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myocsfanfictions · 9 days ago

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Under the Devil’s Eye

MASTERLIST

Selethryth, a young lady with strange eyes and prophetic dreams, is both feared and revered in King Ecbert's court. Though he sees her as a powerful tool for his ambitions, it is Ivar, the brutal and unpredictable son of Ragnar, who is drawn to her. As their fates collide, Selethryth finds herself entangled in a dangerous game where her gifts may lead her into the arms of darkness.

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Chapter 2

Selethryth felt utterly exhausted, as if her body had been forged from lead. Ever since the night she dreamt of the raven, sleep had become her enemy. Every time she closed her eyes, the nightmare returned—always the same. The vision of the bird, flying alone in the darkened sky, tired and abandoned. Then the serpent, coiling around the raven and swallowing it whole, its death slow and inevitable. And after, the earth trembling beneath her, decaying and foul, while a dark figure appeared in the shadows, familiar blue eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. The sea—the sea that devoured men and castles alike. And always, always, she was powerless, a silent witness the doom around her.

Each dream left her heart heavy, suffocated, as if a dark force had wrapped around her chest and was ready to crush her at any moment.

The King had grown restless after hearing about the raven, and since then, he summoned her every morning to ask what she had dreamt the night before. It was the only topic of conversation between them these days.

"Why do you keep pushing her to speak of this curse?" Her mother's voice broke the silence one night, trembling and low, as if she feared being overheard.

"The king has asked," her father replied quietly but tensely. "Who am I to deny him?"

"That man is a sinner. A dangerous, mad man," Lady Oswyth retorted, bitterness heavy in her voice, but also fear.

"Don't speak like that!" Lord Godric's voice was sharp, almost a whisper, but there was an unmistakable fear in it. "If the king hears—"

"If the king hears, it makes no difference," her mother whispered back. "We're already lost." She paused, her tone breaking. "But he doesn't see what I see. He doesn't understand the sign in her eyes... what she is."

"And the king doesn't want us to intervene. There will be no exorcism for her," her father said, trying to end the conversation, though his frustration was clear.

Oswyth sighed, her voice cracking. "You are condemning your daughter's soul for your own ambitions, Godric."

"Her soul has been lost since the day she was born!" Her father's words were harsh, like an old wound reopened. The anger was raw. "We knew it! She nearly killed you when you gave birth to her! And after her, you couldn't give me another child. We've always known, Oswyth!" His voice trembled with bitterness. "I thought we were cursed because of her. But the king... the king sees something else. And we've risen, like my father never could. I won't let anything ruin that."

Selethryth remained silent, hidden behind the ajar wooden door, shrouded in the darkness of her chamber. Her eyes lowered, and her heart ached as the cruel words pierced her. She had always known the truth of her birth—that she was the reason her mother had been unable to bear more children. The moment they had seen her eyes, they had known it was her fault. And now, hearing her father speak of it so openly, the weight of her existence pressed down on her, heavier than ever.

She slid down onto the cold floor, drawing her knees close to her chest, struggling to keep the sobs trapped within her. She could not allow herself to be heard, not even a sigh, as silent tears welled in her eyes. She didn't understand what she had done to deserve this. What had she done wrong? How had she offended the Lord, for Him to bring so much pain and dishonor to her family?

Selethryth had always tried to be a good Christian—going to church, learning everything that a noble lady was supposed to know—but none of it mattered. To them, she would always be a sinner. Always to blame. And there was nothing she could do to change their minds. To everyone, she would forever be a witch.

This pained her heart gravely.

"You're so quiet, child." Judith's voice broke through the silence, making Selethryth look up from her book. The lady was painting with careful hands, recreating a scene from the sacred scriptures. It was something Judith loved to do, though it was considered inappropriate for a lady—an indulgence that, by her position as the King's mistress, she was free to pursue. Women of her standing had the freedom to do things that others could not, like drawing or reading.

"Forgive me for not being good company, my lady," Selethryth apologized, her voice barely above a whisper. But Judith turned to her with softness in her eyes—eyes that no one else ever showed her. She was the only one who ever looked at her like that.

Selethryth still remembered when Judith had first feared her, when she had been labeled a witch—an accusation that had followed her like a shadow. But it didn't take long for Judith to grow fond of her, to see beyond the rumors and the fear. For Selethryth's mother, this was fitting. Judith, after all, was a woman with many flaws, living openly in her sins. To Oswyth, it made sense that she would not have ill thoughts about her daughter.

"Nonsense, Selethryth. You're always good company," Judith said gently, her gaze soft as she observed the young lady, who, after a long pause, found the strength to smile. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked again, her brush never faltering as she continued painting.

Selethryth hesitated. She wanted to confide in Judith; she felt that the woman was the only one who might truly understand her. Judith had been the one to push her to read and study, to learn things she was never supposed to. And whenever someone spoke ill of her, it was Judith who had defended her without hesitation. But Judith was too close to the King for Selethryth to be completely honest with her. She could never speak of what had been said in her family's chamber, nor could she risk the royal family thinking her ungrateful. So, with a quiet breath, she decided to change the subject.

"I was reading about the Vikings," Selethryth said, her gaze dropping to the book in her hands.

"Vikings?" Judith asked with a curious tilt of her head. "What made them so interesting to you?"

"Magnus says he's the son of Ragnar Lothbrok," Selethryth replied, her voice soft.

Magnus, the son of the late Queen Kwenthrith, had been fathered by Ragnar Lothbrok during the war for Mercia. The very fact of his parentage had been the only reason Ecbert had agreed to raise him as his own.

"You've met him, haven't you?" Selethryth asked, her curiosity piqued. She saw Judith's expression shift to one of quiet nostalgia, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"You know I have," Judith replied, her voice tinged with something unreadable, though her smile was warm.

Selethryth, worried she had overstepped, realized the question had likely seemed unnecessary, considering Alfred's father had been one of Ragnar's most trusted companions.

"Was he truly as impressive as the stories say?" Selethryth asked, her voice full of wonder. She had read so much about the Vikings—their fierceness, their legends—and yet it was hard to believe such men existed outside of myth.

Judith nodded slowly, her eyes distant for a moment. "All of it is true," she said, her voice low and reverent. "He was an impressive warrior... with an even more impressive mind."

Then something on the page caught Selethryth's attention. She leaned in closer, her fingers tracing the edge of an illustration—a man, with a raven on his chest. She frowned, the image feeling oddly familiar. She turned the page back, her fingers trembling slightly, and found the same drawing, the same raven.

"Why a raven?" she muttered under her breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the image.

Judith, having noticed Selethryth's intense focus, hummed in curiosity and leaned in to see the drawing.

"You're looking at Ragnar," Judith said softly, almost as if speaking of an old friend. "The raven was his sigil."

Selethryth's breath caught in her throat as her gaze moved from Judith back to the drawing.

A raven...

She kept repeating to herself, It's just a drawing. There was no reason to think of it as anything more than what it was. She had dreamt of a bird dying. Nothing more. But she couldn't shake that strange feeling—like the image made sense. As if she were meant to look at it. But why would that be true?

She had never cared about Ragnar Lothbrok, why did she feel such a strong connection to that figure now?

She had never believed Ecbert's words. She had never believed that she had been blessed with prophetic dreams. They were just dreams, read by others, their meaning always coming later. Like with the first dream she had told him.

She had dreamt of a woman with black hair and a crown on her head, but suddenly the crown turned to ashes and the ground beneath her crawled away, as if it wanted to escape from her. But then, the same earth formed a bridge that led to King Ecbert, wearing an even bigger crown than the one he already wore. Both the people around him and those on the other side of the bridge bowed to him.

It held no meaning to her. There was no way she could have ever truly believed that the King would interpret this dream as a sign of his kingdom growing. But he did. And it happened again, and again. Every dream she shared seemed to follow a chance for Ecbert to expand his lands. And now, he ruled over the largest kingdom in England.

She had never wanted to believe that she had prophetic dreams. And she didn't want to believe it now. If she did, then the Devil really was her lover, and she didn't have a soul.

That thought terrified her. Was her destiny to be a dark creature? An empty one, causing pain and despair? Did she really have no soul? What would become of her when death came? Was she condemned to Hell?

But I have done nothing, she kept repeating to herself. She always did what her family expected of her, what the Lord had taught them to learn. She had done nothing to be hated like this.

And yet, that raven... that raven had scared her. The feeling it left behind terrified her even more.

"Why are you looking so pensive?" Eadgifu's voice made her look up from her needlework. Her sister was having her new dress fixed by the hands of Hilda. It was a gown of pale pink that matched perfectly with her sister's skin. On Eadgifu's face there was an excited smile as she observed herself in the mirror. "Are you worried about the feast of tomorrow night?"

Selethryth found herself smiling bitterly. She really wished that her mind could fix on those things, pretty dresses and feasts to meet suitors, but her mind kept coming back to the raven. The sadness that she felt in her dream, and the fear she had felt during the entire day.

"There's no reason to," Selethryth answered, meeting her sister's gaze through the glass, "You, however, must be excited."

Eadgifu's smile grew larger, "Mother said I'm ready to wed." She said with a dreamy expression. Marriage had always been her sister's greatest dream as they grew up.

"I'm sure you'll find an honorable man," Selethryth's words were enough to make Hilda look at her with unspoken fear. But Eadgifu didn't notice, as she giggled again.

"And handsome as well, I hope," she said before turning to Selethryth. "You could meet someone as well," Eadgifu insisted, but Selethryth looked down at her needlework again, with a little shake of her head.

"Only the Lord knows what plans He has for me," she said, folding the needle between her fingers. "For now, I must wait until He speaks through Father's mouth."

Eadgifu regarded her with a sad look, "Father knows that you'll have to wed, it is a woman's duty." Selethryth would have liked to ask her if it was the Witch of Wessex's duty as well. But she decided against it. Smiling at her sister to keep on with her needlework.

She was in the right age to marry, to be looking for a husband at least. But it was never the time. Lord Godric loved his high position at King Ecbert's court, but his presence was required because Selethryth was there. If she was to marry and leave for her husband's lands, what would become of Lord Godric? He would have to return to his own dark castle, and the king's attentions would be long forgotten. That, of course, if she would ever find a man daring enough to not be scared of superstitions. But Selethryth wasn't sure of it.

That night, her sleep had a form again, vivid as if she were awake.

Selethryth found herself standing at the edge of a vast and frozen lake, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting a stormy sky above. The wind howled through the barren trees at the lake's edge, their branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal hands, clawing at the air. The whole landscape felt dead, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The cold bit deep into her skin, and she shivered, but there was no warmth, no shelter to be found.

In the distance, two figures appeared, walking toward her across the frozen expanse. One was tall, shrouded in shadow, his form hidden beneath a dark cloak, but a raven flew beside him—its wings cutting through the air with a steady, rhythmic beat. The raven's presence felt both ominous and powerful, like a harbinger of change. The figure walked with a slow, deliberate pace, as if burdened by the weight of years, yet still possessing a quiet strength. He was the older figure, the one who had lived through much, but was now nearing the end of his journey.

The second figure was on the ground, but he radiated intensity. He slithered on the floor fast and urgent, almost as though he were driven by an unseen force. He seemed to move with a fury that contrasted sharply with the calmness of the first figure. His eyes, burning like blue fire, glinted with a sharpness that cut through the dim light. There was something in his gaze that was both haunting and intense, as though he had been touched by something beyond this world. His path was not one of peace, but of revenge.

As the figures drew closer, the sky above began to darken. The raven circling the older figure let out a sharp cry, and in an instant, a bolt of lightning struck down from the heavens, splitting the sky in two. The older figure stumbled, his cloak billowing around him, and fell to the ground. A cloud of shadow seemed to rise from the earth, swirling around him, until he was lost within it. The raven disappeared into the night, and the storm that had raged above seemed to swallow him whole.

But then, the second figure—the one with the burning blue eyes—stood tall, his face drawn in a fierce expression of grief and anger. He lifted his arms to the sky, and a great thunderclap followed, shaking the earth beneath her feet. He called out, his voice full of pain and rage, but also a powerful resolve. The sky above him seemed to tremble, as though the very heavens themselves were answering his cry. The storm intensified, lightning flashing with increasing frequency, each strike illuminating his face, now set in a mask of vengeance.

The power of the storm—the grief in his eyes—struck something deep within her, even if she could not quite understand the reason. She wanted to reach out, but the storm raged too fiercely, and the dream began to fade, pulling her back into the dark void. Her eyes shot open, and she realized she had been crying.

