tommy.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, while his hands wandered down her sides and back up, teasing her trembling body. The back of her head found rest on his chest, she was putty in his hands, allowing the man to guide her through whatever he was about to push through her.

“Will you let me touch you, sweetheart?” All she could do was nod, wordlessly begging him to give into the longings both had felt ever since their kiss. One of his hands disappeared beneath the water, it stroked along her thighs before finding its way to her aching core, while the other moved up to her chest. He pinched her right nipple as his fingers began to circle her pulsing bundle, drawing a surprised moan from her lips.

It had been months since she had last been touched, and even though she was all too familiar with these sensations, her body reacted as if she had never been touched before. It felt as if her body was on fire, tossed to the flames by the Devil’s Son himself, the man who managed to push her towards the edge within seconds.

“You make the prettiest sounds.” Tommy rasped his words against her neck as he kissed her skin, adding yet another tingling sensation to the ones she was already held hostage by. Her walls fluttered around nothing, desperate to be filled by the cock that hardened against her back. (Y/n) pressed herself further against Tommy to draw a moan from his parted lips, letting the sounds vibrate through both their bodies.

“Tommy,” she choked on his name as he pushed a finger into her tightness. Her walls clenched around his digit, a wordless plea to finally fuck her, to cross the last few inches of distance between them. (Y/n) had to arch her back as Tommy added another finger to move them even faster, making her tremble and gasp for him only.

“Let me fuck you, sweetheart, let me make you mine for this night.” He pulled his fingers from her aching heat to turn her around in his grasp. Their lips met for a desperate kiss, exchanging emotions they couldn’t put into words. With her hands clinging to the edge of the tub, (y/n) raised her hips, letting him push his cock towards her entrance for her to sink down on his length.

Both moaned in unison at the feeling of him sinking further and further into her tightness. Her walls pulsed around him, a desperate try to adjust to his size, to get used to being this stretched before he helped her move. With his hands placed on her behind, Tommy stabilised her trembling frame, he helped her fuck herself on his cock as sinful sounds left them both.

She was too focused on the sensation to pick up on the adoration filling his pupils, was too far gone to realise that he was marvelling at her like no man ever had before. Tommy wasn’t used to feeling this pull, a pull so strong, he feared it’d rip his heart straight out of his chest. He wasn’t one to stick around, wasn’t one to give into emotions guiding him away from his plan, but fuck, she had a special grasp on his soul.

“Don’t ever stop touching me, Tommy, please. Take me with you, wherever you’re going.” She was too far gone to pick up on the uneasiness tugging on his features. Tommy wasn’t planning on taking her with him, he was planning on leaving the second she fell asleep, for his sake and for hers. His life wasn’t one he could share with a woman like (y/n), a goodhearted woman he would only taint with his dark touch.

Tommy didn’t reply, all he did was hold onto her neck and waist as he pushed them around to press her against the tub to fuck her towards her high. Neither of them seemed to worry about the splashing water, about the mess they were making, all they were focused on were their highs, set on pulling them into darkness for a moment or two.

(Y/n) was the first to give in, with his name splattering from her lips, with her eyes squeezed shut, and with her fingernails clawed into his shoulders. Tommy kept snapping his hips against hers, chasing his own release until he came with a deep groan. Their hearts were racing, their lungs were aching, but their bodies didn’t part, not when they let go of soft chuckles, not when they looked at one another like only married lovers would.

He was damned, had been from the day of his birth, but she was the light he had always dreamt of–and now he was burning, and nothing could tame the fire.

……

She woke with a groan. (Y/n)’s hand tried to reach for him, searching for Tommy's warmth she had cherished as he had pressed her to him last night. A smile widened on her lips at the thought of last night, the way he had fucked her in the bath and then on the bed, much slower that time around.

Her eyes fluttered open, expecting Tommy to rest next to her, but the bed was empty. It took (y/n) a second to sit up, to let her eyes wander through the room. But Tommy was nowhere to be found, his clothes, boots, and saddle were gone.

Panic flushed through her as (y/n) stumbled out of the bed to hastily pull on the new dress Ada had laid out for her. Tears welled up in her eyes, slowly but surely she began to realise what was going on, a pain so unfamiliar began to fill her, she struggled to keep on breathing. With hasty steps she stumbled down the stairs, urged on by the silent hope that he was waiting downstairs for her.

The sun was about to rise, drenching the house in a dark orange that cozied her along as her eyes found Ada’s cold ones. For a second, the two held eye contact, until Ada folded her newspaper to reach for a cup filled with what (y/n) assumed to be coffee.

“He’s gone, left a while ago.” The words drew a sob from (y/n). Her limbs were trembling, aching to hold onto Tommy again just like she had done the past days. How could he leave her like that? How could he leave her behind without a single goodbye?

It set in like a train clashing against her, set on ripping her off her feet–she would never see him again. The man who had taken her heart right with him.

(Y/n) fought against the need to drop to her knees, she couldn’t embarrass herself in front of Ada. Her glassy eyes wandered from the sighing woman to the window. It took her eyes a moment to focus on the familiar silhouette, the man sitting on his horse outside of Ada’s house. A choked sob clawed out of (y/n) as she stumbled out of the house, and with her tears dripping from her eyes, her gaze focused on an all too familiar face.

“I thought you were gone?” Her question filled the cold morning. His eyes were hidden in the shadow of his hat, keeping the pained expression he couldn’t shake from her curious eyes.

“Well, I left town, but I didn’t get far. It seems like I left my heart with you, and I can’t travel without it.” The choked laugh leaving (y/n) had an addictive effect on Tommy. He kept looking down on her from his horse as if he was waiting for her to make a decision, silently offering her the chance to stay here.

“You’re an asshole for trying to leave me behind without saying goodbye. But I can’t be without you.” She stepped towards him, reached for his vest and pulled him down for a kiss.

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart.”

#Tommy Shelby smut #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby imagine #cowboy #peaky blinders smut

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yourheart-inmyhands · 10 months

Note

YOU HAVE A CAT?! ME TOO?!

She hates me tho :(

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Zhongli, Neuvillette and Dottore

With a fox!darling that is always with animals and isn't social at all due to heavy torture in her past and they discover it? 💀

Man I'm in need of some gore rn 💀💀

- Weird anon ✨

i'm so sorry but i just couldn't write neuvillette for this prompt, he's too precious DX

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including being held against will, delusional behaviors, torture, breaking of bones, and other potential topics. Please Read At Your Own Risk!

Yandere!Zhongli sympathizes with you, and since it’s clear that the animals bring you comfort, he allows you to keep a couple when he moves you in with him. He even goes the extra mile and builds a special enclosure so they’ll be just as content as you are, even if you aren’t receptive to his love yet.

When he finds out about your past, which is inevitable with how overbearing he can be and how good he is at finding out things from the locals, it almost hurts his heart a little. But the more sickening side of him is thrilled because now he knows exactly how to get to you, exactly how to make you his perfect little spouse.

Whether it’s be reintroducing trauma through breaking bones, locking you in a cold, damp room with no lights for hours on end, or even things that border on torture, he’ll use it against you so long as it won’t entirely ruin you. While he wants you compliant to his whims and wishes, he doesn’t want you to be a shell, it would’ve been a waste of his time to break you to that point;

Zhongli would never stop as low as hurting your animal friends, but if need be he could certainly find ways to turn them against you. It’s almost amusing to him, the way you care so much for creatures who you’ll outlive. How you care so much for creatures who don’t even really know you, funny.

The sickening crunch of bone echoes through the room as Zhongli stands over you, the heel of his shoe digging into the freshly crushed bones in your leg. The makeshift gag, a towel from the kitchen, dug into the sides of your mouth as it muffled your screams and cries. The Geo Archon almost feels bad for using his strength in such a brutal manner, but it would all be worth it, at least that was how he justified it to himself. It wasn’t about the now, but rather what now would soon be bringing him. By breaking you down bit by bit, sending you spiraling back into some of the worst moments of your life, he could slowly rebuild your shattered pieces how he saw fit. What use was a puzzle if the pieces weren’t in the correct order, right?

Yandere!Dottore is sick, sick, twisted, and absolutely disgusting. If he wasn’t the cause of your original trauma, you could surely bet he’d be the driving force behind re-traumatizing you.

Whether he chooses to reenact every step, or to simply do something far worse than what had previously done it all dependent on how he feels that day. Some days will be so similar to your past that you’ll truly feel like you were back there, all those years ago. Other days are so awful it almost makes what happened in your past seem insignificant as if that were a stone among boulders resting on the ocean floor.

Dottore does think it’s funny though, using it as both amusement and research opportunities. It wasn’t often that animals such as yourself came across his table, so of course he’d taken the prime subject as soon as he’d laid eyes on you.

In his lab, you aren’t seen as anything but a thing that exists only for Dottore’s own gain. If you’re lucky one of his more sympathetic clones might take pity on you and actually give you a day to rest when he’s out of the Palace, but they’re expected to keep up the same treatment he inflicts in his absence.

It was almost sickening to the segments as the watched the fox-human endure soul shaking torture day in and day out. Everything from injections to straight up live surgery to see how much pain the body could take whilst awake had occurred on the cold, steel table. They were often left to clean up the mess, expected to stitch you up, administer antidotes to anything too harmful that had been administered today, and even sometimes bathe you due to the mess that had occurred. You’d been fed little since you arrived, given water only when necessary for your survival, and hadn’t seen sunlight in days- or months maybe? With the sickening way time seemed to pass, you couldn’t tell how long you’d been here. Your only reprieve would be when the doctor left for something more pressing, leaving you in the care of his segments that only sometimes took pity on you. Some seemed to hold a little more humanity than others.

#genshin x reader #genshin x male reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin x male reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x male reader #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli x male reader #dottore x reader #dottore x male reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore x male reader #yandere zhongli #yandere dottore #yandere genshin

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imagine-darksiders · 7 months

Text

A little respite...

A short Death/Reader oneshot about birthday presents, mugs, and how a Horseman without a heart isn't necessarily heartless. Enjoy! <3 xxx

---

Birthdays, Death supposes, carry far greater significance when one only has a finite number of years in one’s lifespan.

If there’s anything he’s grateful for, it’s that modern humans seem to have tailored their annual celebrations to smaller, intimate gatherings, which, in his opinion, are far more tasteful than the ostentatious and plethoric affairs those pharaohs used to throw. If the Horseman thought he’d have to wade through a veritable ocean of humans just to get to your front door…. Well. He certainly wouldn’t have been best pleased, to say the least.

Nestled within the cup of his palm and safely hidden from prying eyes is a small, unassuming parcel. It doesn’t look like much, deliberately so. The tiny thing is wrapped in some old parchment he had to pilfer from Azrael’s study. It was the first and only thing he could think of after he belatedly recalled how humans like to peel away a layer of paper before they can lay eyes on whatever has been pre-emptively hidden within it.

You became quite prickly once after he pointed out the aimlessness of the custom.

‘Some traditions,’ he begrudgingly yielded after several hours of trying to see past your cold-shoulder, ‘are better left undisputed.’

Trudging along the newly rebuilt street in the direction of your home, Death makes every conceivable effort to avoid the stares and shocked gasps from the few humans who are still milling about in the golden light of the evening.

Even after the Resurrection and the frequent comings and goings of the Horsemen, angels, makers and even the occasional demon, Humanity still hasn’t grown accustomed to seeing the Grim Reaper skulking about on their planet.

In the corner of an eye, he sees a man haul a small girl into his arms and scurry to the opposite side of the street, and it takes everything in the Horseman not to sigh.

It isn’t long before he finds himself turning onto the short, gravel path leading up to your front door. His footfalls make no sound on the loose stones, and the parcel is starting to carry weight in his palm now.

Coming to a halt on the step, his eyes drift down to the faded mat by his boots that reads ‘Welcome.’

The Horseman scoffs, as he does every time he sees it. Sometimes you’re too hospitable for your own good.

Giving his shaggy head of hair a bemused shake, he reaches for the doorknob, only to pause.

Another custom best left undisputed… Humans don’t like it if you enter their home unannounced.

Curling his hand into a fist, he instead gives the wood three, solid raps with his knuckles before letting his arm drop back to his side, briefly giving a thought to what it must seem like for an onlooker to witness the ancient Nephilim ceding to human habits.

With a grunt, he leans back on his haunches to wait, idly counting the cracks that have formed in the plaster surrounding your doorframe, each one betraying the frequency of visits made by his younger sister, Fury. It’s a wonder the entrance is still intact with how often she barges in and out, scuffing the paint and chipping off wooden flakes with her armoured shoulders.

Sometimes she forgets that while she might have the slightest build of the Horseman, she’s still unconventionally large from the average human’s point of view. Regardless, you haven’t said a word to her about the marks, as far as Death is aware, and somehow, he doubts you ever will.

His ears prick towards the sound of shoes trotting hurriedly across linoleum, approaching your front door.

“Coming! Coming!” your voice calls out, instantly shaking loose that little fragment of unease that sits between Death’s ribs every time he comes to your home and waits outside the door. There’s a private part of him, a part he’ll never reveal, that dreads the day he knocks without receiving an answer.

The handle rattles, a lock slides out of place, and once again, he hears you speaking from the other side of the wood.

“You guys are early!” you laugh, “I haven’t changed yet, but I’m-“

Your sentence trails off into silence as the door is tugged open and you poke your head into the light outside, brows scrunching together as your eyes fall upon a pale, cadaverous chest.

Blinking, you dart a look up, only to gasp at the sight of an all too familiar bone-mask tilting down towards you, inclined in acknowledgement.

“Death?” you gape, your expression falling open in shock.

Another oddity of humans, he finds. Even when you can clearly see what’s right in front of your nose, you still feel the need to ask for clarification, as though you can never fully trust what your eyes are seeing.

“In the flesh,” he says, gesturing up and down at his emaciated waist and sinewy chest, “I’m pleased you still recognise me, given our months apart.”

And it has been months. Six and three days, to be exact. Not that he’s counting.

It happens the moment he drops his arm back to his side. Like the sun rising over the peak of a dark mountain, your face bursts open with bright, glimmering warmth.

The corners of your mouth retreat from each other, spreading your lips into a grin so wide that your cheeks round out and squeeze your eyes halfway shut with unbridled delight as a laugh gushes out of you, bouncy and awestricken.

“Death!” Without warning, you bound across the threshold and - showing no hint of a reservation - throw your arms around the Horseman’s lean torso, burying your face into the concave dip below his chest, “Oh my god! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today!”