******

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peoplesgraves · 6 days ago

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Desmond The Vampire

Yandere monster harem

~meet the characters~

(Picrew didn’t have red eyes so pretend they’re red)

•Like any good 2010’s ya monster movie, you’d meet Desmond next in much a similar fashion as Ayla. After falling asleep on the couch, one of the rare night Ayla was out and not home to carry you to bed or lay on the ground in front of you protectively, you were awoken by a smack against one of the houses almost comically large windows. At first you’d thought it to be a bird but it turns out to be a pretty cute bat. perhaps if you’d been less tired you’d begin to wonder if you were cursed or something and that’s why so many less than normal animals seemed to be falling at your feet…

•The bat, actually a vampire named Des, as he’d requested you call him, was struck by your kindness. Most who had caught a vampire in such a vulnerable position wouldn’t have let them live, never mind invited them in. Even in a town of monsters vampires were considered more monstrous than most. It didn’t matter how many times you (or later Ayla) claimed the only reason you’d taken him in is because you’d thought he was a regular ole bat, he was reverent all the same.

•Des is immediately taken with you, perhaps it’d been the centuries spent alone since his lover from his human days had elected to die instead of becoming like him and how similar you were to his departed love. In a past life he’d respected her decision to control her own fate but it’d been hundreds of years in near solitude without her, he’d changed. He’d swore to keep you near forever at any cost from his very first glance.

•Speaking of becoming a vampire, Des refuses to speak on it. He’ll tell you anything else you wish to know, his life as a human, his life after becoming a vampire, even the actual experience of going from human to vampire but he absolutely refuses to speak about how he became this way and by who. For a nearly indestructible being it seems to be the only thing that still scares him. Well that and the thought of losing the only one who understands him yet again.

•Unlike some other more modern monster he is from a much stricter time. While the thought of putting his coffin in your room or heaven forbid sleeping next to you as the werewolf prefers to do, makes him feel warm and alive. He insists on sleeping in the attic, somewhere he can make completely dark without disturbing you or your life too much. He doesn’t want to force his love on you , he will if he really has to but he’d prefer to court you properly and prove himself worthy of your love and affection.

•Des is not a nice person, he’s been hardened and made cold and cruel by years of scorn from not only humans but his supposed peers to. Of the constant cycle of fear between periods of more silent simmering hate when vampires tried to make peace and outright vampire hunting parties and public burnings when even a single vampire stepped out of line or other started to get threatened by the growing population. He’d survived hundreds of years of these waves, but his humanity largely had not. Truthfully he believed he had none left until meeting you.

•Should you ever offer your own blood to him he’d refuse outright. He’s been a vampire long enough that he can easily control his blood lust and the frenzy that often afflicted younger vampires but he would never take such a chance with something as precious as his love. He’d also never forgive himself if even if it went right that you’d start to fear him, see him as nothing more than a predator. Similarly he’d never let you seem him feed or even covered in any blood. He doesn’t want you to believe he’s only interested in your blood because he really believes that’s the least interesting thing about you. Instead he’d spend as much time as he could listening to you or sitting in content silence just in your presence, anything to just be with you.

#yandere monster harem #yandere vampire #yandere monster #yandere des #Yandere Desmond #yandere #Yandere x reader #Yandere monsters #yandere x darling #Yandere oc’s #yandere x you

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wxnheart · 2 years ago

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Rogal Dorn had nearly been ripped apart.

Now he sat at the bottom of this place. Blood oozing where it hadn't congealed and fighting infection that was rampant here. You heard your chain rattle as you pressed against the bars of his cage. Too small for the massive man, with a narrow hole in the top to toss food down. It was against the bars covering this hole that you knelt against.

"Dorn?" You quietly called out.

The Praetorian's eyes opened. Without moving his head, they swiveled up to look at you.

"You live," He noted.

"You do too." You replied softly. As though speaking too loud would cause him pain.

Perterabo's hand seized your waist. You were flipped up so that you were resting against his shoulder.

"I have her, she is mine." He gloated. A massive finger was under your chin. You turned and instinctively met his kiss with your own. Passionless to his harsh ferocity. "And we are closer than you ever were. In fact,"

To your surprise he put you down and unhooked the chain from your collar.

"You have five minutes to chew him out. Get whatever you need out. I will be outside if you need me. After this, I promise you'll never see him again."

You opened your mouth in surprise. Closed it. "Thank you,"

Perterabo sneered. "You're welcome, love."

The door closed on the cell block with surprising finality.

You spoke first. "He's very vain, isn't he?"

Dorn Harrumphed. "Fulgrim's worse. Perterabo lacks direction. Has he treated you well?"

"Yes my Lord. Seems I'm the only human in this place who gets eight hours rest, or a full belly."

Another harrumph. "Wasteful. Kills his workers."

"So its true then," you prompted. Kneeling against the grating of his cell. "You care for me?"

"Was that ever in doubt?" Even beaten and bloodied he had the stoic air of a steel column.

You met his gaze with your softer brand of stoicism.

"It was unknown."

"Oh." His great brow furrowed. "I see. I should have told you outright."

You nodded. Not sure how to proceed.

"Those silks," He continued. "You seem uncomfortable in them?"

"I don't particularly like silk." You agreed. "Too thin and gauzy,"

"Hm. What do you think of wool? Its thicker, more solid and substantial."

"Is this your attempt to flirt with me?" You smiled. "It would work in better circumstances."

"Hm, our time is up."

As if on cue the door opened. Perterabo sauntered in, looking smug as ever.

"Did you get your closure?" He asked.

"Yes," You rose. Trying to ignore the thinning line of Dorn's mouth.

"Good. You'll never see him again, and the next breach of the castle he'll be one of the first to die." He cupped your cheek in his hand. "I've designed this entire complex around you my love. The closer to you the more secure it is. If there is escape, it is into the warp, and death." He clipped the leash back on. Hand wrapped around yours, he lead you off.

You had to fight to keep your gaze forward. To pretend the tears were of gladness as you were led up and up and up the confines of this gold and iron cage.

-----

You pretended you were hungry at the dinners. Awed at the ever shifting, disturbing views. Enamored with the intricate jewels lavished apon you.

Pretended, but your captor was a Primarch.

"Something troubles you," Perterabo noted, coiling up the leash after that nights walk.

"You stole me because I had Dorn's heart," You sat on your bed and folded your hands in your lap. "What happens to me after he dies?"

Perterabo gave you a blank look. You found it unnerving.

"I suppose when that happens, I'll give you mine." He said with surprising reverence. "And depending on how you respond to that, I wouldn't mind if you shared my bed. Perhaps had a child? One that is truly my own, an architect and engineer not," He waved an open hand at the closed door. "A part of this mess."

"You want me to carry a child," You couldn't keep the incredulity, and a bit of terror from your voice.

"Only if you want to, and only in the far future. Fulgrim and Manus had their daughters. Sanguinius had a gender fluctuating one. I hear Magnus has a pair of rambunctious twins. I could ask him for advice," Perterabo looked briefly wistful. "He would be a good Godfather I think,"

You put a hand on your belly. From what you knew, Half Primarchs were big, and difficult to bear.

"I wonder what that's like, a child whose a girl one day and a boy the next. It sounds fascinating. If only we didn't have so much war to tend to."

You frowned up at him. "I thought you liked warfare."

"Pah!"Perterabo dismissed the concept with a gesture. "I hate it. There are far better uses for my skill and time. Grand cities with architecture to boggle the mind. Aquaducts that double as power sources, machines capable of repairing themselves and each other. Ampitheaters that could house millions without a drop in quality! But do either of my fathers see that? No! They see a mind capable of wreaking havoc and nothing more. A waste. Truly a waste." He sat with you on the bed and heaved a huge sigh.

"I feel so alone in this universe. So unwanted. It feels like I'm going mad.

"If only you hadn't been born a Primarch," You realized.

He gave you a startled look. "How do you mean?"

"If you weren't a Primarch, a war general," you explained, "You would be lauded for your skill. Seen as a genius. Instead of seen as a tool for death and destruction alone."

It was like you pulled a rug out from under him. Mutely, he picked you up and buried his face in your shoulder.

"You get it," he whispered. "You get it."

Perterabo's an asshole but he's been dealt such a raw hand by everyone who claims to be his parent. Dude should have been born in peacetime.

Also, bit of intimacy with both Primarchs! Woo!

-Goddess Anon

Perturabo is an asshole through and through but I do think he's like Lorgar in that they're not meant to be generals. AT. ALL.

I only wish Perty knew the definition of accountability, though. Lol.

Good stuff as always, Goddess Anon!

#rogal dorn #perturabo #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k #yandere40k.#wh40crack.#cw: mentions of pregnancy #cw: kidnapping

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clatoera · 2 years ago

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Always Remember We’re Burned for Better Chapter 9: Everything Was Slipping Right Out of Our Hands

....hey.

So so sorry for yet another incredibly late update. I’m honestly drowning with school. I might end up having to push my boards back because I am simply not yet ready. Ya girl is STRESSED.

As always, title from a Taylor Swift song --> Mine

AO3 Link

Masterpost

As always. BIG thank you to @ohhowwehavefallen who literally talks about Clato all day every day with me across multiple apps. @afterfawn who DIRECTLY gets credit for helping me with the training flashback, you’re brilliant my friend. And @ms1818 as usual.

Thank you all SO much for your patience. I hope this was worth it. (Only one more chapter until the quell how did we get here and can you believe the story was originally supposed to START at the quell? wild).

There are ten of them gathered in a board style room on the top floor of the District Two training center. There is an eerie energy amongst the ten surviving victors, as they gather around and commence the yearly confirmation of tributes. This time though, instead of choosing the two teens who have given their lives to this honor, they choose from amongst their own ranks.

Five men. Five Women.

It was a pride of district two, to have ten living victors. Historically they had the most victors of any district in the entire history of the games, always in close competition with One but always inching out just ahead. There were more before these ten, who are no longer amongst the category of living victor.

Soon that number would be four and four. Four and Five if they are lucky.

“We need to discuss this. We could vote, as usual, after a round of performance.” ‘The discussion is initiated by one of the older Victors, back from the games right before the last Quarter Quell, Lyme. She has always been well respected– her opinion over tribute selection one of the most appreciated and revered. She had hand picked Enobaria in her childhood, as well as Clove’s mother. Ultimately she had even given her support and blessing behind Clove and Cato’s selection when they had been merely ten years old.

Crazy, really. Exactly ten years later and they were back where they began. Two well trained kids with weapons in their hands and no future with the other in it.

“Most of us are out of practice. We should send the youngest two. They just won. They’ve got the best chance. It’s a Quarter Quell, after all. A victor coming from two is an absolute must.” Comes from a male victor about the same age as Lyme. He had been the one who a decade ago directly suggested to Brutus to take on Cato as a trainee. He had been the one to see that same brutal force in them both.

“Those two.” He points towards the youngest of the victors, settled side by side, sandwiched between their own mentors on either side of them. “We picked them together and then split their games explicitly because we knew both would win. They’re the best choice.”

“It will be a vote. We just need to decide the parameters on which we decide.” Lyme insists, rising to stand at the head of the circular boardroom table, an ever commanding presence that just makes you listen and obey.

“I don’t know why we’re wasting time over parameters and a vote. It’s Cato and Clove. They’re the youngest. They’re the most recently out of training.” The middle aged man once again insists, crossing strong arms over his broad chest. There was a clear lineage from mentor to mentee from Him to Brutus to Cato himself. “They’re the obvious choice.”

“They also have their entire lives ahead of them.” Enobaria, for all she composes herself, nearly snaps at the pool of victors. “That's exactly the point. They’re kids. Let them live their lives now. They have earned it, just as we all have.”

“We have families and ties to this district.” There’s a red headed woman Clove vaguely remembers from old clips. She had won a few years before Clove had been born, and was one of her mother’s mentors sixteen years ago. “I’m sorry, it’s very unfortunate that you are so young, but you have to understand. Some of us have families, we have entire lives built here.”

“Well we haven’t been given the chance to do that!” Clove is the one of the two who finally interjects, though without the fire that is so synonymous with the name Clove Kentwell. There is a power hierarchy, one that the newly minted victors have not yet earned their way into.

Even now, adult victors themselves, they were still thrown back to those good little soldiers they were raised to be.

And these, well, these were the victors who watched their training sessions.

Who voted for their selection.

Who taught them the proper technique for holding a sword and slipping out of a headlock.

They had been raised to revere them. Respect them.