And because he still hasn’t grown used to your displays of affection, Death forgets the etiquette and freezes in place, arms hovering rigidly above your own and his chin tucked into his neck, as though he’s mildly alarmed at your sudden proximity.

And because you know he isn’t used to affection, you don’t hold him hostage for long.

Pulling away only seconds later, you sweep a hand through your hair, clutching loosely at the strands as you take a step back and give the Horseman a quick once-over, beaming all the while.

“I can’t believe you actually made it! This is the best birthday ever!”

Well, if that isn’t the most flattering thing he’s heard all year.

“Oh! Would you like to come in?” you ramble on, stepping aside and sweeping your hand into the hallway behind you, “I’ve got people arriving for a party, but not for, like, another hour. So, you can stick around or…”

“Ah, regrettably, I can’t linger for long,” he interrupts, holding up a palm to quiet you. He truly can’t stay. And not just because he’s disinclined to ‘party.’

He’s heard whisperings of a demon uprising stirring in a city across the sea. He and War have made plans to travel there under the cover of darkness to investigate, and he’s already behind schedule. He notices that you make a considerable effort not to let your expression droop, though he can tell by the pinch of your lips that you’re disappointed.

He… hopes he can make it up to you with the tiny package hidden safely within his palm.

Clearing his throat, Death flexes his fingers, wrestling with doubts for a moment before he gives himself a mental kick and forces his hand out from behind his back, thrusting the parcel under your nose.

“Here,” he grunts as he gives it a gentle shake, willing you to take the damn thing rather than continue to blink down at it in surprise, “I understand gifts are customary on one’s… birthday, hm?”

… For a long time, you don’t say a word. You merely look at the Horseman’s palm as though he’s holding a live grenade, your eyes round and wide and uncertain. In fact, you remain silent for so long, that for once, Death is the one who feels compelled to explain himself.

“I… wrapped it,” he ventures, frowning behind his mask at the parcel, “… Although, I suppose it isn’t very good, is it.” Now that he's presented it to you, he's only just noticing how shoddy and rushed the job must look. In fact, he realises he must have stolen parchment that Azrael was in the middle of writing on, judging by the ink smudges that are only half hidden beneath the thin twine he used to bundle the whole thing together.

Mind racing, he scans your expression for tells, anything that’ll clue him in as to whether he’s made a mistake in bringing you something at all…

Perhaps… he was misinformed. It might be a grave insult to give a human something on their day of birth. Damn that half-wit brother of his, Strife. If he’s fed Death another lie to make him look foolish in front of you, why, he’ll-

A soft touch alights upon his palm.

Death’s gaze snaps down to see your tiny fingers curling tentatively over the parchment, and it takes a lot of concentration to keep his appendages from twitching as you slide the parcel out of his palm, brushing your thumb over his in the process.

“You… got me a present?” you ask gently, staring down at it before flicking your eyes up to peer at the Horseman from beneath your lashes.

Slowly, he retrieves his arm, giving it a shrug and sniffing, “It’s nothing particularly special.”

But you’re already pulling at the twine's lacklustre knot, delicately peeling away crinkled parchment to reveal the gift inside.

When you finally unfold all of the paper, a soft sound of wonder escapes your parted lips, and your face is illuminated in a soft, green glow.

It’s a flask. A tiny flask no larger than your thumb, cut from thick, crystalline glass and stoppered at the top with a chunk of cork. The flask itself has had a silver chain welded to the neck that glints in the sunlight as you bring it closer to your face to peer inside. Clinking around behind the glass, you spot a piece of shard, green as a summer field, glowing prettily like a captured firefly, small and dainty but luminous enough to cast its light through its crystal prison.

“I’m sure Muria could have made you something prettier,” the Horseman mumbles, “I’m no maker. But, I always did have a knack for crafting these talismans… You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to convince Fury to carry one…

“…Death…” you breathe.

“Yours is modified, of course," he ploughs ahead, clearing his throat, "Now, it won’t keep you safe indefinitely.” There's a pause, and you think you hear him mutter ‘yet’ under his breath before he continues, “But it will serve as a shield, of sorts. If you’re ever injured-“ Reaching out, he taps his nail against the glass. “- This will bear the worst of the damage. So long as you wear it, your skin will be harder to break. Your bones will only splinter where they might have shattered. You will be, in a word, protected.”

You can’t reply for a moment, your throat is too clogged with things you don’t know how to say.

You know this talisman. You know it because you’ve seen the one Fury keeps tucked beneath the high neck of her cuirass. She insists that Strife and War carry them too, though the brothers have yet to relinquish that secret to you just yet.

Nephilim’s Respite. It’s a protective trinket made by the eldest Horseman to safeguard his brothers and sister on their travels.

Death made them for his siblings. His family.

And now, here you are, holding the self same talisman in your hand.

You try to maintain your composure. You really do try. But when you blink, you’re slightly dismayed to find your vision blurring and a warm dampness tickling your lower eyelashes.

“Ah,” Death utters, drawing his head back to regard your gathering tears, “You’re crying. That… wasn’t my intention.”

A watery laugh tumbles out of your mouth, and you raise your unoccupied hand to sweep a wrist across your eyelids. “It’s oka-“ you start to sniff, though the Horseman jumps in before you can finish the thought.

“If the gift isn’t to your liking,” he concedes, reaching out to take the talisman back, “I can always-“

“-No!” Clutching the gift defensively to your chest, you throw Death a scandalised look, tears trickling lazily towards your chin, “It’s perfect, it’s just – it’s so much, Death! My god, I got you a mug for Christmas!"

And a fine mug it is, he reflects. Bone china, a yellow warning label with 'Warning, prone to sarcasm' scrawled across its surface in thick, black lettering.

It's one of his most preciously guarded items. He almost fed War's remaining arm to Harvester when the younger Horseman knocked it off his table.

But... you're fretting, and his reminiscing of the the humorous crockery will have to wait.

"You... accept the gift, then?" he asks, halfway convinced your eyes are misted over because he'd committed a faux-pas he isn't aware of.

There are times when Death wonders if you must think him quite dense. Such as now, for example. Short of throwing your hands above your head, you positively erupt in exasperation as you exclaim, "Wh-! Of course I do! This is the kindest thing anyone's done for me in my life!"

"Kinder than saving said life?" he quips, "Repeatedly?"

You only shoot him a wide, watery grin in response. Tossing the parchment over your shoulder, you hurry to slip the silver chain around your neck, clutching the flask delicately in a palm and thumbing the glass with fond, gentle strokes.

"I'm never taking this off," you murmur around a beaming smile.

Grunting, the Horseman folds his arms across his chest and replies, "See that you don't. With how attractive you are to trouble and disaster, this is the most efficient way to ensure you are kept relatively safe when I... when one of us isn't around to keep an eye on you." Pausing, he quirks a thoughtful brow behind his mask and adds, "Well... I suppose I could always enlist Nathaniel to play human-sitter..."

Your bright, incredulous peal of laughter cuts him off, but before he can lament on how much different he is now for allowing himself to be interrupted by a human and feel no malice, you suddenly plant a hand on his chest, spreading warmth from the tips of your fingers straight through to the hollow cavity that used to house his heart.

Death's mask tips down, his golden eyes calm, but curious as they fold into yours, old and new, sharing a moment of vulnerability on the steps of your home.

"Thank you, Death," you tell him sincerely, but oh so softly, "I mean it. Thank you."

And then, as if the thanks alone isn't quite enough to break a chip off his unassailable walls, you rise onto the toes of your shoes, reaching a hand up to hook a finger beneath the chin of his mask and drawing his head down inch by inch. Death, taken wildly aback by the boldness of laying your hands on the Executioner's mask, forgets himself, and follows the tug of your will until-

A layer of solid bone may separate you from the Horseman's skin, yet he'd still swear he feels the tender press of a warm, guileless mouth against his own, just for a moment, then you withdraw almost as soon as you leaned in, releasing his chin and letting your arms flop back to your sides.

"Well," you say, voice a little pitched like you've caught yourself by surprise, "Again, um... Thank you..."

Slowly, Death draws back to his full height, resisting the sudden urge to press his fingertips to the space near the bottom of his mask.

"Don't suppose you've got time to come in for a cup of tea?" you blurt.

And if the Reaper's thin, pale lips twitch up at their corners unbidden... Well... There's a reason he decided to keep his mask, after all.

#This is so stupid and abrupt #I wanted to end on a funny note #Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Death x Reader #found family

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aziraphales-library · 2 months

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Hi all! I've been craving some fantasy au slow burn but have been wanting something longer than 50k words (I want to be in for the long haul). I've been reading Beauty and the Beast AUs but I could work with something similar/fusion. (I've already read "The Serpent and the Angel" and "Choose Your Princes Wisely" and loved them both) If you can't manage fantasy au then post-s1 would work as well :)

Give me longing! Give me shy touches and stolen looks! Fluff, angst, and/or hurt/comfort, E rating is welcome. Thanks!

Hey. We have a #fantasy au tag, so check that out. There aren't loads of fantasy fics over 50k with slow burn/pining, so searching ao3 was really simple. Here ya go...

I’m Your Landsailor by IneffableDoll (T)

In a small seaside town called Tadfield, one of the last places on Earth where humans and magic coexist, an exiled selkie and a human who ran away from her life accidentally get themselves married in the oldest, most binding sense. The two are forced to stay together until they can find a way to undo it and free the other from their accidental marriage. It sure would be complicated if they started to fall for each other in the process…

through the silent wood by summerofspock (M)

When Aziraphale Eastgate first moves to Tadfield, he struggles to understand the strange culture of the village. They're not friendly or kind or anything he expected from a village in the north. So when he rescues a snake from a snow storm, he's glad for a little company even if it comes in the form of an animal. Unfortunately, in Tadfield, animals are often not what they seem.

Dragon's Heart by Slow_Burn_Sally (E)

“No dear Aziraphale. It must live” She answered him, and turned her gaze to the massive, sleeping beast. Just then Aziraphale noticed the great pool of dark blood that surrounded the thing where it lay. Blood from its wounds. He looked down at his feet and saw the dark blood pooling around his simple cloth shoes, soaking into the woolen fabric. He felt no revulsion or surprise over this. Only sadness and pity for the poor creature. “It must live” the goddess repeated. “And you must go to it” Not one to refuse the request of a deity, Aziraphale nodded. “Very well then my Goddess” he replied. “When shall I go?” “At once” she replied. “And you must tell no one”

Faeted, Part One by megzseattle (G)

Ezra fell is an English professor at a prestigious academy for boys. Crowley is the lord of the Unseelie court in the lands without sunrise or moonfall. Somehow fate will bring them together.

Cast the Stone and Create the Ripple by The_Bentley (E)

Crowley stared at him, yellow eyes narrowing. “You’ll have to excuse me for not trusting you. Never encountered your kind before. I suggest you get out of here because this much blood in the water is going to attract sharks.” He twisted around, attempting once again to try to dive into the depths, but without his tail free that was proving impossible. He struggled even harder upon seeing his so-called rescuer pull a knife out of his belt. “Not without you,” the land-dweller replied. “Hold still, please. These nets are meant to dig into skin the more one moves.” “If you're going to kill me, please make it quick. Long, painful discorporations seem like a bad way to go.” Prince Crowley is investigating the damage fishing vessels are doing to crops and homes in his father's underwater kingdom. Prince Aziraphale is supposed to be learning to become a scribe. Their worlds are about to collide, putting Crowley's life in danger and revealing that the land-dwelling angels and ocean-dwelling merdemons just might not be that different after all. (Rated T until Chapter 11 when it becomes more NSFW.)

Omens Of Another Kind by WorseOmens (NR)

Crowley is the Dullahan, a notorious omen of death. Happily ever after isn’t in the job description; he’ll soon meet someone who begs to disagree. (Good Omens Folklore AU)

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #fantasy au #slow burn #pining #long fic #mod d

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the-fiction-witch · 9 months

Text

Reading

Media The Queens Gambit

Character Benny Watts

Couple Benny X Reader

Rating Smut

I sat in the darkness of the grey basement. The Apartment is cold as the heating hasn't worked in a week. The Wind and rain battered the little windows above me luckily, no water had found its way inside yet. The lights were all off but the small lamp beside me, with no other items powdered on left the basement with a gentle silence. My breathing was all that broke it, and the occasional flicks of my fingers against the paper pages. My body snuggled up into Benny's brown leather chair, a black and white blanket over my legs, the tip of my nail between my teeth as I read the words.

'He seized her swiftly by the ponytail, thrusting her body against the frigid stone. He united their bodies pulverising forcefully against her delicate innocent form. He came tight his breath sizzling on her neck.

"You believe you can get away from me, Princess?" His hushed vocals growled,

She spread her lips but couldn't create words, as if his profound ocean-blue eyes had stolen her voice.

"You," He said his finger stroking down her cheek to push her chin up to their lips sat only mere inches from one another, "Belong to me." He snarled,

"P-P-Prince Alon..." She gagged her body quivering and trembling against the stone.

"You're mine princess." He asserted, "And I intend to have you."

"Have me?" She interrogated

"Right here. Right now." He declared, "You're so defended chastity, shall be pilfered. You're angelic body mine to command."

"Prince Alon Please I-" She began,

"So Precious, so charming, so innocent." He sneered, "Though your sentiment is not what I desire."

He shut the void between her shoving his lips to hers, the taste of his salty lips against hers, his body thrusted against her letting her feel his throbbing -'

"I'm home," Benny called as he came through the front door with a brown paper bag of groceries in his hand,

"I'm not doing anything!" I yelped in shock as his call woke me from my book, out of fear I slammed my book shut. "Hello..."

"Hi," He chuckled at my reaction, he kicked off his shoes and set the groceries on the kitchen counter. "You alright?"

"Fine." I gulped

"You sure?" He asked setting his hat and jacket on the rack by the door,

"Yes."

"Mhm..." He nodded as he leant his elbows on the stair railing, "Not sure I'd wanna be attending your class on 'How to now look suspicious' Y/n,"

"What's suspicious, I'm not suspicious, nothing about this is suspicious, no one is suspicious, if anything you're acting suspicious!"

He simply cocked his him, cocked his eyebrow and glared at me, "What are you reading there y/n?"

"Nothing..."

"Y/n?"

"I uhhh I can't read!"

"You can't read?"

"No."

"I've been your boyfriend for five years I know you can read."

"Uhhhhhh..."

"What book are you reading?" he asked coming closer,

"What book? where? I uh I don't have any books? I uhh I've never seen one. I don't even own a book."

"What's that in your hand then?"

"Uhhhh... Sandwich."

"Okay, take a bite of your tasty sandwich."

"I uhhh... I don't want to right now."

"No, no I insist take a bite, I wouldn't want you not to enjoy your sandwich on account of me."

"I uhhh uhhhh don't like this type of sandwich."

"Then why did you make it?"

"... Hilcuinations?"

"Then why do you have it in your lap?"

"I don't," I said

"Give me the book Y/n."

"No!" I yelled as I tried to hide it under the blanket, but Benny was smarter than that and we began a playful if not a little aggressive fight for my book,

"What are you reading y/n? What are you reading?" He smirked as we battled for the book, "Ha!" He yelled as he managed to grab it from me,

"Benny! Give it back!"

"What is this?" He chuckled, "A Vast Ocean of Love? What is this?"

"Nothing!"

"What the- What!" He chuckled, "Prince Alon forced Princess Guinevere onto the rocks and pulled her hair enough to compel a moan to leave her lips!"

"Benny!"

"Ohh, My God! His long shimmering tail slithered through the water towards Princess Guinevere his hand stroking his throbbing- Ohh god!"

"Benny! Give it!" I yelled,

"Where did you even get this?" he asked putting it high up as he read,

"None of your business," I said jumping to try and reach it,

"Ohh my my," He cooed, as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into his chest, "My naughty little girl," he smirked as he rubbed his nose on my own, "You like this kinda stuff?"

"Ironicly." I snapped taking my book back and pouting,

"Ironicly? Why don't I believe that?" he smirked as he wrapped his arms around me again and pulled my back into his chest, his hand slipped under my jeans,

"Benny!" I argued as his hand slipped into my jeans and my panties,

"Ohhhh... You really liked that didn't you?" he smirked as his hand began to rub on my clit and slipped inside me,

"Ughh!"

"Awww, my you're soaked Y/n. You really like this dirty book?"

"Benny!" I yelled and forced his hand away as I moved to sit in the chair, "You read penthouse sometimes, leave me alone."

"Yeah for the articles."

"Yeah, the articles." I glared,

"Even so, only when we weren't dating darling." He laughed, "Why would I need to read some smutty penthouse magazine when I have you?" He smiled and sat on the chair with me and he kissed my temple, "And I'm not judging if you wanna read some smutty books about, Some Sexy Mermen. You go ahead I'm not stopping you."

"You don't mind?"

"No, You wanna read it you read it." he smiled, "Just... come to me when you finish the chapter," he winked as he got up to go put the groceries away,

"Why?" I blushed as I got up and followed him

"Ohh you know..." he smirked as he grabbed my hair and forced me up against the fridge closing the gap between us, he stroked down my cheek and picked my chin up to look him in the eye, "You're mine, princess." He growled with a sly smirk, "And I intend to have you."

"....uuuughhhhhh," I whined or moaned or I don't know what noise came out of me as my knees gave out, my legs felt like jelly and my body slipped down till I fit the floor.

"Would you like that?" he chuckled and looked down at my body as I now lay on the floor,

"Yes Please, Benny!"

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distortedkilling · 8 months

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𝟐-𝟓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 -

—001. Steel grey/blue-- long hair that bounces with each giddy step.

—002. Purple-- the color of this curse's soul.

—003. Silver-- one eye to watch you with.

—004. Deep blue-- one eye to watch the way the world flows with.

—005. Green-grey-- like the walls of a damp lair where water flows.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 -

—001. Warm, wet stone and dirt.

—002. Chlorinated water.

—003. Sweet but only in the way death is.

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 -

—001. Why have clothes when you can be naked?

—002. Warm black shawl shirt with the left sleeve being cut into three sections, it's often easy to see his torso beneath. Fitted matching colored pants. His shoes are white with black accents.

—003. Sometimes the skin of other people if one is feeling quirky.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 -

—001. Stolen books.

—002. Corpses that fit neatly into a pocket or one's mouth.

—003. A body that can be made into an object.

—004. Hair ties plucked from little shops.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 -

—001. Hands propped on hips when amused.

—002. Shoulders slackened and arms limp when bored.

—003. Animated hands that often touch his face as he mimics human expression.

—004. A vile grin of all teeth to tell you he's truly a curse.

—005. Emptiness, uncertain of what emotions should be upon his face at times.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 -

—001. Shapeshifting, ever changing and ever evolving despite possessing such an immovable nature.

—002. Laying within a hammock as he reads for countless hours. The sound of the city faint but lively enough as it echoes down into the sewer but never obstructs the sound of water flowing.

—003. Water moving within various currents out in the middle of a forest. The quiet of a hot spring long secluded from humanity.

—004. A beach with a seemingly endless ocean... and friends to pass the time with. Plotting, scheming, relaxing. Waves crashing against the shore softly. The hum of nature. The warmth of the sand and air.

—005. Trembling, terror stricken hands that seek an exit. He's smiling or maybe he's not, as amusing as humans are to play with they are still just trash. But he wasn't one to shy away from trash.

SONGS-

—001. Self-Embodiment of Perfection

—002. 1 800 PAIN

—003. Dark Necessitates

—004. VILLAIN

—005. Pandemonium

Tagged by: @hexenjagd (thank you bby <3)

Tagging: @kazeofthemagun, @dichotomouskey, @muddsludge (i want lilicia and whoever else you want), @caustichatred, @terroreigns, @birkenzeisig, @clown-demon, @swordduels, @lonetala

#headcanons

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reki-of-the-valley · 11 months

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You Are in Love

Read it on AO3 here!

1 - You Are in Love

It’s the way Langa is crouched, the way his weight is shifted forward to his toes. It’s the way he smiles, the way his fingers fiddle with the buttons of the little pink coat. It’s the way Chihiro is standing as straight as she can, her chin tilted up. It’s the way the scene plays out, the way Langa, Langa who had always been so wary around the twins, now seems so comfortable. It’s as if he’d always been here, always been in this entrance, always helping around the Kyan household. It’s the way he fits in so well, as if he has always been a part of this family.

“Need help, Reki?”

Reki has to shake himself out of his trance, the rest of the world coming back to him. Chihiro is there, slipping her shoes on while Nanaka is waiting by the door, a grin that matches Reki’s. The sun is high, rays streaming through the glass panels of the door. The weather is perfect for a walk with the girls to the ice cream parlor; not too warm, but still not cool enough to not want ice cream. And the girls can’t wait, Nanaka already rambling away about all the ice cream flavors she wants to try.

“Well?”

A breath catches in Reki’s throat as Langa stands there, his fingers twisting around the strings of his yellow hoodie. His smile is soft, just like when he had been buttoning up Chihiro’s coat. There’s a peek of his teeth, pretty and white, between his ever so slightly parted lips. And the sunshine catches in the blue of his eyes, leaving them with a shimmer Reki’s never seen before. But there’s no time to linger on that, not when Nanaka’s fingers curl around Reki’s.

Everything goes fast from there: a sweater hastily thrown over his hoodie, the back of his shoe squashed under the weight of his heel, a wallet grabbed from the top of the show cabinet. Everything goes so fast: Nanaka and Chihiro running ahead, the path already memorized, the sound of Langa’s laughter filling the autumn air, another joke breaking up his laughter. If this is what it means to have a normal life, Reki’s ready for it. He doesn’t need the uncertainty that the past had handed him. He doesn’t need any of that, not when he can have this.

“Really, Reki, we can stop for a second to let you put your shoes on properly.”

“It’s fine, man. Anyway, the twins would kill me if I made them wait any longer.”

Langa shrugs before turning away from Reki. He looks ahead, hands in his pockets as he kicks a stone along the road. He looks older like that, his eyes riveted on the two girls ahead of them. He looks older like this, reminding them to not run too far head and to stay together. He looks older; his hair has grown a little, almost brushing his shoulders now, and his jaw seems sharper than it had before. His bare arms, they seem stronger, a little more toned. Maybe it’s from all the lifting they’ve been doing at work, from all those boxes that need to be pulled from the back to the front of the shop. Reki isn’t sure why he’s noticing all of this now, noticing the curve of Langa’s nose, the scabs by his ear, the squareness of his shoulders. Reki isn’t sure why he’s noticing any of this, things that have always been there. But these observations weight heavy on Reki’s chest. They weight heavy, but he doesn’t dare say anything. He can’t break the silence, not now.

Langa’s shoulder brushes against Reki’s, drawing his attention to something other than Langa’s build. It brings him to his eyes, always bluer than the ocean on the horizon, to his nose, pointing ahead, to his lips, tugged into a smile. Then, words spill, always in that velvety voice of his.

“Look up.”

And Reki complies; he always does.

It’s there, beautiful as ever. The sun sets, slow and careful. It’s gentle as it finds its way into the water, reds and oranges and purples swirling in the waves that crash over one another. The rays are tentative, as if afraid to break something that’s new yet has always been there. The sun does as it always has; it doesn’t change and it never will, but today, it feels different. It seems slower as it falls, almost as if it were asking for the ocean’s permission, asking the water to catch it. Will the ocean catch the sun? Will it hold on to every ray, cherish the warmth they provide? Reki hopes it will; he hasn’t known a better pair than bright sunshine and gentle waters.

The ocean is gentle as the waves intertwine with the rays of sunshine. And as Langa looks back at Reki, that smile so soft as his pinkie locks with Reki’s, Reki knows he’ll be caught. He knows this is right; nothing has been broken, not now, not ever. This is the way they were meant to find each other. This is the way the universe had set them up: strangers, friends, this. This is what Reki has always dreamed of; this is what he wants; this is what he needs.

“C’mon,” a little tug from Langa, his fingers shifting to find their home between Reki’s, “we should hurry before the twins order the entire store to go.”

---

2 - He Is in Love

The morning is quiet, rays of sunlight filtered through the crack to the curtains. Still, the room is dark, and it’s colder than what Reki is used to. He has to pull the blanket up to his neck rather than have it bunched up at his ankles like he’s used to. And when he rolls over, he knows why.

The bed isn’t his. The room either, even if bits of him hang on the walls and sit on the shelves. He finds pieces of himself in the space between these four walls, but it’s still not his space, at least not completely his. It’s Langa’s room, so much is obvious as he sits up in the otherwise empty bed. It’s not crowded enough to be his own; the same could be said about the air that hangs in the apartment, nothing but distant chatter ringing in Reki’s ears. It’s missing the chaos of his house, the screaming and the tumbling of siblings first thing in the morning.

It’s almost strange walking through the small apartment. Reki knows the place like the back of his hand, but it’s still so disorienting to wake up in someone else’s bed, even if it’s far from the first time it has happened. It’s like walking through the streets of a new city; it’s so similar to home, and yet, it’s nothing like it. But when he finally steps into the kitchen, when he’s hit with that smell of smoke and the sound of curses, Reki knows he’s home. He’s home, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

It’s funny to see Langa like this, picking at the toaster. Langa, who’s usually so calm and composed, he’s so far from that perfect image Reki had once had of him. Now, in the morning light of reality, Langa’s just like any other dork who can’t cook to save his life. He’s ridiculous as he curses at the toast, if it can even be called that. It’s so burnt, so scorched, that Reki wonders if there’s any bread left under that crust of char.

One thing’s for certain: he could not be paid enough to eat that monstrosity.

“Stop laughing!”

Blue eyes are wide, staring at Reki as he doubles down laughing. How can he not laugh? How can he stay serious at the face Langa is making at him? How can he ever stop laughing when he’s with Langa, the same Langa so many people misinterpreted? How can Reki ever keep his laughter to himself when he gets this Langa, Langa who isn’t a prince, Langa who isn’t distant and mysterious? How is he to not laugh and grin when he has Langa, his Langa, goofy and dorky and adorable?

“How did you manage to burn your toast in a toaster, dude?”

The bubbling laughter slowly dies down, falling to a giggle, then a chuckle, before ending in a simply grin. It’s hard to stop smiling around Langa, but thankfully, he doesn’t ask Reki to wipe the look off his face. If anything, he joins him despite biting his lip, trying his best to conceal the sheepish smile.

“I… I forgot it.”

“Did’ya space out again?”

Langa huffs, pushing the toast filled plate across the counter. It’s so strange seeing all these emotions play on Langa’s face, emotions Reki didn’t even know him capable of. They play like a movie on Langa’s face, jumping from one scene to another. Frustration, embarrassment, dejection, and something new, something strange as he gets closer to Reki.

There’s a glisten in his eyes, bluer than Reki’s ever seen them. They almost sparkle under the soft lighting of the kitchen. That look, it’s so far from that night, the one Reki wakes up gasping from. They’re so far from that night, the night Reki thought he had lost it all. Now, they have it all. Everything that had haunted Reki for weeks, it has vanished. That night, it was a lifetime ago, an age Reki barely remembers anymore. All that matters is here, it’s now.

“You look cute in that.”

It’s a surprise, the arms around Reki’s waist and the compliment to his ear. It’s not something he’s used to, especially not from Langa. Sure, he’s always been forward, but still, Reki isn’t used to this type of forward. He’s not quite used to the hugs, the flirting, the sappiness. He may get a Langa very few know of, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still retain the old Langa, the public Langa, the Langa that feels so unobtainable.

“Hope you like it, it’s literally your shirt.”

The chuckle is cute as Langa drops his head onto Reki’s shoulder. So, he’s given up on trying to cook; maybe they can go out for breakfast, or better yet, they can order something in. And maybe they should get something for Nanako; she shouldn’t be out for too long, not on a Sunday. But while she’s gone, well…

It’s sweet, the taste of Langa’s lips against Reki’s. Really, there isn’t much that can compare to this, to the way Langa smiles into the kisses, almost laughing into them. And with every kiss, Reki feels the butterflies erupt from their cocoons; he feels the flutter in his lungs and chest. Kisses from Langa wasn’t something Reki had ever expected, but now, he doesn’t think he can go without them.

One leads to another and another after that. They’re dizzying, leaving him lightheaded as he wraps his arms around Langa’s neck to steady himself. The world spins, fades, and leaves nothing but Langa and his sweetness. Maybe it’s the honey on his lips, or the chocolate on his tongue, but Reki’s pretty sure it’s just Langa. That’s just what Langa tastes like; sweet and addictive.

“Reki…”

His voice is low, raspy almost. Maybe he’s also breathless from the kisses, a little too caught up in the moment. Or maybe that’s just the way Langa sounds after he’s been kissed senseless; Reki isn’t proud to admit it, but stopping was a little more difficult than he had anticipated. But when Langa drops his head back into the crook of Reki’s neck, the world returns, colors other than blue reappearing around him.

“Reki, you’re my best friend, you know that, right?”