That was part of training. You don’t argue with the decisions, you don’t question them. Especially not The Victors.

Even now a peer in this exclusive group– these were still The Victors they were taught to fear and revere.

“We aren’t being given the chance.” Clove doubles down, a softness in her voice that is so uncharacteristic of the strong spirited woman she is.. “I only won two years ago, Cato only three. We haven’t had the chance to do the things you all have..”

“I have a sister. I have parents. That's not family enough?” Cato adds, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. “That's family enough in the eyes of the Capitol. A sister is plenty enough family for that girl from twelve.”

“You’re missing the point.” The redheaded woman interrupts, a sharp tone in her voice. Demanding. Controlling. “Yes, it’s sad, but one of you will get to come home and live out the rest of your lives. You just have to win.”

“You two trained together, your entire life, for this. What an honor it should be to get to represent your District a second time. To become the first two time victor in the history of the games.” The oldest male of the victors, a man probably in his sixties reminds them. “It is an honor to be chosen as the volunteers. You have such a unique opportunity to bring us so much pride.”

“Do we get a choice, or are you just going to talk over us?” Cato slams his fist on the table, demanding the attention of all the remaining victors. In another life the two of them would have become the leaders of this group in the future, demanding the respect of all those who came after.

“Maybe we should send the weakest. The oldest, with the least to offer the district anymore. Clove and I could always become trainers. That would be the way for us to bring pride to the district– ensuring future victors. I can’t say the same for some of you. Past your prime and clinging to glory days.”

Cato scoffs, shaking his head with a clenched jaw, bracing himself for the argument he has unleashed. “None of you want to go in because you know you don’t have a shot at winning. When it’s your fifteen years out of practice against Katniss Everdeen who can kill from twenty yards, you know you don’t have a chance.” There is rage in his voice, the kind that comes just before the outburst. The edge of warning that very few are even lucky enough to have. “You’re sacrificing us.”

“That is NOT the attitude of a Career Tribute.” The remaining male interjects. He had won in the years preceding Enobaria, but had never made much of an accolade for himself. He trained the spears lessons at the academy occasionally, but had been relatively low key in terms of life of a victor.

Clove absently remembers the tulips in his yard, which she ran past every morning on her run of shame back to the academy.

No, maybe that was not the attitude of the teens who were told their whole lives that nothing was greater than winning the hunger games. But it is the attitude of two people who are being robbed of the joy that accomplishment was supposed to allow.

“We aren’t career tributes anymore.” Clove announces, whipping her head up to look at them. “We are victors. We are victors like the rest of you. We earned our place here. We aren’t potential tributes anymore.”

“You are. We all are.” The remaining woman, a girl about the same age Clove’s mother would be, announces. Distantly, Clove can remember her name being something stupid. Justice, maybe?

She reminds Clove of Glimmer, with her long blonde hair and high pitched voice, and for a moment Clove wonders if these conversations were being held in District One right now as well. “I’m not going. I have a three year old, he needs his mother.”

“Yeah, well you let my mother go when she had a three year old who needed her mother, so I don’t see how this is any fucking different.” Clove snaps, hands grasping and releasing a pen in her hand before she risks letting it fly into the eye of the next victor to offer them up like sacrificial lambs. “Maybe fair is fucking fair.”

“It’s not our fault your mother died, Clove.”

“Who fucking chose her to go?” Funny, the same people who marched her mother to her death were now sending her.

“I for one think there should be skills involved.” Brutus levels, waving a hand in embellishment. “We should all present ourselves like we do to the game-makers.” He shoots a look to Cato, that anyone else would have missed, had it not been for the long standing relationship between the two. “See who is in the best place to go into these games.”

Cato gives the briefest of a nod, a single jerk of his head. Throw it. Throw the trial. Throw the trial and let someone else go prove their point.

“And who would vote? The academy children?” Lyme questions, raising a light eyebrow at the group. “Certainly not. We are their superiors.”

“They could. Let them decide. They’re well trained. They know what to look for.” One of the others agrees, before the eldest male once again shuts them down.

“We are going to vote. Right here. If there is a tie then we will hold such a competition. There's no need for all that fanfare if we can reach a majority without it.”

“And what if the winners refuse to volunteer.” Enobaria suggests, a sinister smile smirk on her face.. “There will be a reaping. There is no guarantee the chosen victors will volunteer. You can’t force someone to volunteer. That's not a volunteer.”

“They will volunteer. There will be grave consequences otherwise.” The statement from Brutus’ mentor is directly aimed at Cato and Clove, the decision all but understood. It would be them.

Pieces of paper are being distributed amongst them, and Cato and Clove share a knowing look. This is inevitable and will be discussed among the two of them the moment they are alone.

“We’ll do ladies first.” Lyme, their unofficial official leader, collects the slips of paper and reads them aloud. “Clove. Clove. Clove. Justice. Justice. Clove. Lyme. Justice. Clove. Clove.” She swallows and nods towards the youngest woman in the room, barely more than a girl. “Clove. Congratulations.”

She’s silent, flipping the market between her fingers like a knife, staring at the oak of the table. Her eyes are glazed over, jaw locked. She is numb, completely and totally numb, but she will not give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Of seeing her bend.

“The men.” Lyme flicks through the papers efficiently, lips pursed. “Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Six. A Majority. Congratulations” The other four are for the man who trained Brutus.

It is not hard to decipher exactly who voted against sending Cato and Clove back in.

Nor, who now signed their death warrant.

“Congratulations. Our District Two volunteers for the Quarter Quell. Cato Hadley and Clove Kentwell. We will clear out the training center, send the children home for the rest of the year, so the two of you may use it. Brutus..Enobaria. You will continue your roles as their mentors seeing as you were so successful the first time.” Lyme sighs, folding the papers back up and placing them in piles according to the vote. “What an honor.”

Cato doesn’t even care to look and offer a refute before he is pushing himself to stand. In doing so he flips the table in front of him, earning an alarmed jump from the other victors save for Enobaria and Brutus who expect nothing less. He is joined by the two of them, who also intend to leave in a rage before their internal thoughts become external violence beyond their repair.

He grabs Clove’s hand and tugs her to a standing position, tugging her towards the door.

“Fuck all of you.” Clove hisses, gladly pushing herself to her feet before following Cato out the door.

So much for victors standing with other victors.

They wonder, silently but in unison, if the other young victors– their friends, likely soon to be competition– would have so easily and willingly thrown them to the wolves.

Let it be said that despite the rage they feel at going back, they are nothing but dedicated to their craft.

An entire academy to themselves would have been an absolute dream back as teenagers, with tireless taunting and tearing into each other before laying each other out right in the middle of the training room floor.

Now of course, they had a home together to return to after long days of training rather than sneaking in and out of each other's dorm rooms. Some things change, but some never do, and the way they are firmly attached at the hip of the other has been the way it is for over a decade.

The reality of the entire situation is one they repress.

It’s a conversation for later, not as they actively train for their grand return to the games, this time as the partners they were always supposed to be.

Funny, ten years ago Clove and Cato would have given anything to go into the games together. Today, it’s a nightmare they do not allow themselves to dwell on too long.

They are still as dynamic as they ever were. She never misses, target after target hit straight through the heart. He wields a sword like an extension of his arm, showing no mercy to any of the training aids much in the way he never did to his competitors.

And still, they are an extension of each other. He can still anticipate her next move before she can, ducking just in time before a knife clips his temple. She can still remember the exact way his shoulder twinges before he lunges for her.

When Enobaria trains Clove how to disarm someone with an axe, Clove does not think too hard about the only option of a district seven female, or how that girl was at her undesired birthday party.

Brutus teaches Cato how to snap a trident over his knee, and they do not think too long about the only options from district four being Finnick, Annie, and some elderly woman for Finnick once spoke so fondly of.

Clove is ready for the battle of precision and accuracy against the girl from twelve and her arrows. Two girls with deadly aim from a distance who would have to take out the other to have any semblance of a chance of coming home. Enobaria had mentioned in passing that the expectation was for it to come down to the two of them. Clove isn’t sure who will come out on top of that battle of wills.

At the end of the day, they cannot blame the other victors for choosing them. It’s self-preservation, which the Victors of Two had superior instincts in.

That does not make it any easier.

Every day is a painful monotony that is blended with blissful routine.

They wake up, tangled in a mess of sheets and skin.

Clove makes breakfast, with flavors and spices and everything training food should not have according to the academy.

They train, they train hard, miserable hours until their bodies ache. They train until she needs to be half-carried home from the exhaustion in her legs They train until he needs to shower for forty minutes to work out then tension in his back. They train until their teenage selves would be scared of them.

They train for twelve hours and then they walk home.

Clove refuses to regress to dinners of plain rice and perfectly measured proteins. Cato takes his forty minute showers and she enjoys making food that tastes good. Every night is a combination of favorites of his or hers or theirs. Life, their lives at least, are far too short to give up the simple treasures they have come to love.

Despite the exhaustion they barely sleep. They spend their nights alone together, nothing but skin between them until the sun comes up.

Sure, they need rest to recover, but once more, life for them is shaping up to be so terribly short.

They could sleep when they were dead, which is sooner than they want it to be.

Wake up. Train. Each other. Repeat.

Such is their lives for almost three entire months. Just them and the academy, where one last time they revisit the place they spent the last ten years of their lives.

Sometimes they had fans, kids who broke protocol for a chance to see the most famous victors of District Two.

“I thought they sent the kids home.” Cato whispers, wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt he had discarded on the ground earlier when the intensity of Enobaria’s training against him amped up. He throws the shirt back down, walking towards Clove with open hands and a bare chest. “I think we have a fan club.”

“Of course we do.” Clove teases, glancing at the corner of the room where preteens had begun to sneak in and huddle around the entrance. “Can you blame them? We’re the best this district’s ever seen” Clove grabs him by the throat, swinging around to wrap her legs around his hips as she climbs on to his back. “Give them the show they came for.”

Cato flips her off, landing her firmly on her back on the ground, watching as she reaches for the knife on her thigh.

It reminded them of a simpler-- dare to say happier—time. Of being kids, whos only competition was each other. Or even when, in the wake of his games, Cato recommitted to the center, and in turn, maximizing his girlfriend’s training.

Or maybe running her into the ground.

“Cato, let me go.” Clove kicked her feet into his chest, a futile effort to get him to release his iron clad grip on her throat. “Seriously. Let. Go.”

“Noone’s letting you go in the arena.” Cato raises the hand around her throat, dangling her by the beck off the cushioned floor. “You’re little, Clove, they’ll get you like this, and if they do, you’re dead. Work harder.” He is careful not to actually harm her, not now, though as they progressed, he would have no choice but to get more aggressive and intentional with their training. “Come on Clove, fight back.”

Clove is squirming, desperately trying to pry his hands off her throat with both of her own, trying to pull back on each finger. “Cato-” This time it’s a choked gasp as he presses the space between his thumb and index finger into the front of her neck, cutting off the air to her lungs.

“Cato, STOP.” Enobaria – the only other person in the training center this late, equally as dedicated to Clove’s success as he is– goes to shove him off. “If you fucking choke her to death in here she’ll never see the arena, let her go. Now.”

“She’ll be fine if she just pushes harder. Come on. Kick me off, use your legs. Work for it, Clove.” He’s arm’s length away, close enough that with full use of her legs she could work her way out, but not close enough to give her any advantage of her hands clawing at his face. “Do you want to die like this? A foot off the ground and useless? Fight me Clove, come on.”

Enobaria goes to step in, to peel Cato away, but she is stopped when Cato himself holds her out with his other arm. “We aren’t going to be there to help her. She needs to work for it.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Cato. Is this some fucked up excuse to get all domestic violence on her? You’re crossing a line, this isn’t helping–”

“I know what that arena is like. We didn’t come this fucking far for you to go in and die, Clove.”

Clove finally plants her foot in the center of his chest and digs in, pushing him back enough that he at the very least is satisfied and loosens the hand on her throat. She crumbles to the ground, coughing violently as she chokes desperately for the air to reenter her lungs. Clove’s hand comes to her own throat, curling her knees to her chest as she leans into the wall.

“She’s perfectly well trained. Don’t take out your insecurities on her.” Enobaria kneels beside her girl, using her hand to tilt Clove's face. She takes in the paleness of her skin from the restricted blood flow, Clove leaving out shaking gasps as she reorients herself. There is a redness already filling in the skin on her neck, and Enobaria will not be surprised if she has a handprint shaped bruise along her airways tomorrow.

“We’re done for the day. Go get some rest, Clove. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She grabs Cato by the shoulder and pulls him back. “Get the fuck out of here. You went too far.”

“The games are coming fast, Enobaria.” He tries to defend himself, tugging his arm from Enobaria’s grasp. “We don’t have time to mess around.”

“There's a fine FINE line you are crossing, Cato. Go home.”

Enobaria leaves them alone in the center, then, Clove still steadying her breath and her mind after the mild asphyxiation she nearly suffered.

He crouches in front of her, offering a hand to her. “I know, it’s a lot. I can’t lose you in those games, Clove. I’d rather push you now, so I know you’ll come home.”

Clove curls away from him, laying her head against the wall. “I’ve been training longer than you did, Cato. I know what I'm doing.”

“I know. But Clove if something happened to you–”

“NOTHING is happening to me except winning.” Comes out in a rasping voice, Clove finally having steadied her breathing enough to argue. “I can handle myself.”

He won’t say sorry because he is not. He can make it up to her once she wins, once all this training was worth it and they are safe and together for the rest of their lives. Instead, he once again offers his hand to her. “Come on. Let's go home. “

“Fuck you.” Clove smacks his hand away, hiding her face in the space she’s made between her bent knees and her body. “Go away.”

“Babe don’t be like that. I’m just trying to help–”

“Leave me alone”

“I don’t want to watch you die. You can hate me now, but I’d rather you hate me and be alive.”

“Oh I hate you alright.” Clove coughs sighing as she relaxes against the wall. “I’m serious. Leave.”

“Baby. Just come home. I’ve got that bath stuff you like..” Cato rubs his hand on her knee comfortingly, testing the water of physical contact after the admittedly intense training only minutes ago. “I leave for my victory tour in a few days, I won’t see you for weeks. You’ll miss me.”

“Good, I don’t want to see you.”

“You don’t mean that, come on, don’t be like this.” Cato goes to wrap his arm under her knees. “I’ll even carry you home.”

“Get away from me.” Clove nudges his hands off her forcefully, kicking his hand away as hard as she can manage. “I’m staying in my room tonight.”

“In that shitty dorm bed? Why would you stay there when we have a bed back home. Seriously, I’ll carry you. I’ll make up for it, I promise.”

“YOU have a bed in your house. Your house for victors. Which I am not, as you so kindly love to remind me. I’m still at tribute, remember?” Clove raises to her feet, rubbing absently at the swelling she feels deep in the tissue of her neck.

“Fine. Be a bitch, Clove. I’ll stop trying to help you.” Cato growls, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Enjoy your dorm bed and your shitty food and your mediocre training partner.” This was new for him. No matter how far he usually pushed, she could take it. She fought back. She NEVER refused to come home.

Maybe he actually went too far, he considers only for a moment.

Clove turns away, planning to storm off and out of the room in the way most of their arguments resolve. She turns too fast and the world spins for her, and she steadies herself on the wall. She slaps away the hand of his that reaches to grab her hip, reaching to steady her. “Enjoy your tour, go choke some bitch from one since that’s what you’re into these days.”

“Remember how crazy you went before my games? I thought you were trying to actually be the one to kill me.” Clove wipes the blade of the knife on her thigh, clearing it of ballistics gel from within her favorite mannequin she had just pulled it out of (the one that felt like real flesh, of course it was her favorite, she had explained when they were thirteen).

“And yet you still came home with me almost every night anyway.” Cato pinches her hip, wrapping his arm around her waist, before leaning in and whispering against her ear. “Maybe you liked how it felt a little too much.”

“Did you consider it was because you had a nicer shower?” Clove taunts, twisting out of his grasp and pushing him against the wall by his shoulder. Clove takes a moment to appreciate how her hand plants against the dense muscle of his chest. Sure, it had only been a few years, but somehow even in the short time from seventeen to twenty he had just gotten bigger. “What do you say? We give them one last lesson?” She flashes him a wicked raise of her eyebrow and a snarky smile, nodding her head towards the herd of adolescents by the door.

“I guess we would have been their trainers. Maybe they deserve to see how it’s done.” Cato nods his head in the general direction of the huddled children. “Are any of you going to come watch or are you just going to cower in the corner?”

The kids do in fact shuffle over, about ten of them, sitting in a semi-circle in front of Cato and Clove. In another world they would have trained these kids, picked the best from their ranks, and sent them into the games. In another world they would have mentored some of them in the games and watched them come home as victors in their own right.

The kids can’t be much older than eleven or twelve, barely eligible for the reaping themselves. Clove remembers that age, how by that point Cato had distinctly been assigned as her partner for the rest of their time in training until one would die in the games at the hands of the other.

Maybe he had unintentionally also been assigned as her partner in all meanings of the world, in all facets for the rest of their lives.

“Have any of you been assigned to each other yet?” Clove waves a thin knife in their general direction, taking note how some groups of kids sat in almost pre-made pairs.

A little girl nods at her, with wide eyes and a childish gap between her teeth. She grabs the hand of the boy next to her and raises it above her head. “This one’s mine.”

Cato smiles to himself, at the natural possessiveness of the kid over her anticipatory partner. Clove had been like that, too.

“Alright. You two get up then.” Clove instructs, waving them forward. The boy walks towards Cato, and the girl to her.

She kneels behind the girl, hands square on her shoulders. It gives her the briefest sense of déjà vu. The little girl and the boy already a head taller.

“Rule number one.” Clove tells her facing her squarely against the boy her age. “Size doesn’t matter.”

“Actual rule number one.” Cato interrupts, bringing the lanky male child directly infront of him. “If you’ve got an advantage, use it.”

Just for a moment they get to pretend that they are living the future they imagined back when they were the same age as these very kids.

It is the last night in their home, probably forever, that they finally address their lives crumbling around them.

It’s sometime after midnight as they lay side by side on the floor of the spare bedroom next to theirs. They had gone room to room, sitting in silence as they soaked in the last night in the house, they had made their home so easily.

Years ago, now, she had laid in this very room imagining painting the ceiling and making the room their little training studio.

Now, she just wished she had enough time to store sweaters in it.

“So this is it.” Clove whispers, threading her fingers through his before bringing their linked hands to her lips. “Ten years to come to this.”

“All I ever wanted was to go in to the games.” Cato recalls, staring at the ceiling with nothing but numbness in his tone. “And now— I don’t want to go back, in, Clove.”

In the deepest corners of their home, at the latest points of the night, the nightmares had begun.

Cato, who had never even been at risk of losing, would sit on the edge of the bed awake and sweating and refusing to elaborate.

Clove, who would wake up gasping for air, hand at her throat hoping he does not hear.

Cato, who squints a little too long at the sun on those hot days and feels his skin ache when the heat settles in too long like it had back in that arena.

Clove, who cannot get out of bed during the first winter storm, because just like that she is aching deep in her bones, the feeling of metal slipping between frozen fingers all too engrained into her brain.

No one ever cared to warn them that the games will not leave them unscathed even when they come out alive. Even as careers, apparently you don’t come out without the games taking part of you, too.

“I don’t want to go back, either…what if we just refuse.” Clove murmurs, turning her head to face him. “What if tomorrow we just don’t volunteer.”

Cato squeezes her hand but says nothing. They’ve considered it, both individually and together. They know, though, that it’s not as easy as that.

Rebellious has never been the word to describe them, except perhaps when it came to being together.

“I can’t kill you.” Clove admits, voice soft and tired. Tired of training, tired of the endless games the world has played with them.

For all they talked about being the one to kill the other, suddenly that feels impossible. It feels like stabbing a knife through their own hearts, like leaving the most vital organ in their bodies behind in the arena.

Killing the other now feels unthinkable. And oh, how their sixteen year old selves would be furious at them because of that.

And yet…

She does not feel like the sixteen-year-old girl who wanted to go to the games more than anything. The girl who just wanted blood on her hands and a crown on her head.

He does not feel like the same boy whose only goal was brutal, bloody killing for the title before his name.

Maybe they are not those people anymore, or maybe they just grew up. Maybe they found something other than the games and victory worth living for.

“I won’t kill you.” Cato agrees, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. “There’s no way.’

“What happens if it comes down to the two of us.” Clove lays her head on his shoulder, curling up and tossing her leg over his, intertwining their limbs. “Are we going to pull what they did? Just refused to kill each other and threaten to kill ourselves instead?”

“That is exactly what we’re going to do.” Cato kisses her temple, giving a firm shake of his head. “If it comes down to us…they can kill us themselves. We’re not doing it. It’s both of us or neither of us.”

“Together or neither.” Clove whispers, desperately trying to quell back the emotions that she feels rushing forward. “I’m not coming back without you.”

“What’s the point.” Cato agrees. Yes, he has a sister and parents, but what truly was the point. Cato without Clove may be a body without a head. Unnatural. Dead. What did they have back here, after that?

“Together.” She promises out loud, to which one of them is unclear. “Together.”

They lie there, silent, for what feels like hours.

They think of the future, that is gone before it could start.

They say goodbye to the children who will never be born. The blonde boy and his freckled little sister who they would have loved more than life itself.

They say goodbye to the empty home without the dog he so deeply wanted.

They say goodbye to every part of their lives, except each other. Never each other.

They accept that it is either all or none. Together or neither.

There is no future here, not one they want, if they come back alone.

For all their lives they had planned to go into the games together. Side by side. The greatest team two would ever know, go down fighting against each other, and show respect in the way they killed the other.

Somehow nothing seems less appealing than coming home to two alone. Except maybe being the one to take the other out.

“We’re still partners, right?” Cato asks, voice softer than she may have ever heard it before.

“In every single way that matters.”

If either of them cry, well, that is a secret that will die between them.

The next morning is their last attempt at celebrating their lives.

Clove changes the sheets on the bed, with the intention that when they come home, they will want a clean bed to crawl into together. Call it delusion, call it manifestation. Call it hope.

Cato leaves his laundry on the bathroom floor. God forbid if they didn’t come home...there will signs of their life together throughout this house, he insists on it.

Signs of life-- In the laundry on the bathroom floor. In the half-used jar of honey in the kitchen cabinet to the left above the sink. In their names forever carved into the bed post.

When someone takes this home after them, they will be inextricable from the four walls.

It will forever be their home, even if they lived inside just for a short time.

Enobaria and Brutus come for breakfast. Clove does not complain this one time, as she instinctively adds a handful of mini chocolate chips to Brutus’.

Enobaria doesn’t question when Clove leans in and whispers a thank you, so quiet she almost misses it, when she hands her a plate of her favorite breakfast foods.

This is not the time for their goodbye. Not yet.

His parents come by, of course, bringing his sister. It is best to have goodbyes now. They are officially Careers the minute that reaping starts. The softness and gentle words of love for his family are behind closed doors.

Cato is being held by his mother, who over and over tells him how proud they are of him. “We love you so much.” She promises her son, who is hunched over, shoulders shaking, with his face hidden in her blonde hair. “We are so so so proud of you, my love.”

Clove feels a tightness in her throat, at the way her heart yearns for such confessions. She has no mother to promise eternal pride or love, nor a father who wordlessly hugs the way Cato’s currently is doing, holding his only son close for what will likely be the last time.

“Don’t send her to training.” Clove hears him plead, and the ‘her’ in question could only be the five year old who is currently sitting in her lap. “Let someone else volunteer. You’ll have lost enough.” It’s a plea, nearly begging, that his parents will not willingly lose their last child. Please save his sister, the child they both have done so much to protect.

“Clove?” The little girl leans back in her arms, looking up to her with innocent blue eyes full of tears. Cora has always been such an empathetic thing, so intune with the people who love her. This sweet child, who would never have the killer instincts to win the game if god forbid she is sent. “Why is everybody so sad?”

Clove forces a smile, blinking back the tears that started threatening to well in the front of her green eyes. “Cato and I have to go away for a little while, that’s all. We don’t know when we’ll be back.”

“But you’ll come home, right? One day?” Cora Hadley leans against her, head on her shoulder, looking at her as if she hangs the sun in the sky herself.

“…I hope so, kiddo.” Clove brings her hand up to stroke at the blonde curls of her baby sister-in-law, and she remembers for a moment that no one even knows that little fact. Yet another secret will die with them.

“Promise?” Cora sniffles, and Clove feels the warmth of her tears dropping onto her skin.

“…yeah Cora, I promise.” It was a lie, and she would likely never hold this girl again, but a little white lie never hurt anyone. Why break her heart now, when with the right amount of time she may not remember them at all.