Such a statement is nothing new to Reki, but hearing it now of all times, it does something to him. He isn’t sure what it is, but he feels the pang in his chest. It’s nothing like the butterflies he had felt. It’s nothing like that. This pang, it means something else. He doesn’t feel lighter from the words, but at the same time, it’s lifts something that he hadn’t known was weighing him down.

This feeling, this reminder, it means everything to Reki. It’s everything to Reki because it means that every ghost that had once haunted him, that every insecurity that had locked into his closet, they fade. They fade because they mean nothing now. No fear can be greater than this statement. Nothing can be greater than knowing that he’s not alone. Because now, from now until the end of forever, Langa will be there. Langa will stand by him, never leaving him to face his demons alone.

The hug is automatic. There is no other possible response to the statement. There’s nothing else he can do besides holding Langa close to his chest, keep him where he wants him. A hug and a nod are all Reki can manage, and it’s enough. It’s enough for Langa to know it too. It’s enough.

---

3 - True Love

The skatepark is empty besides the two boards left unattended by a rail. There’s not a soul other than the two boys, legs dangling off the back of the ramp, a water bottle to their left and a carton of fries between them. They’re silent, each scrolling on their phone as they pick absent-mindedly at their food. Another Friday afternoon, just like so many others.

Or at least, it should be like every other Friday. There’s nothing different, at least, not on the surface. They’re in their spot, far from the rest of the world. It’s just them, as always, but there’s something weighing down on Reki. There’s something that lingers in the air, something that’s been choking him up all day. It’s there, he knows it, he just doesn’t know how to address it. Talking about things that aren’t skating, it’s not easy, not for Reki.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he swipes through his camera roll. Every one of them holds a memory, usually one that has to do with Langa. There’s a selfie, or two, or three, or twelve. There’s a video of Langa skating, or, once again, twelve. And there are pictures of the sunset, of a stray cat, of birds in the sky, yet they still remind him of Langa. He can hear Langa through the pictures, hear his laughter, hear his chatter, hear his breathing. Because Langa is in every one of these pictures, whether he’s visible or not. He’s in every single picture, in every memory Reki holds of the past year or so. Langa, Reki realizes, has become a staple of his life, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Especially not when Langa’s head is dropping onto his shoulder, blue eyes pointed up at him.

“Whatcha looking at?”

“Just going through my pictures, see what I can delete.”

Reki knows he won’t be deleting anything; he doesn’t want to forget any of his moments with Langa. He wants to keep building these moments, not get rid of them. But saying that out loud, who knows what kind of waterfall of words would spill from his mouth afterwards. And he can’t risk that. Not before he’s figured out exactly how he wants to say it. These words, he can’t mess them up. They need to be perfect. So, until then, they will be silent.

The evening goes by as it always does: a few tricks here and there, a lot of laughing, a few scraped knees and palms. It’s another Friday evening, just like so many others. It’s another Friday evening, until they head home, still in silence.

“Reki, is everything alright?”

Reki hums as he readjusts his bag on his shoulders.

“You just…” Langa pauses, stopping under a streetlamp. “You haven’t talked much today. So… is everything alright?”

Reki wants nothing more than to wipe away the worry that coats the blue of Langa’s eyes. He wants nothing more than to replace it with their usual shine, the one paired with the brightest grin Reki’s ever known. He wants nothing more than Langa’s happiness; if he could go another lifetime without ever having to worry, that would be how Reki would want it. He wants to remember Langa’s smile, memorize the curve of his lips and the creases at the corner of his eyes. None of that worrying that pulls his features in all the wrong ways.

“Don’t worry, dude. Everything’s perfect. Just been a long day, y’know?”

Langa nods, but he shows no sign of continuing his way down the road. He nods, but he expects more. He wants Reki to talk, to release whatever it is he’s holding in his heart. He wants Reki to talk, to spill, to let it all out. And even if it’s ugly, Reki knows Langa will take it. Even if it’s far from perfect, Reki knows Langa will smile, grin even, as he drinks Reki’s every syllable.

“Well, I mean…”

They hear it in the silence, the wait of Reki’s unspoken words. The silent words, they hang heavy in the air. And the more Langa stares, the more Langa waits with that beautiful look upon his face, the more Reki hesitates to say it. It won’t break them, far from that, but being the first to vocalize it, being the first to put it out there, it’s scary. It could ignite a fire, a flame that could leave a trail of beauty for Reki to memorize on Langa’s face and body, but it might also be a flame that burns the whole thing down. If he does this wrong, who knows what the future will look like for them.

Perhaps it would have been better if Reki had been a better liar, better at concealing the feelings fluttering in his heart. If he had been able to pretend there was nothing there, or pretend he didn’t expect the words to come to him first before parroting them back, maybe he wouldn’t have found himself in this situation. But if he had been better at conceal his feelings, at keeping them close to his chest rather than out for the world to see, then maybe he wouldn’t have found himself under the brightest moon, standing in front of the prettiest boy he’d ever seen. If he had been different, then maybe he wouldn’t be here today. He wouldn’t be standing in front of a boy whose eyes are filled with beauty and adoration, lacing their fingers together.

“I guess I just wanted to say…”

It’s now, or it’s never, Reki knows that. He’s started. He can’t stop.

“I’ve actually been thinking so much about this lately. Like, I can’t sleep from how much I think about it. So, like…”

Langa stares in anticipation, his shoulders caving inwards as his fingers tighten around Reki’s. He’s biting back a smile, Reki knows this. Maybe Langa’s just as bad at this as he is.

“Langa.”

He’s shaking. Or maybe it’s Langa who’s shaking. Or maybe they’re both shaking. Reki can’t tell. He doesn’t care.

“Langa, I love you.”

#in celebration of 1989 (TV) coming out #I literally just pumped this shit out while listening to You Are in Love because it was just rattling in my brain the entire time #had to get it out #Also look at that!!! I wrote some Renga!!!!!#ok tagging time it's been a hit minute #kyan reki #reki #reki kyan #sk8 reki #langa #langa hasegawa #sk8 langa #hasegawa langa #renga #snowgear #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #lils writes

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shoechoe · 2 months

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araki comparing jolyne to the virgin mary is kind of fascinating

#shoe reads stone ocean #jolyne cujoh #i hear a lot about the ''giorno was originally intended to be a woman but araki's editor said no'' thing #i doubt that's completely true from what i've seen at most there was just some consideration for it pre development #people like to nebulously blame ''araki's editor'' for a lot of things they don't like... i'm just suspicious of any fan claims LOL #but i don't know for sure there's probably more info in jojoveller #if only i could get my hands on that...#short posts

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ask-viggo-dagur-and-eret · 2 months

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Dumbest scar stories?

Viggo: Come on Eret, say it.

Dagur: You already told us and you have more dumber scars than we!

Eret: Wasn't this ask meant for everyone? Fine fine. I'll tell you which one is the dumbest but after you two.

Viggo: Fair enough. When I was 13 and in my rebellious state, I challenged my brother into joining me in hunting the Fireworms and then putting them into other's shoes. Long story short, I carry around 20 little bite scars on my left thigh after the dragons bit through a basket.

Dagur: Ptttff! Never knew you were a prankster!

Viggo: We all have a history. Now you, Dagur.

Dagur: Alright. My dumbest scar is from when I was in a prison. Do you know the saying that the first day in prison you should beat the toughest guy in there to asert authority?

Eret: Yes?

Viggo: This is gonna be good.

Dagur: Well the first rule should be: Before you tackle the toughest guy there, make sure your way is clear off stone so you won't get spiked on that guy's garments.

Viggo: *Hiss* That sounds painful.

Dagur: I carry 4 dot scars on my belly from that guy's knee spikes. Thankfully that guy crossed it and helped me treat it before taking me under his wings. After he passed away I revenged him and stated my authority amongst the prisoners.

Eret: That's..... You should write a book about it, I'd love to read it.

Dagur: Eh, why not. Anyway now for the best part! Eret, your turn!

Eret: Alright alright. If I had to choose between my brand, my reckless childhood and my sail stops, I'd be most embarrassed of the scar on my ass and, uhm.. slightly lower.

Viggo: Please tell me that didn't happen when you were kid.

Eret: No no. It happened when I was 17 and me and my cousins were taking a sailing trip into the warm waters to have a bachelor party for my cousin Bjorn and my ex girlfriend who were getting married. While celebrating that night we went for a midnight nude swim in a lagoon that was only a few meters from the ocean. To spare you the details, an hour after doing shitty bets cousins tried to remove from me a very furious and blood thirsty octopus ever so carefully so I wouldn't have to return home with an excuse of my I'm down one part of me.

Viggo:................

Dagur:.............. BWAHAHAHAH!!!! OH MY GODS!

Viggo: You made that up, right?

Eret: I wish. That taught me that some bets aren't worth consequences.

Dagur: Oh I can't breathe! HAHAHAA!!!

Eret: Alright laugh it up you two! Now you know why I hate Octopuses!

#httyd #how to train your dragon #eret son of eret #dagur the deranged #viggo grimborn #Bullshit we do when we're kids or childish XD #some scars should be left secret Eret #Viggo will never eat sushi again

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apollobar · 6 months

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Everything That Is Left

Summary: Lucy Chen and her friends join what was meant to be a dream vacation across the Pacific Ocean, aboard a small cruise ship. But when a devastating storm strikes, turning their journey into a fight for survival, Lucy finds herself stranded on a deserted island with her companions. As they struggle to endure and await rescue, tensions rise and bonds are tested. Amidst the challenges, a budding romance has begun to unravel between Lucy and Tim, her old mentor turned fellow survivor, casting a fragile ray of hope amidst the uncertainty. Yet, as they all navigate the challenges of island life, dark secrets emerge, threatening to unravel the fragile bonds holding them together. With each passing day, the survivors must confront not only the mysteries of the island but also the depths of their own resilience and the intricacies of their relationships. Will they find a way to overcome the odds and make it out alive, or will the island's mysteries consume them all?

Chapter 1 of ?

CHAPTER 1: Travellers from Beyond the Shore

Unable to face the screams, Lucy Chen looks out at the ocean. It’s hypnotic, the way the water laps upon the shore. Swallowing up the beach and then spitting it back out, leaving behind sand dollars and bits of rock to litter the ground. Every cry or shout of her name is muffled as she stands there. The sand pulls mindlessly against her feet like thousands of tiny magnets, whispering for her to be engulfed along with them. But the temptation is briefly silenced when a sudden spark of green catches her attention. An object splashing amongst the recent waves, tumbling across the beach until finally resting against her bare foot. The search for her left shoe lost and momentarily forgotten.

All jagged edges and rough cuts have been erased from the fragment along with any sign of what it once was. Now replaced with rounded curves and polished sides that Lucy imagines must be smooth to the touch. She remembers learning of sea glass long ago, reading about it in an elementary science class. Her textbook had explained about the effects of weathering and erosion; how shards of broken bottles, plates, or jars are worn down overtime. The tides push and pull while carrying it miles away. A journey, Lucy vaguely recalls, takes years for glass to become as opaque as the pebble that now lays at her feet. She lifts her head and looks beyond the bank, beyond the smoothed glass and the chorus of waves crashing against each other.

Her eyes fall on the horizon, where the sky touches the expanding sea and she scans the line searching for a clue to the sea glass’ origins. How long has it been away from home? She wonders. She waits for a response but a silent ocean taunts her, holding tightly to its secrets. The deceptive peace and the absence of everything that she and the glass have been through pulls at her insides, twisting and tearing until she can no longer hold herself up. Lucy drops to her hands and knees, and she can feel the contents of her stomach threatening to spill out. Sand digs into her skin as she grips it. Needing something to hold onto and give her balance while she fights to keep what little she has left inside. But as she claws the beach, her lifeline escapes through her fingers. Flowing back to the shore and with nothing left to keep her steady, the remaining contents of her stomach eventually follow.

When there is nothing left to give up, she rolls onto her side, unable to bring herself to stand.

At least not right now.

The warm sand, baked from the afternoon sun, is inviting enough to convince her to lay down for a few moments longer. The emerald shard of glass now sits a few inches from her face and without thinking she reaches out and takes it. Lucy squeezes her hand shut, all the danger of broken glass long since worn away and with the pad of her thumb she outlines the bumps and divots of the stone over and over again as if running her fingers along a piece of die.

The voice beyond is beginning to get louder now, he will find her any minute now but she’s not ready to face it. Just give me a few moments more, she pleads to herself. Her eyes fix back onto the task in front of her. Fingers, sticky with sand, occasionally grind against the stone as she moves it around in her palm. An action that emits a crunching sound similar to that of stepping onto gravel. The noise is quiet but distraction enough to pull her focus back in.

Lucy can’t help but feel a connection to the poor glass. Both of them in an indescribable distance away from home, forever changed by a journey they never asked for, but swept into nonetheless. She clenches her fist, pulling it protectively against her chest. Memories of home call upon an ache that has settled itself within her heart, and Lucy is unsure of how long it has been there. The pain conjuring up thoughts of how long it will be until she can go back home-if she can at all? Or will she become more like the traveler in her palm, destined never to return? The hot sand, the advancing desperate shouts, and smell of saline begin to overwhelm her. In an attempt to push out the world, she squeezes her eyes shut. However, the pulse of the beach is no longer loud enough to drown out her environment and a familiar voice has finally reached her.

“Chen! Where have you been? My god, what happened?”

There is a sternness and sincerity to his tone that only he can bring and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to recognize who it is. So when his hands tentatively touch her shoulders, warm and solid, she doesn’t flinch. She knows it’s Tim. Her teacher, her friend, and now fellow survivor.

She opens her eyes as she lets him pull her up into a sitting position, his own scanning her for signs of new injuries. It’s only when he finds none does his concern fall to annoyance.

“We have been calling your name for ten minutes, boot. You know better than to just go off on your own and start ignoring everyone. After everything that has happened..” His voice falters and he fights to get it back under control of it, taking in a short breath and twisting chapped lips. Tim’s habit and pathological need to remain in control is so soaked in normalcy that Lucy can’t help but laugh at it. At the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“This isn’t funny.” He tells her, taken aback at the absurdity of her reaction.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out while lifting her head towards the sky in disbelief, “You’re right, I know. It’s not funny. None of this is funny.” The insincere fit of laughter trickles away with her last few words and flows seamlessly into tears. After the intensity of the last few days, the nights adrift at sea and the morning’s fleeting relief of finding land, Lucy had not let herself grieve. Not allowed the reality of their situation sink in.