“You can’t break a promise.” Cora reminds her, curling up in her arms like she had when she was just a toddler, arms wrapped tightly around her neck.

Clove leans her neck back to stop the tears that so badly want to flow, blinking aggressively. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not let this girl’s last memory be of her crying, and not the fierce competitor she is.

She sighs deeply, gently tapping Cora’s shoulder to pull her attention., “I have something for you.”

“Like a present?”

“Yeah…kind of like a present.” Clove leans back, snaking her hands around her neck. She unlatches the dainty silver chain, holding it out for Cora to inspect. The silver C that sits on the end has been through more than its fair share of games, across multiple chains and bodies. It’s time that cycle ends.

The little girl gasps, excitedly wrapping her little hands around the charm at the end. “It’s a C! For Cora?”

“Cora. Clove. Cato.” Clove explains, offering to take it and secure it around the little girl’s neck. “This was my mom’s. Then she went away, and I had to keep it safe. And now I’m going away…and I need you to keep it safe for me, okay?”

“I promise!” She agrees, nodding with a brilliant, bright smile on her face. Cora touches the script letter, but then launches her arms back around Clove’s neck. “..I’m gonna miss you.”

“…I’m going to miss you too. So much.”

Clove wonders, as she holds on to this little girl, how her mother ever let her go.

Cato joins her on the couch then, eyes red, but no tears streaking down his face. He holds out his hands and she shifts his baby sister to his arms.

“We love you.” She hears him whisper to her, holding her little head against his shoulder. Cato looks up at his parents, and she sees him hesitate, going to say something then biting back his tongue. She wonders if he was going to tell them what she thinks he was, but she will never know now as he changes his topic.

“Don’t…Please don’t let her forget about us.”

They are in Careers’ mindset the moment they walk into the town square for the reaping. This is the footage the other tributes their friends would see. They must be on their A game. They must be intimidating. Everybody knows, the games really start now.

They wear head to toe black, the days of navy-blue suits and white lace dresses of their childhood reapings long behind them. No longer are they the volunteers with stars in their eyes. They’re experienced killers, now, with a lot more to lose.

They are going into this the stone-faced brutal killers that they are, murder behind their eyes and hatred in what is left of their hearts.

The surviving victors are lined up on that stage before all of their home district, and the ceremonial card is read aloud to the district. While the others beside them look fierce, none look more frightening than the cold, hardened looks of Cato and Clove.

In the end, Cato does not get to volunteer. He is oh-so-conveniently reaped, the name Cato Hadley broadcast for all the district to hear. If Clove didn’t know better, she would swear that there is annoyance in his face, that his moment to shine was taken away from him.

Despite not necessarily smiling, there is the slightest hint of a cocky smirk on his face.

They have a reputation to uphold, of course.

For a moment, Clove debates on risking it. She considers letting one of those bitchy women take her place, or rather, she debates not taking theirs. Wouldn’t that be poetic justice, refusing to volunteer, to let one of the women who voted to send her to her death go to their own. Fair is Fair.

But then the name pulled is the woman who raised her, and Clove cannot get the words out of her mouth fast enough.

Cato and Clove join hands at the front of the stage, and when their hands are raised above their head for all of District Two, they do not smile.

They are hard. They are cold. They are killers.

When they are ushered directly to the train, without the traditional time for goodbyes, they realize they are not the only ones no longer here to play games.

#ARWBFB TAG #always remember we're burned for better tag #clato #cato and clove #clato au #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfic #clato fanfic #cato hadley #clove kentwell #enobaria #the quarter quell #im sorry i hope this is okay despite being so late!

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agirlandherquill · 4 months ago

Text

revered and a travesty

since edits are going fairly well, i thought i'd share a snippet from ruin's reprisal, so here it is,

“Conteis! Look where you’re going!”

She ignored him, scrambling up the bank, marching away until she smacked her head on another overhanging branch she had been too angry to try to see. She fell hard on the floor, clutching her head.

“I told you Conteis.” Fenley came up beside her, shaking his head.

Her hand dropped from her head. “Say that again.”

“What?”

“That sentence. Say it again.”

“I told you Conteis.” He spoke slower but it still hadn’t been a trick of her mind, or a head injury. She had heard him right.

“Conteis.” She said it, enunciating the world slowly, properly. “All this time I thought you were mocking me by saying it differently but I never paid much attention until now-” She got up, nearly hitting her head again until Fenley shouldered the branch out of the way. “Until what?”

She stepped under the branch and he followed while she paced back and forth, he carried on past her, chuckling to himself while she thought it over. Con-tie-s. That’s how you’re supposed to say it. Fenley’s been saying Con-tay-s.

“You haven’t been saying it right.”

He stopped walking. He turned on his heel to face her, looking her over with a smirk that only deepened as he met her eyes. “I know.”

“What have you been calling me, all this time? Because that word has nothing to do with being a Lady.”

“Who’s to say it doesn’t?”

“Fen. Tell me.”

I know of no words in the Haelish language with any connection to what he’s been saying - High-Mother help me, I cannot believe it’s taken me this long to work it out.

“Why call you a Lady when I can do one better?” He started walking again, she tripped over herself to catch up with him. She ended up hopping over a fallen tree to intercept his lengthy strides, planting herself in his path.

“Tell me.”

“It’s more fun watching you realise how wrong you’ve been.”

“Oh, that is rich.” She intercepted his side step, pursuing him stubbornly.

Fenley sighed. “Has it not occurred to you that you might be the one saying it wrong? That you and your people have gotten it wrong for years?”

“What?”

“Conteis, the way it was originally pronounced, never meant Lady.”

‘Then what was it?” Edeva was growing tired of his attempts to avoid answering the question. He relented, or took pity on her, she wasn’t certain which of the two, because he stopped trying to move away.

“You really want to know?” She nodded at him, he groaned. “The original translation was Revered One, or simply Revered, all right? I thought it was funny, and it stuck. It’s even funnier when someone has no idea what you’re really calling them.”

“So, it’s a joke?”

“Yes, my dear, darling Conteis,” He drawled, “It’s all a joke. All a game.” He moved ahead of her, stepping around trees until he stopped to beckon her. “Now, we should get going before this accidental tryst of yours gets us a hiding from the Half-Lands.”

A joke.

Revered One.

It’s a joke.

She took a deep breath. Thank the High-Mother for that.

~ ~ ~

Fenley lied to her. It left a foul taste in his mouth having said the words. He had lied. His jaw clenched, he didn’t like it.

But how could I tell her the truth? It’s better for it to be a joke.

Otherwise he had no way of explaining himself.

Could anyone ever explain or excuse calling someone what he did?

Not a Lady. Not an Exile. Nor Revered.

No, his name was far worse.

Travesty.

#writeblr #writing #spilled ink #spilled words #fiction #writer #novel

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akumanoken · 1 year ago

Note

(Puzzle Anon)

As Sakura pushes the last gemstone into place, the seam splits, and the box, finally, opens up to reveal a pedestal on the inside, with a gorgeous black pearl, about the size of a fist, placed atop a piece of folded paper.

The paper itself would unfurl to reveal a handwritten letter.

"Dear Princess Sakura,

If you're reading this, it means you've managed to finish solving the box! Congratulations are in order, I think. What you've just witnessed is a historical account of my family, as much as we know of them, anyway.

When I saw your beauty and your courage during the announcement, I just knew I had to do something to show you just how much you mean to the people of Makoto, and to me personally. So, I made the box for you, to show you that after all our trials and tribulations, we found ourselves here, in Makoto, where we were accepted with love and care, and where my father was finally able to show his artistic skill and his quality as an artificer. I like to think that, in part, this was because of you and your family, because of the environment you all have helped foster here. I cannot thank you in a way that could matter nearly as much as simply saying: you will always have our support, no matter who you are.

But I suppose I should stop dancing around the elephant in the room, yes? The pearl. My father discovered it on his journey to Makoto, and has held tightly onto it ever since. He gifted it to my mother upon proposing to her, and while my intentions are not quite so romantic (yet?), and you may have many such pearls, I still hope that you will find this gift gorgeous and sentimental enough to keep.

Should it suit you, I would be delighted to meet with you to further discuss the box and whatever other topics come to mind. To that end, I encourage you to seek me out at the Emerald Tapestry (yes, I promise it's a real shop downtown) and ask after me.

Thank you for indulging me, and may you always carry love in your heart.

Signed,

-Riam Amakyr, Lead Artificer of the Emerald Tapestry."

The box finally opened, and Sakura nearly dropped it. A large pearl, larger than any he's seen outside the palace walls was presented to him, and a note underneath.

Riam Amakyr... Lead Artificer... Sakura lifted the pearl up the light, marveling at it. So lovely... large... his family sat on this prize... this would have easily propelled them to a status akin to nobility, and it was simply... a pearl... a symbol of love.

Perhaps that, most of all, is what enamored the princess to the bauble. He held it with reverence, still unable to fathom why the other would simply gift such an... invaluable jewel... one that had been in his family, that surely had its own magic and luck...

He placed it down on a cushion, frantically finding one that would serve as a place for the gift... And after that... perhaps plans.

After all, to create such a beautiful puzzle box (which was an extravagant gift in itself) to place such a beautiful, valuable, and important gem... there was no way he wouldn't want to meet this Riam... to thank him in person.

#Anonymous #the bargaining chip;; (princess au)

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ereawrites · 4 years ago

Text

Hush

reiner braun x reader

warnings: smut

wc: 8.4k

summary: reiner comes home, even if part of him doesn’t. who can blame you for wanting to offer him some comfort against all the fucked-up things he’s been through?

Late summers in Marley come with a dry, constant heat, the kind that lasts well into the night. After so many months of sun warming your room, even the stone walls can't keep it cool - you've never been good at sleeping in a hot room, and that's the excuse you use to forgive sneaking away to Reiner again. It's selfish. You're distracting him from the war, you worry, for the sake of a little comfort for him and a little peace for yourself. You shouldn't do it, but you do.

"You can't tell the others that I'm doing this.", he whispers against your bare collarbone, exposed by your own shaking fingers that have undone the first three buttons of your uniform. You try to guide his face back up to yours with a hand cupping his jaw. Reiner leans into your touch, but he doesn't move, instead pressing his forehead against the curve of your shoulder. A shaky breath tickles your skin, and it tells you everything you need to know.

When he first came home, no one saw him for weeks, not even the servants who took meals to his room - you caught them in the corridors, of course you did, if only to ask after the wellbeing of a comrade. Pieck eventually pulled you aside and told you, with pity shining in dull eyes, that they were putting him through tests. Psychological evaluations. From what she had left unsaid, you supposed that they were testing his loyalty more than his wellbeing. They decided that he was their most loyal warrior, and they rewarded him with more battles to fight.

Now, trembling beneath you, in a chair hastily shoved back from the desk in his room, you can see for yourself that Reiner is fractured. He's strong - so strong, not broken, not yet - but he is struggling and he is alone, even months later. You smooth your palms over the taut muscle of his shoulders. "I won't, I swear - no one even knows I'm here.". You've been sneaking to his quarters for months; only to speak, at first, to let him know that he doesn't have to bear the burden of Paradis quite so alone.

Although, to be fair, you've never went so far as to straddle him in a chair. You don't know how it happened, really. You had started off perched on the edge of his desk, and one second you were reaching out to cup his cheek -already too far, presuming too much and breaking too many rules in the name of comfort - and the next thing you knew, you were on top of him.

His voice is so small. "They can't know. They already think I'm weak, I- I am, I am weak, you can't-"

This time, you tilt his face up with insistent fingers under his chin. Even after everything, his brown eyes are still the same: sadder, maybe, and crinkled at the corners with a frown, but filled with the very same gentleness he's always regarded you with. "You're not weak, Reiner. You've been through so much, and you're still here, and you've been so brave. It's okay to let yourself feel things - right here, right now, okay? That doesn't make you weak, or selfish."

Reiner closes his eyes as if he's in pain. "...I'm selfish for doing this - being here. I should be out there in the field instead of letting my heart distract me again."

Again, he says, and it sends a jolt through your gut. They never let you find out what happened on the island - Reiner isn't ready to tell you, and you don't know he ever will be - but you're beginning to realise that the man beneath you is being torn apart by the things that happened to him, and the things he did, and the things he's doing now.

"Rei,", you say gently, tracing your thumb over his lips as you lean your forehead against his. "If you don't want me here, I'll go back to my room, and we don't have to speak about it again... Just say the word."