Tim is quick to pull her into his arms, sheltering her from the wind and bringing a comfort only an old friend could provide, his initial annoyance now dissipated. The intimacy of the touch is uncommon and foreign between them, but Lucy allows herself to welcome the reassurance it unexpectedly brings. She tucks her head under his chin while hot streams glide down her cheeks. Lucy knows this situation has taken so much from them both, from them all, and will continue to ask more of them as the days go on, but she is grateful for his patience at this moment. A moment that is needed. A moment that has been earned.

When her breathing falls back to even strides, she attempts to peel herself away, afraid of overstaying her welcome. But Tim’s arms tighten without a word and Lucy suspects that he needs a moment as well. So she gives it to him, instead taking the time to really look at his appearance for the first time.

Much like Lucy, Tim’s clothes are dirty and torn with fresh purple bruises staining his exposed arms. Red blotches have soaked into his shirt, and those thick pieces of cloth that stick to his torso like glue have now transferred onto her own shirt. She lingers for a moment on the rubber, yellow band around his wrist at her side. The same one they all eagerly put on a few days ago, now smudged with dirt and blood. Evidence of a vacation gone wrong.

She braves a look at his face and his eyes catch hers, exhaustion and worry hidden within the lines tucked around his mouth and the creases between his brows. With their experience of being police officers, and Tim’s added time in the military, they’ve both been through traumatic events before, trained to handle the most stressful of situations. However, the LAPD doesn’t hold many courses on shipwrecks, and Lucy can’t recall ever receiving a Tim Test on what to do in the case of being stranded on a deserted island. They are in unfamiliar territory, and no amount of training fully prepared them for a situation like this. Rookies again.

Finally, as a silence begins to nestle between them, Tim pulls away and Lucy watches him debate on what he should say next. He shifts around a bit, growing uncomfortable in the quiet and from the kneeling position he had taken earlier. She imagines what he could be thinking, knowing “Are you okay?” must feel like too lame of a question and“Get up, let’s get moving” while more in line with Tim's usual rough demeanor, perhaps too harsh even for him in this present moment. He is the first one to break eye contact as he finally stands, stretching his legs. The silent debate in his mind seemingly over and won.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks finally, his question soft and low. For a second, she’s taken aback by the unusual gentleness he continues to show her. But when she feels some of the heaviness in her shoulders release, slightly, but as if lifted up by a balloon, she is thankful for his tenderness. Lucy looks down at her feet. A single brown boot on one foot, and she wriggles the uncovered toes of the other drawing his attention.

“My shoe.” She responds, and Tim raises an eyebrow. “I just wanted to find my shoe.”

“After the rescue boat shows up, I’ll take you to buy a new pair, hell about twenty?” He proposes and it’s his turn to smile. It's small but there, and Lucy can’t help but feel the infectious pull of it.

“You are going to take me?” She teases and Tim scoffs.

“Why is that so shocking? I’m probably not as good as Angela, but I know my way around a shoe store.” He jokes and it is enough to bring a genuine grin out of her.

Seizing the moment, Tim stretches out an arm and Lucy takes it, accepting his offer to help her to her feet. As she rises, the island beneath her sways and the clouds spin causing her to stumble. Tim is quick, as he often is, and steadies her by grabbing her elbow. Keeping her upright as he waits for her world to stop spinning.

“Thank you.” She tells him, after a breath, and they both know that her words are meant for more than just this moment.

There’s a pause before Tim says, “Rescue is going to come.” His voice is sure and absent of any doubt and Lucy notices the hand still cradling her elbow.

“I know,” she whispers. And she does. Lucy has always been clever, and the logical part of her knows that Tim Bradford is right. With the advancement of modern technology, the likelihood of rescue boats arriving any minute now is high and there is no need for panic. So when Tim suggests they go back to the group and wait for help, she doesn’t argue. However, as he guides her back to their friends and fellow survivors, to their humble beginnings of a campsite not meant to last, the ache in her chest tightens. And the weight of the seaglass, still secure in the palm of her hand, grows heavier than ever.

Thank you for reading! You can also find this story via my AO3 account @apollobar.

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sisterspooky1013 · 10 months

Text

Gaslight, Chapter 46/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

They arrive in Blaine, Washington to a drizzling summer rain that runs down the windows of the van in thick ropes. Driving alongside the rocky shore of a mist-veiled bay, Scully feels anxious and impatient. She wants to get where they’re going, but at the same time she’s afraid that something else will go wrong.

“Is that the ocean?” Abby asks distractedly.

“It’s ocean water,” Scully answers, her nerves frayed beyond the point of function. “It’s called a strait.”

“What’s a strait?”

Scully sucks in a breath and Mulder reaches over the console to lay a hand on her forearm.

“It’s a passage that connects two larger bodies of water,” Mulder explains patiently.

“Is that the beach?”

“Yeah, it is,” he tells her, running his hand down Scully’s arm and interlacing his fingers with hers.

“Can we go there?”

“Maybe,” he answers honestly, stealing glances at Abby in the rearview mirror. “We’ll have to see if the rain lets up.”

Scully squeezes his hand and he squeezes back. It’s been a blissfully uneventful final two days of their cross-country drive, but the lack of action has only heightened her constant awareness that the other shoe may still be poised to drop. With the Smoking Man and Diana both dead, they could easily make the mistake of assuming they are no longer in danger, but the project was so far-reaching there are bound to be others who are motivated to kill them simply for knowing what they know. Every door slamming down the hall at a motel, every stranger giving them more than a passing glance, every police car behind them on the highway has her heart racing and her palms clammy, and she just wants to go home and feel safe.

But home is a place she hasn’t been yet, and safe is a concept that feels as foreign as her new identity. She has Mulder, and the kids, and a dog who reeks of river water, and that just has to be enough for now.

Mulder slows and watches the house numbers until he finds the ones that match the address Byers gave them, then pulls into the driveway of a powder blue two-story house situated a stone’s throw from the water. It has the characteristic low roofline and aluminum windows of 1960s architecture, and something about it immediately sets Scully at ease. Mulder kills the engine and looks over at her, watching the side of her face while she takes in the beachfront home.

“Are we here?” Abby asks, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning between the front seats for a better look.

“I think so,” Mulder tells her. “I guess we’ll have to knock and find out.”

Before they have a chance to get out of the car, a door on the side of the garage opens and someone steps out cloaked in an ankle-length, bright yellow rain slicker. Scully feels a little flare of nervousness again as they approach the driver’s side door and rap on the window. Mulder rolls the window down and the person lifts their head, revealing the smiling face of a man in his late sixties with a graying beard and friendly hazel eyes.

“You must be Steve and Lisa,” he says brightly, sticking his rain-soaked hand through the open window for Mulder to shake. “I’m Tom. We were expecting you yesterday and we were just deciding whether we should worry or not, so I’m glad you finally made it. You can go ahead and pull your car into the garage, just give me a second to open it.”

Tom disappears back through the same door, and a moment later the garage rolls open. There’s a vehicle already parked on one side that’s concealed beneath a heavy gray cover, and Mulder pulls into the empty space beside it. The garage door closes behind them, and Scully’s stomach tightens.

Tom reappears, his slicker discarded and his bald head shining under the yellow garage lights, and Mulder steps out of the car.

“This is what you’ll cross the border in,” Tom says, patting the other vehicle. “She’s got B.C. plates and is already registered under your new pseudonyms.”

The men continue to talk as Abby and Scully watch. Frenchie jumps over the middle seat and forces her head between Scully’s seat and Abby’s waist, and Scully can hear her tail thumping against something.

“Who’s that guy?” Abby asks.

“He’s going to help us get to our new house,” Scully says. “He seems nice, doesn’t he?” She says it just as much to reassure herself as Abby.

“How come he doesn’t have any hair?”

Scully laughs and reaches up to touch Abby’s cheek.

“I bet he’ll tell you if you ask him.”

Peter whines from the back seat.

“Y’okay, Bear?” Scully asks, craning her head around to see him.

“Frenchie’s hitting me with her tail,” he complains, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks around, confused by the change in their surroundings. “Is it night time?”

“Nope. We’re just parked inside a garage right now. We’re going to stay here tonight and then tomorrow we get to see our new house. Isn’t that great?”

“I’m sick of driving,” Peter grumbles.

“Me too,” Scully says with a sigh.

She startles when the passenger door pops open, then turns to give Mulder an irritated glare.

“Sorry,” he says with a grimace. “You ready to head inside? I’m gonna take Frenchie out for a bathroom break.”

“Okay,” Scully says uneasily, then adds in a near whisper, “Everything seems okay?”

Mulder nods and squeezes her thigh.

“No alarm bells,” he says quietly.

She pulls in a deep breath and nods, trying to settle her overstimulated nervous system. Mulder gets Frenchie on her leash, then puts on Tom’s rain slicker and disappears through the side door of the garage.

Scully helps Peter out of his car seat and takes each of the children by the hand. Tom is standing in the open door to the house, a warm smile plastered to his face as he waits for them. She wonders how many times he’s done this and for what kinds of people. He certainly seems comfortable enough welcoming fugitive strangers into his home.

“I assume you like dogs since you have one, but get ready for the furry welcoming committee,” he says as he steps aside and allows the three of them to walk into the house. “You’ll be staying downstairs, but let’s head upstairs first so you can say hello to Lea.”

Scully ushers the children up the stairs ahead of her, and as they near the top a cacophony of yips and barks begins to reverberate off the walls. Abby stops and covers her ears, turning to give Scully a wide-eyed look of worry.

“It’s okay, sweetpea,” she says, laying a hand on Abby’s back.

“Lea!” Tom hollers from behind her. The boom of his voice makes both her and Abby jump, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“What?!” a female voice hollers back.

“Restrain the hounds!” he shouts through cupped hands.

They wait a moment, listening to the skitter of claws on hardwood and high-pitched pleas for compliance.

“The coast is clear!” the female voice announces, and they continue the rest of the way up the stairwell.

The smell of grilled onions and garlic fill Scully’s nose, and her stomach growls loudly. The stairs empty into a busy living room full of mis-matched furniture and knick-knacks, nearly every square inch of the bright blue walls covered with kitschy art and framed photographs. One wall of the room is almost entirely windowed, affording a sweeping view of the bay that is currently obscured by the heavy rain.

Tom steps around them and guides the way to the kitchen, where an older woman is standing in front of the stove pushing something around in a pan. She’s stout and well-wrinkled, and her hair is short-cropped and purple. Tom kisses her cheek and she smiles, then turns to look at Scully and the children.

“These are the Davenports,” Tom says. “Well, minus one. They’ve got a lab with ‘em, too.”

“Welcome to our home,” the older woman says warmly, not moving from her station in front of the stove. “I’m Lea. What should we call you while you’re with us?”

“Not your legal names,” Tom interjects. “We prefer not to know.”

Scully lays her hand on top of Peter’s head.

“This is Bear,” she says, then moves her hand to Abby’s head. “And this is Bunny.”

“Well hello, Bear and Bunny,” Lea coos before addressing Scully. “And how about you and your husband?”

Scully resists the impulse to correct her.

“Steve and Lisa is fine,” she says. “Thank you so much for helping us.”

Lea’s smile shifts into something a bit pained that makes Scully’s throat tighten, and she looks away. They hear the snap of a door opening and closing, and then the wet ruffle of a dog shaking rainwater out of its fur.

“That must be Steve,” Tom says, ducking out of the room to show Mulder and Frenchie around.

“You guys don’t like watching TV, do you?” Lea asks the children with a skeptical squint.

“Yes!” they say in chorus, jumping excitedly. “We do!”

Lea reacts as though this is mind boggling information, then sends them into the living room to explore the hundreds of channels on offer via satellite. Scully moves to follow them, but Lea stops her, then gives her a long appraising look.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Her expression is so open, so genuine, so maternal, that Scully feels as though she could drop to the floor at her feet and tell her everything. In the days since leaving Ellicott City she’s barely had time nor brain space to think about her own mother and how worried she must be, but suddenly she’s overcome with the need for comfort and reassurance, and she finds that she can’t bring herself to lie. Not trusting herself to speak as she feels her bottom lip begin to tremble and her eyes blur with pooling tears, she just shakes her head.

Lea switches off the burner on the stove and walks toward Scully with open arms, a gesture that she would typically not find helpful. But she allows Lea to hug her, and is comforted by relaxing against the softness of her body as Lea pats her back and tells her she’s sorry for whatever they’ve been through. Scully cries quietly, letting tears slip from her cheeks to the shoulder of Lea’s pink housecoat. She feels a hand on her back and turns to see Mulder behind her, the front of his hair dripping wet and a look of alarm on his face.

“Did something happen?” he asks, and Scully shakes her head and wipes her eyes, feeling embarrassed.

“Moms need mothering too, sometimes,” Lea says, giving Scully one more gentle pat to her shoulder before she turns to address Mulder. “Steve, I take it?” she says, offering her hand to shake. “He’s quite sexy, isn’t he?” she adds, looking him up and down, though it’s unclear to whom the comment is directed.

Mulder throws Scully a bemused smirk and shakes the older woman’s hand.

“Lea, I told you to stop sexually harassing the guests,” Tom says in mock seriousness, then gives Lea a slap to her ample backside.

Scully can’t help but smile. She feels safe here. She trusts these people. Mulder wraps an arm around her shoulder and gives her a questioning look and she nods. She’s okay. Okay enough to make it one more day. Okay enough for now.

The rain clears up in the blink of an eye. One minute it’s coming down in sheets, and the next the clouds are receding to reveal a brilliant blue sky and the gently lapping waters of Birch Bay. Lea informs them that dinner will be ready in an hour, and the kids beg to go down and explore the beach.

Mulder looks over at Scully and sees her shoulders slump with resignation. He’s worried about her, but he knows that expressing this sentiment will only result in her making a more concerted effort to hide her exhaustion. He knows this because with each passing day he remembers more and more. The details are still hazy, but the feelings are sharp as knives, some of them cutting so deep he almost wishes they’d stay forgotten. He knows that he’s made many mistakes, and he’s been responsible for her being hurt—both physically and emotionally—many times. The more he remembers, the more protective he feels of her and their relationship.

“I can take them, why don’t you go downstairs and rest?” he tells her, and she immediately opens her mouth to object. “I know you’re fine,” he says, taking the words from her mouth, and she levels him with a deadpan expression, “but did you happen to see the giant bathtub down there?”

He can see that she’s considering it. Her mouth screws up to one side, her eyes slightly narrowed. Lea comes around the corner from the kitchen, a bottle of wine in hand.