He sighs. For a moment, you think he's going to ask you to leave. As much as you want to believe that you're only here for him, only here to support him and do what he needs, you'd be lying to yourself. Your heart sinks. He picks it back up again with his hands coming to rest on the curve of your waist. "I do want you."

And you're going to tell him that you want him too, but all of a sudden he's kissing you.

Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up: you thread your hands into hair that's more grown out than he usually keeps it, all the way down to his nape, half pulling him closer and half pressing yourself further into him. Reiner lets out another small sigh, deep in his throat. The sound makes your knees go weak - god, you like him so much, too much, perhaps he's not the only one being selfish here - and your legs sink down until your weight is resting solely on his thighs. His hands instantly fly to splay over your back, one between your shoulders and the other just above your ass, and his palms are so big that he's anchoring you against him without even trying.

"I want you,", he repeats between kisses, "So much. For so long."

Something possesses you to slip your tongue into his mouth. You shouldn't do it - you should let him set the pace because this is about him, and - who are you really kidding? He holds you as if he's scared you'll leave, and you kiss him harder. For a few moments, you don't think about anything other than how good his mouth feels on yours, nothing at all. Every time you run your hands over his shoulders, he shudders as if you've sent an electric shock through him.

Reiner breaks away for air and you nearly whine - so embarrassing, but you realise you don't actually give a fuck. There's something in his eyes that seems scared. Scared you'll leave, or scared you don't want him. You're about to kiss him again before you register the faint taste of whiskey on your tongue. "You've been drinking?"

"A few hours ago. I thought you weren't going to come tonight. Helps me stop thinking about you so much.", he admits with a low voice. The expression on his face is almost nervous, as if he's worried you're going to be angry with him about it, but the confession has your heart racing faster than it has any right to. This is about him, you remind yourself; you're glad that his hair is longer now, because you can tug gently on it, making him tilt his head back and expose the column of his throat. It bobs with a thick swallow when you press the first soft kiss to the hollow beneath his Adam's apple. You don't reply to his words. You honestly don't think you can without crying.

There's no need to rush this. Your body screams for you to, but you've been harbouring these impossible feelings for the man underneath you for months - since before he left Marley, if you're to be truly honest - and you need to savour this and he needs gentleness. Slow, chaste kisses peppered across his neck, his jaw, even his shoulders through the material of his shirt. You ghost your nails down his nape and revel in the way his breath hitches slightly. Somewhere along the way, you realise just how closely you're pressed up to him: your chest is pushed hard against his, hips almost flush, and he's still holding you close. There's a tenderness in the embrace that makes your heart hurt all over again.

"Is this okay?', you ask - Reiner's breaths are coming slow and deep, and you can't get rid of the nagging concern that this might quickly become overwhelming for him. "Are you okay?"

He tips his head back down to level his gaze with yours, and the warm brown of his irises has all but melted away into the black of his pupils. "I want to... touch you."

"You can do anything you want to me, Rei.", your mouth says of its own accord, and you still really don't give a fuck about how shameful your lack of control is, because his grip tightens, and he makes a face like you've stabbed him. You're compelled to wipe the expression away with a quick, hot kiss, just barely dipping your tongue into his mouth before pulling away again. "Anything to make you feel good again."

It's a struggle to wrap your fingers around his thick wrist, but you just about manage it, and guide his hand up to the next button of your shirt. It isn't trembling so much now. The slightest tremor, still, but you half-suspect that's due to the careful, gentle awe that you see glinting in his eyes. Reiner mumbles your name as he starts to fumble with the button. "I don't think I'll be able to stop myself after this."

"I don't want you to.", you reply quietly. Quickly, you come the realisation that Reiner's struggle with the button must have been feigned for your comfort, because he has it - and the next one - popped open before you can even gasp in a quick breath. His lips chase his fingers, so, so soft, trailing down each new piece of skin he exposes (when did you start burning up?) and you find that you push back up on your knees instinctively; high enough for his mouth to be able to reach the space between your breasts and, god, it sends fireworks shooting up your spine.

You hardly pay attention to the last few buttons of your shirt being undone - Reiner's lips on your chest see to that, kissing slowly, almost reverently, around the curve of your chest, just underneath each breast and then back up to your collarbones. It's only now that you recall your decision not to wear a bra. It was already late when you left your room, past midnight, and you couldn't afford to be seen sneaking around looking as though you were dressed to actually go somewhere.

Besides, Reiner has never been disrespectful to you in any way, never leered at you like some of the other men in the compound. A simple cotton button-up and slacks had seemed the obvious choice. A bolt of worry flashes to the forefront of your mind: what if he thinks you only came here for sex? He means so much more to you than that, you don't want him to think-

His hands ground you. One has slipped beneath the material to rest on your bare waist. He's just brushing the skin, and he's staring at your lips, and he looks as if he's terrified and in awe and maybe something else, all at once. The fingers of his right hand play with the edge of your shirt. He has callouses on the pads of his fingers - a lifetime of too much work and not enough gentleness. This is about him, you remind yourself. You nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and then another, and he starts to slip the shirt away from your body.

Reiner whispers, "You're beautiful." against your neck before he's even looked at you. "So beautiful. Sometimes I think you're an angel." An already weak protest dies in your throat when he dips his head to start kissing your neck - real kisses this time, warmer and faster and with a hint of tongue, and although it pains you so much to release your grip on his hair, you do it so that your shirt can fall forgotten to the floor. "Too good for someone like me."

Hushing him comes easily, even if hearing his words is hard - you've spent months trying to soothe him and help him with words, so maybe now is the time to show him with actions instead. Reiner is the one who's too good for you, too good for this world in fact, a world that has done nothing but abuse him. You have to stop thinking and start feeling, both of you. He actually makes a tiny grunt of protest when you push his face away from your neck in order to peel his shirt away. It's selfish, you know, to run your palms up his abs and chest when you do it, just as it's selfish to stare shamelessly at his arms when he raises them to tug the shirt over his head, but Reiner catches you doing it and, for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

"You're beautiful too, Rei. I've thought so for a long time.", you say into a kiss that's already started. His hands are at your hips and your arms are wrapped around his neck, you're so close to him it hurts, so close you feel every last bit of self-control slipping away; he pulls you closer, kisses you harder, lets your tits press up against his bare chest. You kiss him until your lips are swollen and you're panting for air. No one's ever made you feel like this: so safe and whole and damn hot with just a little kissing.

Then, you adjust yourself in his lap, and you feel that he's half-hard in his pants. Honestly, you doubt your own underwear is in a much better state. Still, you can't help the way your breath hitches: Reiner's jaw tightens, probably because of the inadvertent friction, but you feel the heat spreading over your cheeks. You both want this, of course you do, but it's still shocking to feel the evidence of his arousal. And that's without even thinking about how big the bulge felt in that one little instant.

Reiner tugs you backwards by the hips and you're scared that he's become overwhelmed. He steadies you as soon as your ass is resting further down on his thighs, though - the loss of skin-to-skin contact draws a small whine from you - and starts kissing down your neck again, leads your hands to support yourself on his shoulders, and now his hands are on your tits. It starts off fairly slow. Not quite as gentle as before but the reverence is still evident. An angel, he said, and he touches you like you are one. He claims to be a monster but he treats you so well: licking at your collarbones and kissing your neck, swiping those calloused thumbs over your nipples until they harden, pinching so gently and just right, making the breath shoot out of you in a shuddering moan. The scolding he gives you sounds entirely absent. "Got to stay quiet, sweetheart. No one can know you're here."

"I-", forced to bite your lip when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, "Sorry. I know. Just - feels good."

"It's what you deserve."

God, Reiner makes you totally weak and he doesn't even seem to know it. His voice is quiet as ever. You always have to speak lowly when you're here, in case someone hears and they keep you from seeing him again - but it's dropped so low, and it's got just the littlest bit of rasp to it. He sounds desperate. You're pretty sure you can actually feel the dampness in your underwear now. Torn between sitting there and letting him play with your nipples for hours, and just unbuckling his belt right now and riding him in his desk chair, you're so close to becoming overstimulated and simply melting into his arms, but he makes the decision for you.

The way he leans even further down to wrap his lips around one nipple must be uncomfortable for him, he's so tall, taller than you even when you're sat on top of his thighs like this - he must enjoy it, though, because he groans lowly as his tongue swirls around it. You nearly have to clap your hand over your mouth to stifle a moan, and he clearly knows you're going to need extra support staying up, because his now free hand slides around to hold the base of your bare back. "Oh my God-", you hiss. You're almost certain you feel him smile again.

"Rei. Is it okay if I...", you manage to pant out, gesturing to the zipper of your slacks, after a few more minutes of indulgence - after seemingly being satisfied with the attention he gave one breast, he had switched to the other, making practically inaudible noises each time your hips canted against his broad thighs. One day, if he lets you do this again, maybe you'll ask him to let you get off on the hard muscle of his quads. You'd like to feel his arms around you as you fall apart.

His fingers slip just below your waistband. They're so, so close to where you need him, and your body is so hot, and Reiner's must be too because his pecs are starting to glisten with sweat. "Please.", as if he's on the verge of breaking with how much he wants you - it would sound conceited to believe, but you see the way he's looking at you, you feel the way he's touching you. It wouldn't be fair to deny him of the only emotion he's allowed himself in a long time.

Of course, he waits for you to nod your consent. Those warm, fractured, black-brown eyes swallow you up so much that your whole body is set ablaze as he slowly undoes the button of your trousers. You at least had the good sense to wear acceptable underwear, although you suspect Reiner will want that gone, too. He's seeming to grow harder with every bit of bare skin he manages to touch. As he drags the zipper down at a pace much too slow for your liking, he murmurs, stand up for me, sweetheart.

You do, in the space he makes for you between spread thighs, and the thought of being away from him right now is so unbearable, that you press your knees up against the chair to keep the closeness. Reiner looks up at you for a moment, cheeks a little red and lips a little swollen, before his eyes are on your body and your trousers are being tugged gently over the curve of your ass. The heat in your stomach grows even more intense when you literally see his mouth drop open at the sight of your underwear, and he blushes harder when your thighs are exposed; you're tensing them together to relieve some of the pressure, you realise, but Reiner's easily strong enough to get past that. He even leans down to caress your calves as he pushes the slacks the rest of the way off.

"I would have dressed up for you a little more, if I had known this was going to happen.", you half-giggle. It's been a long time since anyone has seen you like this. You're not exactly ashamed of the fact that there's most definitely a damp spot on your underwear - one that Reiner hasn't noticed, too preoccupied with kissing your lower stomach and squeezing your thighs - but it's an intense feeling, finally being in a moment that you've tried so hard to stop imagining. Reiner huffs a small laugh in return against your abdomen.

"You're stunning. In anything.", he says, just before he lays a kiss to your pussy through the material of your underwear. He must feel the wetness because he groans, too loud, and then he licks. You gasp. Even that small action feels so much better than your own fingers ever have. Visions fill your head: sitting on the edge of his desk, watching him eat you out, those huge hands holding your hips in place until the skin bruises, those beautiful eyes staring up from between your legs - he twines his fingers into yours, and brings them to the waistband of your underwear. You catch the hint right as he leans back into the chair again.

Stripping in front of him puts a lump in your throat. Rei is kind but he's huge, especially when he's spread out in his chair like that, with a sweat-slicked broad chest and thick thighs and a bulge that you worry might actually tear through his trousers, and you feel so vulnerable to do this just in front of him, where he can reach out and swallow you up at any moment. It's so incredibly hot. There's no need to put on a show. He watches you as though you're the most beautiful thing in the world anyway. You do it for him regardless, though, as well as you can. You take it slow, being sure to drag your hands over your thighs in a way that feels silly and sensual all at once. When the lace reaches your knees, his hand is there next to yours, and you take it for balance as you step out of your underwear completely.

"Fuck...", he remarks under his breath. His thumb traces absent circles over the back of your hand while he drinks in the sight of you. Perhaps it's because of the dim lighting, the room lit only by a few candles and a lamp in the corner, but you feel like he looks at you too hard, for too long, for someone who isn't supposed to care about you. Your stomach lurches and you feel your inner thighs begin to become wet. You won't take this from him, or yourself, not when the dark look in his eyes is making your pussy clench like this. He holds your hand the entire time he looks at you. "So pretty. C'mere."

Instantly, you're settling back on top of him. The fog in your mind means you don't even question how compliantly you react to his baritone. His left hand snakes around your back again to hold you steady, and you're not quite sure if your hand guides the other to your inner thighs, or if he does it of his own accord. Either way, he's ghosting calloused fingertips over the damp skin there as soon as you make yourself comfortable. "Ah- please.", you whimper.