“I’ve got about twenty different flavors of bubble bath and a tall glass of shiraz to sweeten the deal,” she says, and the corner of Scully’s mouth quirks. Mulder can tell that she’s fond of the older woman, and he’s grateful for it.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” she says reluctantly, then adds a quiet, “Thank you.”

He kisses her cheek, and is surprised when she follows it by kissing him on the lips right in front of Tom and Lea. He pulls away and looks at her for a beat, and while neither of them says anything, he feels optimistic for the first time in a long while.

The beach is littered with smooth rocks and jagged shell fragments that completely obscure the sand, and there’s a line of dried out seaweed marking the boundary of high tide. Mulder sits on a log with Frenchie beside him and watches the kids as they squeal at dead crabs and throw rocks into the water. Across the bay there’s a long stretch of land with blueish mountain peaks rising up beyond it, and the air smells wet and clean. It’s peaceful here, and he tries to give himself permission to relax.

It’s hard for him to fathom how much his life has changed in the span of a couple weeks. He can barely remember the person he was before and the way that he felt when he thought his life with Diana was one that he chose. As much as his true self felt like a stranger to him when he first reunited with Scully, the version of him that Diana and the Smoking Man created now seems like an apparition. It only reinforces for him how little Diana really understood him, much less loved him. She suppressed the parts of him that are most intrinsic to who he is, and tried to mold him into the man she wanted him to be. It was Scully who sought him out, who reminded him who he is and what he stands for. It was Scully who set him free.

Frenchie rests her head on his thigh and looks up at him with worried eyes. He runs his hand down her back and pats her rump, and her tail thwacks loudly against the log. Scully isn’t the only one who saved him. Despite everything, he feels like the luckiest man alive.

“Daddy, look!”

He follows the sound of Peter’s voice and sees him standing beside a precarious tower of rocks, sticks, and shells as tall as his waist.

“Good job, Bear,” he says fondly, his heart tightening when he sees the look of pride on the child’s face.

A strong gust of wind pushes in off the water and the tower topples over, and Peter lets out a long, agonized whine.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mulder says, wrapping Frenchie’s leash around a jagged end of the log and trotting down to where Peter is pouting over his wasted effort. “You can fix it, I’ll help you. We’ll build it again, okay?”

Peter nods sadly, his bottom lip puffed up and trembling. Mulder crouches down beside him and rubs his back.

“Just start again,” he says, and Peter huffs a sigh before he sets about re-building his tower.

Another strong breeze runs up Mulder’s back, making him shiver, and he’s hit with a wave of deja vu. He looks over at Peter, then to Abby a bit further down the shore, attempting to skip rocks.

Just start again.

He smiles, though he also feels like crying. He is one lucky bastard, there’s no doubt about that.

Lea, unsurprisingly, is a fantastic cook. They sit around a large oval table and watch the sun begin to sink towards the horizon as Lea serves them enchiladas with homemade salsa and cheese quesadillas for the children, as well as strong margaritas with generously salted rims for the adults. Frenchie has integrated herself into Tom and Lea’s pack of four dogs—ranging in size from a chihuahua to a standard poodle—and the five of them sit patiently behind the children, ready to snatch up any dropped food.

For an hour or so, Scully forgets what brought them here. Tom tells them stories of ill-fated border crossings, speaking in thinly veiled euphemisms as he describes discovering a trunkful of dildos in a car being driven by two nuns in full habits. Scully laughs so hard she thinks she might wet herself, and Mulder won’t stop smiling at her.

“Looks like it’ll be a five-star sunset tonight,” Lea observes, her eyes on the horizon and her hand laid over the top of Tom’s on the tabletop.

They all turn and look at the yellowing sky and the way it highlights each layer of the landscape in a different shade of burnt orange. It looks unreal, like a painting.

“See those mountains way back there?” Tom asks, pointing with his free hand. “That’s where you’re headed. The Great White North.”

Scully sighs and slips her hand onto Mulder’s thigh under the table. Close enough to see, soon close enough to touch. Home. Freedom. A fresh start.

“Have you helped many people cross?” Mulder asks, and Tom closes his eyes briefly, nodding.

“Over a hundred,” he says, opening his eyes and looking over at Lea. “You’ll be our last, though. Time to close up shop.”

“Really?” Scully asks. “Why’s that?”

“I’ve been putting off retiring for years so we could keep it going. Seems like the big man upstairs finally decided to force my hand and see to it that I’m needed at home more than I am at the border.”

Lea gives him a sad smile and turns to address Scully.

“A few months ago I found out I have breast cancer,” she says matter-of-factly. “My prognosis is decent, but I’ll need a lot of help after my mastectomy. Tommy’s gonna be promoted to nurse maid.”

“Greatest honor of my life,” Tom says, lifting their joined hands off the table and kissing the backs of Lea’s knuckles.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Scully says, half memories of her own battle with cancer drifting through her tipsy mind.

“I’ve had an amazing life,” Lea says as she stands and begins to clear the table. “If I get another ten years, great. If not, I’m still one lucky bitch.”

Abby gasps and they all look over to see a devilish smile on her face.

“You said a bad word,” she informs Lea cheekily, and they laugh.

Lea takes the children downstairs to show them all the toys they’ve amassed over the years while Mulder and Scully stay at the table with Tom. He retrieves a large manilla envelope from another room and his demeanor shifts from lighthearted and jovial to stoic and serious, which makes Scully nervous. He sits across the table from her and Mulder, the sunset framing his bald head, and puts on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’ve done this more than a hundred times over the last thirty years, and I haven’t been busted yet. That said, I need you to pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you. I haven’t been busted yet, but that doesn’t mean that everyone we’ve tried to help has made it across. If you deviate from my instructions and something goes wrong, I can’t help you. I won’t risk rotting away in jail while Lea goes through cancer treatment alone to save your asses. I don’t mean any offense by that, but if it’s me or you…it’s me. We clear on that?”

Scully looks over at Mulder and sees him nod confidently.

“Okay. First things first, you can say goodbye to Steve and Lisa. We always set you up with a new identity just before you cross over in case anyone’s been tracking your current pseudonyms or anything went sideways on your way here. You’ll take the Camry in the garage with you tomorrow and leave the van here, and we’ll get rid of it for you. Sorry we don’t have a bigger vehicle; we didn’t know about the dog.”

Tom pulls a set of keys out of the envelope and puts them on the table.

“From here on out you’re Jack and Bella Manningham. The kids are Ruby and Zack. This has directions to your new place, and here are the keys for that,” he continues, depositing another set of keys on the table. “Everything else you need to get started is in here, your birth certificates and all that shit. Passports too, which you’ll need to have ready tomorrow. I’ll take your other documents and shred them. Anything that has details about your previous identities needs to be out of the car and off your person when you cross the border, got it?”

He stops and meets their eyes, one at a time, and waits for an affirmative answer.

“Once you cross over, you’re on your own. You might have other folks you can contact, and whether or not you feel safe to do so is on you. But I’m not going to give you my contact information and I ask that you don’t try to look me up for any reason. I get you over the border and that’s where our relationship ends, capiche?”

Again, he stops to get a clear sign of understanding from each of them.

“My shift starts tomorrow at 8:00 am. I’ll give Lea a call on my break around 10:00 and let her know which lane I’m working. I’m usually on lane four, but every now and then they move me and it’s very important that you go to my lane. If you end up in someone else’s lane, I can’t help you. Could you cross in another lane? Maybe. But I’ve seen your faces on the news, and that means other border agents might have too. You should wait until Lea gets my call, and then head up to the crossing.”

“What if we’re directed to another lane?” Scully asks, margaritas churning in her belly.

“You won’t be,” Tom says confidently. “Get in lane four, and stay in lane four. When you get to the window, I won’t give any indication that I know you, and you should do the same. I’m going to ask for your passports, country of citizenship, and reason for travel. You’re going to tell me that you’re Canadian, and that you’ve been visiting family in Seattle and are headed home. I’ll look over your passports, and then ask you to open your trunk. Use the button in the car to open it, okay? Don’t get out of the car; that will just give better video footage of you to anyone who's looking for it. I’m going to take a look in the trunk, then give you your passports and send you on your way. Do you have any questions?”

“What’s the purpose of checking the trunk?” Mulder asks.

“Makes it look like I’m doing my job,” Tom says plainly, and Mulder nods. “I don’t mean to scare you,” Tom says emphatically, leaning in. “I just need you to take this seriously. Do exactly what I said and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

Scully sits back in her chair and pulls in a deep breath.

“Okay. Thank you, Tom.”

“You bet. Now let’s make some more margaritas and go watch that sunset.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #fox mulder #dana scully #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

High Tide Came And Brought You In

Summary: Desperate to escape her impending marriage, Feyre throws herself from a cliffside. Anything is better than what's waiting for her.

Even the monster hiding in the waves.

Happy BEACH DAY for @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS DONT PRETEND LIKE YOU DONT

Read More on AO3

Warning: attempted suicide, tentacles used inappropriately

Feyre wasn’t going to marry him.

Not in a year, or a million years. Not to save her ruined family and certainly not because her father, a man who had only ever noticed her in the periphery, decided someone ought to. Not Nesta, who’d flat out said no and was so terrifying even their father yielded. And not Elain, who the prince had taken one look at before discarding. His attention fell solely on her, those green eyes brightening with a hunger Feyre didn’t particularly care for.

Each time that golden-haired prince tried to set a date, Feyre threatened to throw herself into the sea, and each time Nesta bullied their father until it was pushed back and back and back. Feyre is too young, Nesta would scream, and their father would cow at the sight of their mother's furious face reflected in his eldest daughter's countenance.

Feyre bought three whole years that way. And then, Nesta was shipped away, far, far north and Elain was sent south and for the first time in Feyre’s life, she was isolated. Trapped in a crumbling palace, Feyre decided it was time to make good on that promise. She wasn’t going o marry a beastly man just to save her father from ruin.

Feyre had heard a story of a western princess who drowned at sea. Pulled beneath foaming waves by a creature so unearthly, so grotesque, and terrifying that no one dared to speak its name, let alone capture its likeness.

And Feyre, desperate as she was, was jealous. That princess vanished from an equally miserable wedding, escaping what was likely to be a cruel marriage to an intolerable man. Feyre had to wait, given her betrothed was currently in her home, sleeping a mere two doors down. He’d come to set an unmovable date, declaring he would remain until the marriage was done.

He’d force his way regardless of her own opinion. It was enough to spur Feyre into action. She didn’t bother with shoes, or a jacket, or anything that might convince her to turn back. A light, spring rain caressed her skin when she stepped into the night, her feet sinking into the muddy grass.

Feyre turned to look over her shoulder at the once magnificent manor. It had been a wedding gift from her mother's family, gifted by the king for such a profitable and favored union. Her mother had died long before, taking all their father's will to live with her. It wasn’t that he missed her, or even that he loved her—it was his unwillingness to put any care into that home. He simply did not care, and was so tight-fisted that Nesta wasn’t allowed to step in and run things like she might have.

One of the spiraling towers had crumbled in a particularly vicious storm, taking the entirety of the east wing with it. Curling vines had pulled more stone back to the earth, as if the world was physically taking back what had been stolen. In the silvery moonlight, Feyre half thought the entire place looked abandoned. A fairytale she’d accidentally stumbled on, one that she ought to leave alone.

She turned back to the dark landscape, forcing one foot in front of the other. She was shaking with fear by the time she reached the very edge of the cliffside. Beneath her, the inky ocean churned with a ferocity that nearly sent her running back inside, tail tucked between her legs. She didn’t want this.

She didn’t want to be married, either. If Tamlin learned she’d come out here, he’d put guards on her at night like he did during the day.

Still, Feyre didn’t think she could go through with it. She stood there, toes hanging off the edge of the cliff, and just watched the water crash towards her—taunting her. Moonlight reflected silver over the surface, creating shimmering bands of violet just beneath the foam. The wind whipped around her, blanketing her gently.

As if promising whatever was waiting at the bottom of the sea would be gentle. Kind. Feyre lifted her foot, took a deep breath, and before she could truly consider the utter insanity of her plan–or the fact that at her core, she liked being alive, she flung herself into the night air. For one blissful moment, Feyre felt free. Like she was flying, weightless in a world so hell-bent on beating her into the dirt.

And then she hit the water, and all her good sense, along with her self-preservation, came screaming back.

What are you doing?! Her mind demanded as her body tumbled in the water, locked up from the shock of cold. The world might be warming, but the water sure hadn’t. Feyre didn’t mean to gasp, and thus flood her lungs with the burning sting of salt water—her body was merely operating on instinct.

And her instincts were apparently very stupid. She tried to open her eyes, which only served to terrify her further. There was nothing to look at, which made her imagine the worst sort of lurking monsters. Had she wished to be that drowned princess to the west?

Stupid.

Feyre struggled for the surface, bounced back and forth by water that no longer felt playful. Feyre’s body was dying and unlike her hope that perhaps it might be easy or kind, it was in fact painful—torture. She flailed, desperate for even a breath of air, when something smooth slid over her bare leg.

She twisted in the water, wondering if she’d floated down so far she was now at the seabed, trapped in a tangle of weeds. The lack of light was disorienting, and the need for air was choking the rest of her good sense. Feyre kicked at whatever slithered up her leg. If some fish meant to make a meal of her, it would have to wait until she was well and truly dead.

Her sluggish brain forced another breath from her, sucking in more water she couldn’t expel. Feyre blinked against the salt, her vision spotting. She swore it was hands circling her ribs, that it was a cold chest she was being cradled against. The last vestiges of a frightened brain look for meaning, she decided, because when she opened her eyes, it was a dark tentacle wrapped over her middle, pulling her through the water.

Feyre was grateful for unconsciousness.

She slipped in and out. She had the vaguest sense of water being expelled from her lungs while a voice, rich like the night around her, murmured, that’s a good girl. And she thought, once, she blinked open her eyes to find herself staring at a pair of twinkling violet stars, only to lose focus and slip back into sweet, blissful nothing.

Feyre dreamt of a truly beautiful face. Golden brown skin and hair so black it gleamed blue in the moonlight. A sensual mouth pulled upwards with a graceful smile, his well-groomed, dark brows raised into his wet hair.

“There you are,” she dreamt, his long, sturdy fingers brushing hair from her face. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She knew he didn’t exist because that man, for all his broad shoulders, sculpted torso, and bulging biceps, was made of tentacles at his tapering waist. And when Feyre actually woke to a mouthful of sand and a cheerful spring sun beating down on her, she exhaled a sigh of relief he wasn’t real. That the last dreamt words—I’ll be back for you—were merely a figment of her exhausted imagination.