Reiner probably doesn't mean to tease you, but you need him, you need something to touch you before you go insane. You plead with him again, saying his name this time, and he swallows thickly. The sound that leaves your mouth when he runs a finger up your slit is pitiful. He responds so well, though, repeating the action a few more times before he pulls his hand away. "You're so wet, god."

His voice is rougher than you could ever have imagined. Another clench of your pussy, and you see his eyes widen at the strings of wetness connecting his thick fingers. Your own tone comes out far too high and shaky. "You just - I can't help it, you make me feel... something, I don't know, I-", and it tapers off into a senseless whine when his fingers start to trace lines over your pussy again.

"Relax, angel. Gonna make you feel good like you deserve, I promise.". The reassurance is murmured between your breasts, where he's licking away the salty dampness rapidly collecting there - Reiner clearly wants all of you, every part of you, just as much as you want him. He keeps up the motion for a little longer, spreading your wetness around, until your clit swells up so much that it catches on his finger every time he passes over it. Each gentle bump drags another stifled gasp out of you. No one can know you're here, no one can know that Reiner's grabbing the flesh of your ass and rubbing your pussy, but he sure as hell doesn't make it easy for you.

This time, he doesn't run his finger straight over your clit. He stops moving as soon as your body reacts to the touch - he's right on the most sensitive part of you, and he presses with the smallest bit of pressure, just enough to have you grasping wildly at his shoulders for something to ground yourself on. You're so worked up that it feels more incredible than you would ever have imagined. He's so perfect and good to you, and he doesn't stop there: he begins to trace slow, steady circles directly onto your clit - your body jerks of its own accord, but his forearm around your waist is big and strong enough to pin your hips in place against his hand.

"Oh- Rei-", you moan. You definitely see his cock twitch. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but you're pretty sure you can see a considerable damp spot forming on his trousers, too.

"God. I always knew you'd sound pretty."

The rasped confession has your hips trying to buck again. Reiner's finger starts to move a little faster. The increased pleasure means you're faced with moaning too loud and getting caught, or finding some other way to occupy your mouth. You're panting when you ask, "You've... thought about doing this?"

"Yeah. Too much. I- I'm sorry-", Reiner admits as he mouths your nipples, sounding hardly sorry at all. You envision him fisting his cock to the thought of you right as his middle finger leaves your clit and pushes inside you to the first knuckle,"-I couldn't help myself, I never can around you."

"Shi- I think about you too.". Mewling, your upper body collapses so it's leaning against Reiner's strong torso, your lips against his temple, his head buried in your neck, his arm keeping you steady as he works his finger into you. Senseless blabbering is all you can manage, spilling your filthy secrets into his ear without an ounce of shame. "When I touch myself. I - oh-", turning your face into his hair when his finger catches on that sweet spot inside you, "- I think about you, I always imagine it's you, your fingers, your cock-"

His finger finally, finally is fully inside you, although Reiner is already eagerly pushing another into you; this one makes you feel the stretch, hot and full in a way that even three of your own fingers can never achieve. Shuddering, another moan of his name, clawing at his shoulders - your body welcomes him even if it's a difficulty, gushing more wetness onto his palm until he starts to scissor his large fingers inside of you, stretching you out until tears are pricking your eyes in protest of how good it feels.

"Wish we could do this where no one else could hear."-and so do you, you want Reiner to know just how good he's making you feel- "You sound so pretty. Do you... think you can take it..?", he mumbles, and you know he's talking about his cock, inside you - two of his fingers have you writhing, so the thought of his cock has your eyes rolling back in your head. He crooks his fingers onto your sweet spot right as you open your mouth, almost like he wants the risk of you being too loud and getting caught.

"Please, Reiner, I want to!", you respond a breathy whine, all of it rushing out of you at once before he can catch your g-spot again. You start to snake a hand into the cramped, hot space between your torsos. All you can think of is how good he'll feel when he's inside you. "Let me-"

"Not yet.", he groans, curling his fingers again, and again, not stopping, and he sounds genuinely authoritative for the first time. Your body goes weak, but you'd stop moving for him anyway. "Come on my fingers first. Wanna get you nice and wet before you take me, okay?"

"Fuck-", you cry. The motion on your most sensitive spot just isn't stopping, he's found where he wants to be - the callouses on his fingers are making the friction even more perfect, especially when he brings his thumb to retrace those slow circles on your clit. He keeps it steady for a few minutes - could be hours, or seconds, all you know is that it feels too good to care - and the pressure inside you is becoming something else. Reiner is taking his time with every motion, but that's exactly what's bringing you to the edge so fast. His fingers are so thick and the pressure on your clit is so good, that's it, you're starting to shake in the kind of way that leads up to an orgasm that makes you go blank in the head. You fold into the way he holds you and you let go.

Rei lets a strained grunt out. "That's it, come on, you're taking it so well. You're dripping onto my leg, that's exactly what I want, my angel.". So wet that he can feel it through his trousers, it's so humiliating and Reiner obviously loves it so much because he groans again when you start to clench on his fingers, picking up the pace of his movements and you can hear how wet you are and it must be all over his bare forearm-

"I'm gonna-", you try to warn him: he coaxes you into it, come on, please and you cum hard.

The behinds of your eyelids go white, or black, you have no way to tell. Your entire body feels weightless, grounded only by his arm around you, and his fingers must keep curling inside of you because the waves of pleasure don't stop, they just keep coming, hitting you until every part of your body is alight and molten for him, and you're very vaguely aware of your own hand covering your mouth. It takes longer to come down from it than it's ever taken you.

Then again, no one has ever ripped an orgasm that strong out of you.

"Are you okay?", Reiner asks. His fingers are no longer inside. He's rubbing soothing patterns into your inner thighs, and either your thighs are soaked or his hand is; your muscles feel like jelly, but you just about manage to support your own weight again, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. There's wetness on your cheeks, maybe tears, and Reiner looks at you with clear concern through blown pupils. It's so endearing and sexy that you have to smile. It must relax him, given how he returns it with a soft one of his own - you notice marks on his lower lip, like he bit it to hold back a sound, perhaps.

You kiss him softly to soothe the pain, whispering into his mouth, "Can I have you inside, now, Rei?". His hands come to grip your waist hard. You know how you must sound to him: fucked out after his fingers alone, speech slurred and pitchy from the aftershocks of your orgasm, asking for his cock. And yet, he still waits for you.

"...Are you sure you want me?". You nod in response. He picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, not even letting out a breath of exertion, and your shaky legs wrap instinctively around him as he stands from the chair. For a moment, Rei just holds you there, kissing you with an indescribable, soft kind of intensity, letting you run your hands over the biceps and triceps that aren't even straining with the effort of holding you. His bed is close, but obviously too far away for him, so he places you down onto the edge of his desk. You separate from the kiss, only meaning to glance down to adjust yourself - falling off the desk would be a great way to kill the mood - when you see it.

"Oh - oh my god, the window is open..!"

It makes sense; he knows you don't like a hot room, he's kept his window open in the evenings ever since you told him that weeks ago. Why didn't you check? Everyone else should be asleep by now, but... Porco's room is so close to Reiner's, and if he's somehow awake with his own window open - you move to hop off the desk. Reiner cups your cheek in his hand, drawing your gaze back to him, and suddenly all thoughts about the stupid window disappear.

"It's okay.", he promises. "They won't hear if we're careful. I'm going to be so careful and slow with you, I swear."

God. You look down and you're reminded of exactly why you're so worked up - there is definitely a wet spot on his trousers, he must be leaking for you, and the thought of that cock slowly working you open drives you to start fumbling with his zipper. This is the first time your hands have been near that bulge and they look positively tiny in comparison. You worry if he's going to fit, briefly, but Reiner promised to be careful and you're more than ready for him. Without even bothering to fully remove his slacks and underwear - you just tug them down to his upper thighs - you're met with the full sight of him.

It's so much bigger than you would have thought, even generously, fuck; you're pretty sure your jaw actually drops when it springs free from his underwear, slapping against his taut abdomen. It's long, enough to make your mouth water, with a nice, prominent vein on the underside, but the most impressive part of him is the thickness. Even the head is fat, curved upwards somewhat, and he's leaking so much that a bead of precum rolls down his cock within seconds. You rip your eyes away to look up at him and, somehow, he looks embarrassed. You can't stand to see him like that, not when every part of him is so perfect and handsome, so you wrap your hand around his cock and begin to stroke gently.

Your fingers just barely touch around his girth. His precum slicks your palm, though, making it easy enough to set a nice, slow pace of pumping him, watching how his brow instantly furrows. "Holy shit - ah, use both hands, sweetheart, please -". Reiner doesn't need to ask twice: you spit into your other palm to offer him even more slick, then bring it to join the other, relishing in the choked gasp he makes. Even stroking him with two hands, there's so much of him you can't hold at once.

He's beautiful, you think, with gritted teeth and head thrown back. Right now, you could happily stroke him for as long as he wants, as long as he needs to spill himself all over your hands, but he only grants you a few short moments and a low hiss before he's carefully pulling your hands away.

After a kiss to the knuckles of each hand, he cups the back of your head and leans over you, bringing your back flat against the desk. "Lie back, just like that.", and your legs wrap around his waist without having to be told. There's the briefest flash in his eyes, a feral glint when you tug him closer using your thighs, but then it's gone, and he's tenderly holding your head so it doesn't rest directly on the hard wood of the desk. "Want you to look at me when I'm filling you up, okay? So I know you're okay. Can you do that for me?"

Reiner is going to fuck you, you realise. He really is going to be inside you. This isn't a dream, not the fantasy you have when you're touching yourself after returning to your own room. Reiner is above you, pumping his cock in his fist, staring at your aching cunt as he does it.

"Anything.", you whisper. He dips his head to kiss you once more, then props himself up on his elbow so he can watch your face. The first brush of his cock against your core has your hips bucking, rolling, rubbing yourself up and down his length like a bitch in heat, and he lets you do it, looking into your eyes and smiling when his cock head catches on your hole. Your ankles lace behind his back to pull him down onto you, just as his hips make the first small thrust, and suddenly he's inside you.

It can only be the first inch or so, maybe not even all of the head, but it hurts and you have to bite down on a cry of his name. It hurts and it feels amazing. Nothing has ever stretched you out so much, and you can feel yourself dripping, trying so hard to accommodate him, because your body needs him just as much as you want him; Reiner groans at the first spasm of your walls, much louder than he should be with an open window, but who gives a fuck if Porco hears - it hurts but you nod for him to keep pushing, go deeper, stretch you out around all of his cock.

Reiner begins to pant once he gets the second inch in, going slow for both of your sakes, sweat beading at his temples. "God, you're so - tight-", as he stuffs more into you, watching you whimper and watching your eyes roll into your skull, "-like you're..made for my cock, huh, fuck-"

His voice dissolves into a growl by the end. You roll your hips, all the way up off the desk, and the movement has even more of him inside you. "Oh." You moan, and you think you're tearing up again. Reiner kisses at the edge of your eyes. The sensation is so perfectly overwhelming, the slow drag of his cock as it threatens to split you open, and coupled with the sounds he's making on top of you you're in total bliss.

Both of you go on like that for a while, slowly rolling your hips against each other and stifling noises as well as you can. Marks left on his back by your nails can be hidden, and the red-hot kisses he peppers over your tear-streaked face will fade away. By the time the tight fight has stopped hurting - still intense, maybe too much, but only good - his hips are flush with yours, and he's completely still. His free hand yet again keeps your hips from bucking. You've done it, you realise. You've taken all of his cock and it feels incredible. But he won't move.

Reiner barely starts to speak before you're begging. "Does it feel good-"

"So good, Rei, so fucking good - you can start moving, please."

He doesn't need any further encouragement; the first thrust is shallow, slow, only pulling out a few inches before working his way back into you. Still, when his hips bump against yours again, there's a sharp flash inside of you and he's actually hitting your cervix, fuck, you gasp so loud that he has to muffle it with his tongue in your open mouth. He holds it there for a few seconds before repeating the motion, letting himself fall into a rhythm as you pant and sob into his mouth with each thrust, clutching desperately at his back while every thrust gets deeper. Within a few minutes, he's pulling out almost to the tip each time - only the thick head left to fill you - before slowly, slowly pushing back in.

"You're taking me so well, my angel.", Reiner praises through a ragged breath. Even fucking you slow, he's struggling to contain himself. "You feel so good around me."