Feyre picked herself up and plodded back home–there was no hiding what she’d tried to do. Her nightdress was torn and soaked through, her body a tangled mass of sand and ocean debris. Her father’s fury had nothing on the quiet anger radiating from Tamlin. He took her into the study he’d been using and promptly flung a chair across the room while quietly insinuating to her if she ever resorted to such antics again, perhaps it wouldn’t be a chair he threw.

Feyre spent the rest of her day in the bathtub, soaking in hot water until her skin was shriveled and the cold and salt had finally leeched itself from her bones. Feyre fell asleep that night, indulging in a fantasy that there really was a man, and he would do exactly as he promised.

That he’d come back.

In truth, Feyre would have taken any savior over what she currently had. She wanted her sisters or at least a father who wasn’t so motivated by greed to recognize that his youngest daughter had flung herself off a cliff to avoid this terrible marriage he refused to undo. Her father, while not an outright violent man, was a coward. He could solve his problems and only had to sacrifice one daughter to do it.

Feyre forced herself down the next morning in a conciliatory dress of sea foam green. She’d left her golden brown hair in long curls, pulling it off her face with a simple pearl-studded headband. She could get through this. Perhaps, once married, she’d find Tamlin’s home agreeable. He might leave her to her own devices. She could paint if she wanted.

Or run away. That was a different thought, one she kept so private she just barely dared to think about it. Feyre channeled her inner Elain when she stepped into the dining room, dropping ino a graceful curtsey and offering a smile to Tamlin.

Not Tamlin.

Him.

Seated at the far end of the long, wooden table was the man she’d hallucinated. Same dark hair pushed casually off his beautiful face. Same sensual smile, same teasing violet eyes. He was dressed in a black and silver tunic, a match for the circlet set against his brow. He had one long, powerful leg crossed over the other, his fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of his chair.

“My daughter Feyre,” her father said, clearing his throat. Feyre opened her mouth to say they’d met, but the stranger interrupted.

“Fey-ruh,” he said, as though tasting the words in his mouth.

“My betrothed,” Tamlin added, his eyes narrowed to slits. That seemed to amuse this lord, whose eyes never left her face.

Is that so, he seemed to wordlessly taunt.

“Feyre, this is King Rhysand of the Southern Isles,” her father explained with some embarrassment. “He’s staying only for the evening.”

“I was robbed,” he explained as if that made any sense at all. Feyre opened her mouth to call him a liar, but he raised his brows and cocked his head in warning.

Don’t spoil our fun.

“How unfortunate,” she murmured, taking her usual seat beside Tamlin. She didn’t dare look at him again, well aware Tamlin was watching her like a hawk. “Your majesty–”

“Rhysand,” he all but purred. Beside her, Tamlin stiffened, as if he somehow knew they’d met before. “But for you, Feyre darling, call me Rhys.”

She dared to look up at him and instantly regretted it. All at once, her heart sped up, leaping into her throat where it pounded a furious, traitorous beat. A new plan began to take shape in her mind. Perhaps she could beg this stranger to take her with him. To shelter her, at least long enough to find a better plan. One that offered her agency, if nothing else.

Freedom.

Seeking him out was a wholly different matter. After breakfast, Tamlin demanded she escorted him through the gardens, warning her not to get too close to the stranger.

“I’ve never even heard of the Southern Isles,” Tamlin had grumbled, as if his knowledge was all that existed in the world. To Feyre, that only added to the allure of Rhys. Somewhere Tamlin had never heard of? Perhaps it was too far for one of his ships then, too. Maybe Rhys lived somewhere so remote that even in a hundred years, Tamlin would never reach her.

She managed to track him down in the ruined part of the castle. She’d watched him slip behind a door quick as a shadow and followed just behind. She’d ditched Tamlin’s sentries back in the library, who, as far as she knew, still thought she was asleep beneath that heavy blanket.

Rhys was panting as though he’d run a mile, his hand pressed to the damp stone.

“Are you well?” she asked. She turned quickly, some color reblooming on his golden cheeks.

“Perfectly so,” he said, eyes straying towards the glittering amethyst water in the distance.

“Do you swim?” she asked, thinking it might be fun to walk along the same beach she’d washed along two days before. She wanted to ask him something else—did you rescue me?

The teasing smile curved along his lips was answer enough. “Quite well, my lady.” Yes.

“Lord Tamlin says he’s never heard of the Southern Isles,” Feyre continued, wondering how bold she could be.

Hand still planted along the stone, Rhys turned to face her. “Why were you in the water the other night, darling?”

No pretending, then. Feyre sucked a breath in through her teeth and decided to lie, lest he think she was insane. “I slipped.”

His eyes flashed. “Oh? Off a cliff?”

“It was windy—”

“It was not,” he interrupted, not moving from his post. He seemed to be glued to the wall, revealing the whites of his knuckles. Feyre thought the rigid way he held his body betrayed his silent suffering of pain. As if it were agony standing there talking to her.

“Do you know what I think?” he whispered, rooting her to place among the ruined wing of the estate. Feyre was held captive by his gaze, as though he’d wrapped a string about her neck whose very presence bound them in some deep, interlocking way. “I think you jumped to escape your marriage.”

She shook her head, but he knew what a liar she was. “I didn’t,” she whispered.

“No,” he conceded, some soft breath of air escaping him. “An accident, then.”

Feyre was trembling when he looked away, releasing her from whatever spell he’d wound. She almost collapsed to the ground abandoning her plan to ask him for help. Feyre turned her back to him, though it made the hair on her neck stand upwards. She paced to the door, halting when she touched the cool, silver handle.

“Were there tattoos on your chest?” she asked, blinking at the memory of him without a shirt…of a creeping, violet-black tentacle caressing her cheek. “Did you—”

Feyre looked over her shoulder, but Rhys was gone.

Dinner was odious—it was clear Tamlin meant to one-up Rhys at every turn, who only seemed amused by their little game. Feyre pushed the food around her plate, feeling very much like a pawn caught in the middle of a game she did not understand. Every time Feyre closed her eyes, she saw Rhys looking down at her and whenever she opened them, she saw Tamlin watching her. There was no escape, not when the golden prince followed her to her bedroom and pressed a hand against the door.

“What is the point of waiting?” he began, but Feyre merely snapped it shut in his face. The point was, she almost said, that she was tired. Feyre changed into a thin nightdress, discarded her headband, and crawled into bed. Outside her window, she could hear the sea crashing and, distantly, a melodic call beckoning her to join. The music—whatever it was—made her restless.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she did jerk awake in a panic. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, revealing her soon-to-be husband standing just beside them, peering out at the ocean with a moody expression.

“Tamlin?” she asked, understanding what frightened her. He was forbidden from her chambers until the day they were wed and was, currently, trespassing in forbidden space.

“The Lord is still here,” Tamlin told her, as if they were united in their hatred of him. Feyre was more intrigued, though she didn’t dare admit that. Instead, she pulled her covers up to her chin, hiding any part of her form from him. “He wants to take your father's court out for a swim. Apparently, he has access to great wealth and a large ship—all of which arrived in the dead of night.”

“That’s lucky for him, then,” Feyre commented, wishing Tamlin would leave. It was as if he didn’t realize how uncomfortable he’d made her, or had any sense this intrusion was not welcome.

He continued to stare, color creeping up his neck.

“He wants to repay your father for his generosity.”

Feyre’s patience reached her limit. “So?”

Tamlin finally turned to look at her, eyes blazing. “So, I have never heard of a monarch ruling so far south, first of all. He overstays his welcome, showering the palace with gifts–”

“We need the help,” Feyre interrupted, frustrated by Tamlin’s lack of gratitude. “If he wants to pour gold into fathers coffers, that only spares you a later expense.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well. You should dress for his boat. Your father insists we spend the afternoon there.”

Feyre offered him a saccharine smile. “As you say.”

Tamlin swept from the room furiously, unaware that Feyre still intended to align herself with this strange, foreign prince. If he so easily angered Tamlin, she thought it was all the better. Feyre dressed in a buttery rose-colored dress, with fluttering sleeves. She left her hair unwound around her face, devoid of pins or a headband to keep it from blowing in her face. Feyre would have preferred a simple braid slung over her shoulder, though many women found that stylish to be too childish.

And she wanted to leave just enough of an impression on Rhys that he was willing to shield her, at least for a time. She found him, along with the majority of her father's court, her father himself, and Tamlin, milling about the open dining hall with clear excitement. Several large chests of gold had been hauled in, proving Rhysand was, if nothing else, exactly who he said he was. If this was his show of good faith, no wonder Tamlin was so frustrated.

It was a measuring contest, of which Rhys was winning.

Unlike the other courtiers, Rhys’s dark hair was windswept rather than neatly styled, as if he’d flown on a particularly kind breeze. He’d forgone his elegant tunic for a black shirt half laced over his chest so he could see the whorling ink against his golden brown skin. Tamlin clocked the way Rhys smiled at her, causing Feyre to look away.

She didn’t need any more scrutiny than she already had.

“Are we ready—”

“Feyre hasn’t eaten,” Rhysand interrupted her father, nodding towards a table already picked apart by greedy fingers.

More disapproving frowns kept her from accepting the chair he’d pulled out. “I’m fine.”

“She eats like a bird,” her father agreed while Tamlin nodded fervently. Feyre’s eyes slid back to Rhys, letting him see the defiance flash, if only for a moment. He swiped a croissant from the table and, striding towards her, put it in her hand.

“I’ve never met a woman who ate that delicately,” he replied, his eyes wholly on her face. Feyre swallowed, noting the pastry was filled with heavy chocolate. “A day on the water will suck the life right out of you if you’re not careful.”

Something about his words felt distinctly like a promise.

The ship was large enough to keep Feyre far away from Tamlin, though she noticed in the wake of the breakfast debacle, he continued to try and feed her—or otherwise ply her with sweet wine that made her headache under the increasingly hot summer sun. While they all remained mostly indoors on the rocking yacht, Feyre made her way towards the edge of the ship where she could sit on a railing and dip her legs into the crystalline water. It was warmer in comparison to the night she’d jumped.

Calmer, too.

A splash on the side of the ship revealed Rhys had convinced several younger courtiers to hop into the water with him. He was close enough that she could see the gleaming droplets on his skin, but not so close she could hear the murmuring conversation. He saw her, grinning like a rogue and waving a hand before reclining backward. Shirtless, his hair flopping in his face, and utterly beautiful.

He was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life.

She turned her attention back to the vast expanse of sea, wondering where he came from. Would he take her with her when she went to him that evening and begged? Or would he scoff, unwilling to start an incident with a new ally? She wanted to believe the gold was more than a gesture of friendship and knew too well that men did not pay bride prices.

Her father had already given everything they had to Tamlin. He could only return the gift Rhysand had given, were Rhys ever interested. Feyre kicked her legs into the water sullenly, her dress floating like sea flowers around her. Sighing, she wondered if she couldn’t convince one of the serving staff to row her back to the distant shore.

Something cool drifted over her skin, eliciting a panicked shriek as she pulled back. Seaweed, she told her pounding heart when her foot came back to the surface unharmed. Feyre forced her foot back into the warmth where once again, the tangled weeds slid over her shin.

Teasing. She swore there was a method to the rocking madness, something too firm to be plant life. Peering into the water, Feyre thought maybe it was a playful school of fish swarming, given the way little mouths seemed to kiss over her skin. She kept herself still—even when she thought what was lurking just below seemed more like a moving shadow than anything distinctly animal.

Something she’d seen, hazy, once before.

Her eyes drifted to where Rhysand floated lazily with a ring of other men, his eyes burning like starlight as he watched her right back. He’d drifted closer, his lower half utterly invisible in the gentle waves.

Up, up, up, the sucking touch went, until whatever it was had breached the water entirely to continue gliding over her thigh. Feyre was panting, her heart racing. She reached for the hem of her dress, earning a soft slap against her leg and Rhys shaking his head almost indiscernible. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but more of those thick, prodding arms had wrapped around her ankles, tugging her into the water with a friendly splash.

Feyre went under for a moment, eyes blurred against the stinging salt water. It wasn’t a school of fish or seaweed, but a large, splintered tail, wholly attached to the shirtless Rhysand just above.

She twisted, fingers gripping the edge of the boat to haul her face back to safety.

The tentacles of his tail kept her from doing so, though he did let her rest her chest on the wood, cheek pressed into the grain. He was exploring her with abject curiosity, tugging at her underclothes until they vanished deep into the inky abyss.

“Did you fall, darling?” her father called from a higher deck. Tamlin, just beside him, held a goblet of that sickly sweet wine in his hand. His mouth was pulled with disapproval, eyes very much demanding she get back on the boat. Feyre lowered herself back to the water, ignoring the way the smooth appendage rubbed appreciatively between her thighs, as if to say very good girl.

“I’m enjoying the water!” she called back, now braced only on her elbows. Another rub nearly made her moan—it certainly made her gasp.

Tamlin kept his eyes on her even after her father stepped away. “Get out,” he hissed, which only served to inflame her. Feyre parted her now bare body in the water, not that Tamlin could see. She would deny him this–the expectation of having her first. Even if whatever she was currently yielding to was hardly human, and certainly going to damn her in some way.

Feyre slipped an inch in Rhysand’s excitement. He tugged, drawing his own body closer without arousing Tamlin’s suspicion, as though he couldn’t help himself. Perversely, Feyre wanted to feel his hands on her skin, too. His lips, his mouth—all of him as he finished what he’d begun just under her father and Tamlin’s nose.

The warm water met the cool tentacle of Rhys’s tail drawing a shiver down her spine. Feyre was breathing heavily, fingers gripping the edge of the boat as he pushed closer to the nub of flesh just between her legs. She’d only ever dared to touch herself there in the middle of the night, fingers hidden beneath layers and layers of blankets.

It was so open, so brazen when she felt the soft suck. The water lubricated the gesture, drawing hot arousal into her throat. And still, Feyre did not take her eyes off Tamlin, who was trying to intimidate her into bending to his will.

Another gentle flick had her rolling her hips in time with the gentle waves, urging him to keep going. He spread her open obscenely, pulling her knees upwards while arching her spine ever so slightly. Feyre’s eyes fluttered shut as if she were merely warming her skin against the sun.

“That’s it,” she heard Rhys whisper. Her eyes flew open to find Tamlin was gone, along with the men he’d been swimming with. They were alone, unwatched in the water and he was touching her. With both hands on her shoulders, he drew her against his bare chest as he continued to tease and stroke, the feel of him both immensely wrong and utterly right.

His lips ghosted over her shoulder as something else prodded at her open cunt. She squirmed, but Rhys whispered softly, “It’s only my tail, darling.”

“You…” she didn’t know what she was trying to say. Feyre ground her body against him, wishing she could turn and fully look at him. More of those curling arms were tugging at her breasts, exposing them beneath the water while he poked and touched. Rhys’s breath was warm against her neck, nosing her skin just behind her ear.

“Me,” he agreed, his actual hands ripping open her dress. “Have you figured it out, darling? Do you understand?”

Feyre didn’t—and she didn’t care. Instead, Feyre tipped her head backward, exposing her neck as she stared upwards at a cloudless sky. His fingers grasped her now freed breasts, teasing her nipples as another tentacled arm wrapped itself gently around her waist and yet another wound itself against her throat.

“You’re mine,” he nipped at her ear, teeth sharp against sensitive skin. “I’m not leaving without you. I know you want to ask me to take you away. Ask. Ask me, Feyre, darling.”

“Rhys,” she panted, the sound muffled by her own sense of propriety. At any moment Tamlin might return to the deck, might look below and find her losing herself to mindless pleasure, held in a monster's arms.

“Ask,” he ordered, one of the tentacles teasing at her cunt pushing itself inch by inch into her body. Feyre gasped, writhing against the cool intrusion suddenly filling her. She couldn’t think straight, not when so many sensations were pulling her attention. Another of those long arms rubbed at her backside, as if it were preparing her for something else.

Her urge was to tense herself, to push him back and squirm away, even as her blood practically boiled beneath his ministrations.

“Relax,” he murmured, his hands massaging her breasts while he angled her back. Ferye was practically floating against him, her fingers pulled from the boat. They were adrift on the current like weeds, unnoticed by the world around them. She wondered how he’d managed it and decided, when that sucking tentacle was replaced by one of his fingers at her clit, that she didn’t care.

“Ask me,” he whispered again, the prodding tentacle against her ass pushing a mere inch. Ferye moaned, unable to help herself. Feyre rocked, chasing more of the friction. Relaxing helped, along with the warm water and his expert touch. Rhys’s fingers were making Feyre stupid, convincing her that maybe she wanted more than just to escape with him.

“Take me away,” she replied, turning her head to face him. Dark slits against his golden brown skin betrayed gills, her eyes adjusting the true sight of him. His violet eyes seemed darker, more ominous—built to see through the piercing black of the water, so deep not even light could penetrate. Arched ears glistened in the warm sunlight, half hidden under the blue-black of his hair.

There was no hiding what he was. Not below, not above. Rhys pushed further into her body working her from all angles with more appendages than he should have had available to him. She moaned again.

“I should have the night I found you,” he panted, his voice strained. “Should never have sent you back, my pretty, perfect Feyre.”

Feyre moaned again, losing herself entirely. Pleasure was pooling like a bright, burning star in her gut. She was going to finish around a monster's tentacles, on his hand, bound in his arms. She should have screamed—should have demanded he stop.

“Why did you?”

His teeth grazed her shoulder. “I wanted to know who drove you over that cliff. I wanted to know who I had to punish for hurting my mate.”

The word mate ripped through her at the same moment her orgasm did. Feyre might have screamed if Rhys hadn’t yanked her fully into the water, filling her lungs with salt to avoid being detected. He rode her through it, the pumping tentacles reaching a fevered pitch. His excitement was apparent if his own furious heart pulsating against her back was evidence.

Feyre twisted in his arms to look at him as he actually was, stunned by the sheer size of his body. Rhys was large, a creature that seemed as if it couldn’t go as unnoticed as he presumably had. His carved, muscular body tapered into the midnight black tail at his waist covered in shimmering scales glinting blue in the shifting water just overhead before they splintered into eight curling tentacles, some of which were still buried in her body.

Feyre, ignoring the way she was still convulsing around him, reached out a tentative hand and touched his chest. Just to see if he was real.

His eyes rolled upwards. “I’m going to devour you,” he told her with a clear, melodic voice. Feyre wanted to respond, wanted to breathe. She twisted against him, freed from the arms and tentacles holding her. Rhys let her break the surface, though he remained just below, still buried to the gills inside her.

“Ferye!” Tamlin’s voice drew her attention back to the boat which had become smaller in the distance. “Are you okay?” She wasn’t. She could feel Rhys’s mouth sliding down her spine as he pulled apart her still-shaking legs. Devour her, he’d said. She turned to look but he held her in place so only her neck and face were readily available.

Feyre could see what Tamlin surely could, floating like a lilypad between the boat and her body. Her tattered, ruined dress bounced against gentle waves, the focus of Tamlin’s pine-green gaze.

“I…”

A warm tongue slid between her thighs as playful tentacles began gently thrusting back into her. How was she supposed to speak when she could barely think?

“I—” Rhys’s tongue licked a stripe through her still-aching folds, swirling over her clit. Feyre squealed, swearing she heard rumbling laughter just beneath.

“What happened?” he called, and Feyre wished he’d stop talking. She slid her fingers through the floating, silken hair of the male beneath her, urging him not to stop. Not that she thought he would. It was clear he was getting some perverse pleasure from her circumstances, from everyone's panic as they tried to figure out how she’d managed to float unnoticed from his own ship for so long.

Feyre ground her cunt against his face. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, release gathering along her spine. She was going to come again, and again if he willed it. Tamlin couldn’t see, even as he crouched at the edge of Rhys’s ship, growing smaller and smaller with each frantic pass of Rhys’s tongue.

He pushed himself into her with a groan that sounded like thunder. Overhead, clouds had begun to form and the water became choppier, drawing her further from Tamlin even as the boat worked to reach her. She watched through a half-lidded gaze when he scooped up her dress, holding it up to see the shredded seams.

“Rhys,” she panted, her voice lost in the warm wind. “Rhys, please—”

His lips sucked while he fucked, stretching Feyre to the point of insanity. With the flat of his tongue unrelenting as he rubbed, Feyre came with a violent scream of pleasure. It was an unmistakable sound, one she knew Rhys could have silenced sooner than he did. He wanted Tamlin to know, wanted whatever suspicions her ill-gotten fiance imagined to be confirmed before he yanked her under.

Sharp teeth sank into the side her necks as the tentacles in her body receded, leaving Feyre momentarily bereft—and then panicked. She struggled, realizing he might actually eat her and what he’d done between her legs was merely a prelude to the violence.

Tentacles and strong arms pinned her against his chest, holding her utterly still while the blooming maroon of her blood darkened the water just overhead. Feyre swore she heard yelling on the surface, drowned by the crashing of thunder and a streaking bolt of lightning.

“Breathe,” Rhys ordered, his voice ripping through her like a golden cord. The world was sharpening, coming into focus for the first time in her life. Feyre, with burning lungs, had no choice but to do as he said and hope this wasn’t a terrible trick. She inhaled, ignoring the stabbing at her neck and the pulling of her ribs.

Air—glorious and warm—flooded through her in a rush. Rhys’s body relaxed, his hold loosening. “That’s it,” he praised, kissing just behind her ear. “You’re doing so well. Deep breaths.”

“You…” Feyre twisted, not to escape him, even as he pulled her further from the choppy, roiling surface. “Did you plan this?”

“Yes.” He offered her a sensual smile, one wholly devoid of shame or apology. “I told you–I returned you only to learn who had harmed you.”

“And do you know?” she asked, winding her arms around his neck, bringing their faces closer. She could kiss him like this, if she wanted—and Feyre very much wanted to. Rhys nuzzled his nose against hers, lips parted.

“Yes,” he breathed, bubbles floating from his mouth. “I intend to make them suffer as you would have, had I not been there when you jumped.” He slanted himself against her, holding her as his tentacles rose overhead, terrifying and large like corporeal shadows. Feyre closed her eyes and clung to him, wrapping her bare legs against his waist not to keep her steady, but to keep her close.

She understood, at that moment, why the boat had been so important. Why he’d come looking that day, wasting his time getting to know her father, her fiance? As wood splintered over them, echoing even in the violet swirling water, Feyre knew it had only ever been a ruse to lure them away from the palace where a storm blowing through would cover the truth of his fury. Waves crashed overhead, though they remained just as they were, floating safely just out of reach.

“Did you know?” she asked, still kissing him everywhere she could reach. Rhys seemed to vibrate with boundless fury, his face tilted towards the surface. “About the storm?”

“I am the storm, my wife,” Rhys replied, his voice rich like the now night sky around them. “I never lied when I said I was the King of the Southern Isles—those islands, and the water, their shores, their sand—all of it—belongs to me.”

She could feel the whirling current, dragging the ship and everyone who’d been aboard further and further into the abyss—he hid the worst of the violence from her, pinning her with his starlit gaze.

“I was always going to take you with me. Leave the gold for your sisters. ”

“How did you end up here?” she asked, caressing his beautiful, terrifying face. “How did you find me?”

“I have been looking for you,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers again. More of the tentacles of his tail slid around her waist, stroking against her skin lazily. “Your life is tied to mine by a string—you can feel it, can’t you?”

Feyre pulled at the muscle in her chest, the cord she’d felt when he’d sunk his teeth into her neck to change her with whatever strange magic he governed. Rhys groaned, sending more bubbles to the heavens. He was dragging her further and further out into the open ocean, the only light his own eyes. She could still see the violent churn of the ship he’d ripped apart, sinking in pieces to the depthless fathoms.

Feyrw turned her head, hiding it from view.

That could have been me, she thought with no small amount of horror. Because she would have jumped again. Had she been forced to go through with the marriage, Feyre would have flung herself off the cliffside a second time, determined to make it stick. No regrets, no last-minute attempts to live.

“You found me,” she said instead, pushing the blue-black strands of hair from his face. His smile softened, chasing the shadowed fears from his eyes.

“I found you,” he repeated, the words echoing through the new, aquatic world around them. “And I intend to keep you.” Rhys took her wrists in his large hands, braceleting them as he ran her fingers down his broad, sculpted chest. Down, down, down, until she was touching the cool, unbroken scales on his tail. Something seamed was pulling apart, and when she turned to look, Feyre understood that Rhys, for being a monster, was put together much like a regular man.

If regular men had two cocks one atop the other. He was achingly erect, the first much thicker than the second, though both were strangely tapered just at the end. Ferye had the sense that Rhys, with his tentacles, had been preparing her for something.

Now she knew.

Their eyes met for only a moment. His chest rose and fell with his anxiety, waiting for the moment she’d finally rebuke him. Feyre drank him in, the writhing mass of dark shadow trailing around him, still holding her casually—she could have pushed away. Feyre thought he’d let her go if she wanted.

She wrapped her fingers around the first, tugging experimentally. Rhys gasped, eyes widening with clear and obvious surprise.

“Be gentle,” she said, the words pressed to his mouth.

“Whatever you command,” he replied, his words coming in short, panting bursts.

Feyre tugged at the strands of his hair, ripping to bring them closer. The slide of their slick bodies shoved her hand off his cock which was just as well. She wanted to touch him, wanted to know every groove, every contour of his body just as thoroughly as he was coming to know her own.

He moaned, the sound of music in the churning silence around them. They were alone in the inky sea, floating just beneath a storm of his design. Feyre clung to him, tasting the inside of his mouth when his lips parted, allowing her to sweep inside. Every inch of him was decadent, seemed made specifically for her.

She swore he tasted like citrus and salt, like the sea made tangible. She rubbed herself against his cock, slick even in water.

“Will I–” he captured her lips, one hand on the back of her neck, the other kneading at her ass. She spread her legs without realizing what she was doing, giving in to the instinct of wanting—no, needing—more of him. “Will I have a tail, too?”

He groaned. “I’m told it takes some time, but yes.” He made it sound as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to see her take scales, just as he had. “You’ll be able to move far freer on land than I will.”

“Why would I ever want—Rhys, Gods—” he punctuated her question with a push of both cocks into twin holes, making a compelling argument for why there were two. Forehead to forehead, the two did nothing but breathe while he worked himself inside her. Rhys’s fingers dug into the bone of her hips, gently pulling her onto him while one of his tentacled arms snaked over her shoulder, wrapping carefully about her throat.

It wasn’t like before—that stretch had nothing on the strange, throbbing cock now pushing inch by inch into her willing, wet cunt. Fully seated, Feyre squeezed tightly around him, looking for any room to breathe. Rhys merely panted, kissing and quietly begging some god she’d never heard of for mercy.

“Is it okay?” she asked when he kept himself there, letting her warm him with her body when all she really wanted was for him to move.

“Fuck—Feyre, your body, I—”

His words choked into an intelligible moan, hips rocking slowly, still letting her acclimate to being filled as she was. She was used to it, stretched to absolute capacity and burning beneath the sensation. Feyre felt like a comet caught in his gravity, pulled home without ever knowing that was what she’d been looking for.

“More,” she pleaded when it was clear he meant to ease her into him until she died. “Rhys, please—”

His mouth bruised against her. “You don’t have to beg. Not me. Not for anything,” he growled, teeth nipping at her neck. More tentacles wrapped around her arms, inclining her until she was angled just enough for him to fuck himself into her. Fingers spanning her ribcage, Rhys drove relentlessly, like the monster she’d once thought she was.

Brutal, pounding force was the only threat of drowning Feyre faced, even beneath the volatile waves. There was a strange beauty to the violence, both lurking in her chest and crashing overhead. All of it was punctuated by him, controlling the world like a vengeful, unforgiving God.

But to her–and perhaps only to her—his touch was loving. Gentle. Hard only because she’d asked him not to hold himself back. Unleashed, Rhys was magnificent, his hair floating around his glorious face, and when another tentacled arm of his tail slid over her taut stomach to rub at her clit, Feyre thought she’d never wanted anything or anyone more.

Feyre came with a scream she thought overpowered the raging storm, her body clamping hard against his cocks. Rhys pushed, stretching the ringed muscle of her ass and cunt to the point of pain, as though he was trying to fuse their flesh and make them one. Hips jerking, she felt him come, spending himself with a whimpering jerk.

All at once, he released her, pulling her against his chest as he slipped out of her body. The water washed away the worst of their sins, and the absence of him left Feyre strangely bereft. For a moment she clung to him, focusing on nothing but pushing air in and out of her lungs.

His hands slid up her bare spine.

“What now?” she asked him, inclining her head to look at him.

Rhys stroked her cheek. “Now we go home.”

#do i tag this?#like more than it already is?#you know what i trust the feysand girlies #feysand #DONT MAKE ME REGRET IT

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