"Then, go fa-faster, Reiner, please - I can take it, I promise, just-!"

His hips snap against yours like a gunshot and you're completely filled again in a heartbeat. Your cunt clenches around him as you moan, throwing your head back, and Reiner collapses onto you. His body covers you completely even as he keeps the weight off by leaning on his forearm, letting you feel the drag of your nipples against his skin when he stuffs you with his cock so quick again, he's kissing your jaw and now you have nothing to silence your cries with other than your own hand, heaving for breath through your fingers as he starts to rut into you. The fingers on your hip pull you against him every time he bottoms out, pushing his cock even deeper, and you think you feel him smile against your neck when you gasp, "God, you're so deep."

The faster, frantic pace means that the room is filled with the sound of his skin slapping against yours, especially when you ask him to go harder and stop holding back, Rei, because you can take everything he has to give you. That perfect curve near the head of his length keeps catching on your g-spot - Reiner knows how to find it, he's hitting it too often for it to be an accident, angling his hips just so and matching each of your moans with one of his own. He must get off on watching you come undone underneath him, falling apart on his cock, you think, because you feel him pulse inside you every time you brokenly sob his name.

"This what you need? Am I giving you what you want, huh, sweetheart?", he rasps and it's not demeaning or teasing, he means it, he really means it- "Am I making you feel as good as you deserve?"

A particularly deep thrust has your toes curling at his back. "'S so good, yeah, feels so good, wanted you for so long-"

Your speech is slurring from the shocks of pleasure he's sending through you. Between the jolts to your cervix, the constant pressure on your g-spot, the way his body is rubbing against your clit with each rapid thrust of his hips - his lips on your neck and his grunts in your ear - you're going to cum again, you tell him, and he shoves himself up off the desk to stand upright. The change in position has your legs falling away from his back, and you scramble pathetically to adjust your hips so his cock will be deeper again, but his hands catch your thighs and easily overpower you. Both forearms slip underneath your knees, so your legs are hanging over his arms, and his hands grab either side of your hips to slam you back onto his cock.

"Holy shit- you feel even tighter like this, does that feel good? C'mon, answer me, tell me it feels good, please-"

"Yes!", you sob, and you can't give him any more than that because having your legs raised means he's right on your g-spot: all you can do is stare up at him through bleary eyes and admire how good he looks. His abs clench with every thrust, and his arms look so big holding your legs up like that. God, you're so close, just a little more - you reach down to play with your clit but Reiner pushes your hand away and pleads, "No-" and one of his hands slips around your leg to find it himself. Of course he finds it, you're so swollen for him, and he's rolling it between two fingers before you can clap your palm back over your mouth. You all but squeal his name.

"That's it, sweetheart, that - that's it, fuck, clench around me, please, want you to cum again, wanna feel you cum on my cock-", he says. You just barely hear him through the pounding in your head and the sound of your own desperate panting, and god you want to please him, you'd do anything for him, this is all for him, remember, so even though you don't know if your body can handle it, you nod. You shove your own fingers into your mouth to keep yourself quiet, the ones that he was dripping precum over when you stroked his cock, and you let Reiner slam into your g-spot and rub and pinch your clit until you're coming again.

Reiner doesn't slow down, he doesn't stop toying with your clit, he keeps telling you how perfect you feel when you squeeze him like that - you somehow feel and hear it all even though you can't understand anything other than the fire spreading through your nerves and into your limbs, consuming every part of you as he keeps fucking you - it's so intense that it doesn't last more than a few seconds, it can't, it's too much, you're starting to drool around your fingers when you come down - and then he tells you he's close in the loudest moan you've heard yet, and you're coming again-

You come back to your senses trembling, boneless and crying with pleasure. "Gonna cum for you.", he says, pressing down on where his cock bulges through your stomach. "You did so well for me.", and it takes everything you have to reach out for him. Reiner pushes your legs down to your chest so he can interlace his fingers with yours: you're almost sure you're still coming because your body spasms under him, your throat constricting in a soundless cry, but you don't take your eyes off him. He keeps you safe in his gaze for the final few thrusts, and then he takes your hand down with his as he pulls out, and together you stroke his cock so he can spill himself all over your stomach.

There's so much, you dully register. You don't watch because you're too caught up in his face, how his brow finally relaxes and his lips part so nicely, how he looks so at peace and so happy. You don't watch but you definitely feel his cum on your body. It's all over your stomach and chest by the time he finally stops stroking, finally opens his eyes again. It's strange: he must have fucked you so silly that you think he's looking at you like man in love.

A man in love, and covered in sweat, and exhausted. You smile despite yourself. "'S heavy. Get off."

Reiner lays a kiss to your forehead before doing as you say, leaving you to close your eyes and recover on the desk. He has a washbasin in the corner, you recall, when you hear the noise of water: he must be cleaning himself off. Then, the sound of footsteps, coming back towards you. He sounds tired and hesitant when he says, "...Do you want me to clean you...?"

For some reason, you blush. You've just had sex with Reiner - for his sake, you remind yourself, to let him know that it's okay to feel things again - and yet you're embarrassed over that simple offer. Then again, you only came here tonight to talk, to offer him some comfort on a day that you suspected had been a bad one. Sex is one thing: against the rules, but forgivable, a way for him to get rid of some of his frustrations and get his mind back on the mission. That's what you'll tell them, if they ever come asking. The intimacy of cleaning each other is a different matter entirely.

But no one ever has to know. Neither of you will ever tell the others that you're doing this, right? "Please.", you whisper, and you keep your eyes closed as if it makes it okay. Your brain is still heavy and fogged, but you don't miss how carefully and tenderly he touches you as he wipes you down - such a big man, being so gentle with you even now. You wouldn't blame him for asking you to leave now. In all good sense, this was a mistake, one that neither of you should speak of again, and it's in both of your best interests to move on as fast as possible. He won't have to know when you remember this night when you-

Reiner calls your name, and you reluctantly open your eyes. It's selfish, but you don't want this to end. He must have finished cleaning you and discarded of the washcloth, because he's already changed into a fresh pair of sleep pants, and he's holding up a shirt to you. You take it with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, Reiner. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have come onto you. I've put you in a bad position and I really am sorry. I won't tell anyone that this happened.". The words pain you to say, but you know that you should apologise, and you give him a sad smile as you pull the shirt over your head. It's only when you catch the scent that you realise that this isn't your shirt - it's his. The questioning look you shoot him when your head pops out is met with a hand offered to you.

"I... meant what I said about wanting you. Not just for sex.", he says, although he looks scared to say it. "You mean more to me than that, you know. You make me feel like I'm more than what I've done. I know it's wrong, but-"

"-it's not wrong!", you blurt, and Reiner's eyes widen like he was expecting you to agree with him. "You are more than what you had to do, okay? I promise. To me, none of that matters, because I know you're a good person at heart. All of us know it."

That little interjection is exactly what you've been telling him for months. This might be the first time he looks as though he's beginning to believe it. You take his hand, smiling as much as you can even though you're still fighting the shame of what you just did, and Reiner says, "Stay here for a few hours - please. You'll sleep better, my room isn't as warm. Go back to your room before wakeup call. No one has to know.". He leads you to the bed and he lets you hold him, and you pretend that you don't hear him crying when he thinks you're asleep, or how he whispers that he thinks he might be in love.

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x you #reiner braun smut #reiner smut #attack on titan #attack on titan smut #attack on titan x reader #aot #aot x reader #aot smut #shingeki no kyoujin #snk #snk x reader #snk x you #snk smut #reiner x reader

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monicashipsnickyjoe · 4 years ago

Text

soulmate/modern au

Nicky has a nervousness about him that he’s never been able to explain. He keeps feeling like something’s missing. Like he’s forgotten the name of an important thing and it’s sitting, impatient, at the tip of his tongue. He can’t recall. Or he doesn’t know. It’s all terribly confusing, and so, so frustrating.

He’ll walk down the street, see a family of duckings that makes him smile, and turn to his right to tell... someone. No one’s there.

Sometimes, when he’s tired, he’ll order two coffees at the shop on the corner, making one much sweeter than he likes it. Only when he walks away does he remember he’s alone.

When his friends encourage him, he goes to bars. He meets men, and occasionally he will let them touch his arm or his shoulder or his thigh from the bar stool beside his. Sometimes, he lets them kiss him. Never, is he able to ignore the feeling of wrong that prickles over his skin and twists in his stomach. Always, he leaves without them. If he has their number, he will delete it before he gets home.

Tonight, he cooks at the stove. He doesn’t realize he’s made any mistakes until, holding two plates, he thinks of something Booker said at work and turns, ready to share. There are two chairs at Nicky’s table. Both are empty. Nicky looks at his hands, and cursing, leaves one plate on the counter and takes the other into the living room. He sits on the couch, plate on his lap, and turns up the sound on the tv until he forgets that he’s forgotten.

The next morning, on his way to work, he sees a selection of sketchpads in an art store window. He buys one, and a set of charcoals. He carries the bag proudly until he gets to the office, to the cubicle he shares with Booker, and realizes with a deep sigh and heavy frown that he does not draw.

Booker looks at the bag, then at him. He lifts one lone brow. “You start taking art classes?”

Groaning, Nicky throws the bag under the desk and collapses into the chair. Whatever this is, it’s getting worse. What started as tri-monthly slip-ups are turning into daily routines. “Maybe I should see a doctor,” Nicky says.

“Maybe.” Booker scratches his chin. Behind him, on his computer screen, a game of solitaire is opened over the report he is supposed to be writing. “Or it could just be what it obviously is.”

“Don’t start.”

“Soulmates, Nicky,” Booker says.

Nicky rolls his eyes. “Be serious.”

Booker swivels his chair the whole way toward Nicky and leans forward. “I am serious.” He’s not smirking. That is his serious face.

But soulmates?

“I’d have better odds at the lottery,” Nicky says. He’s seen thousands of soulbonds... in movies. To find one in real life is a one in a billion chance. More, perhaps. Nicky is just a regular guy with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy he doesn’t use, a desk job that he hates, and a caffeine addiction. Normal. Boring. Not near special enough to catch the attention of another person’s soul.

“Maybe you should play the numbers, then.” Booker twists his chair back toward his desk.

“Soulmates,” Nicky huffs. He shucks off his coat and starts his computer. “Ridiculous.”

Across town, Joe has purchased two coffees, one much too bitter for him. When he realizes, he’s so excited, he nearly drops them both. He stops on the street, places both coffees on the ledge of a windowsill, and opens his phone.

“Nile,” he says before she even finishes saying, “Hello?”

“It happened again.” Joe can’t stop laughing. “That makes everyday this week!”

“That’s great, Joe.”

“Do you think I’ll meet him soon?” Joe bounces on his feet. “If it’s happening everyday, then surely -”

“Maybe? I mean, who knows? There’s not a lot of concrete info on this stuff,” Nile says. There’s a yawn in her voice. He woke her - again. They go to the same college - Nile for the first time, Joe for the second - but their shared classes aren’t until the afternoon. He feels a little bad about it now. It dampens his spirits somewhat. “Except movies, but who knows if those are right.”

Joe tries to reel in his excitement. “Right. Of course.”

Nile must be able to tell, because she immediately perks, brightening her voice. “But, Joe. If it takes a little time, it will be worth it, right? He’s out there. You just have to find him.”

“Thank you, Nile.” Joe’s smile presses his cheek tightly to his phone. “I am sorry I woke you.”

“Swing by, bring me that coffee, and we’ll call it even.”

“I promise.” Joe hangs up.

He thinks of the groceries that stock his cabinets at home. More pasta than he’s ever needed before.

He thinks of the book of Roman philosophers that he purchased that now sits on his coffee table, waiting.

He smiles at a family of ducklings he sees by a pond, and turns, ready to tell the person beside him. No one is there.

Yet.

“Soulmates,” Joe tells the ducks. “Amazing.”

The following day, it’s raining when Nicky leaves the office. He doesn’t have an umbrella, so with a lengthy sigh, he hunches his shoulders and presses forward. The rain is cold on the back of his neck and he shivers. But once you are wet, you can’t be more wet, so there is some comfort in that.

He makes it to the bus stop and sneezes.

“Bless you,” says the man already there, standing beside the soaked bench. He has a blue umbrella open, hiding his face, and another, this one green, closed, tucked under his arm.

“Grazie,” Nicky says and wipes his nose with his sleeve. It’s damp, but so is everything.

The blue umbrella shifts up a little. Nicky looks the other way, down the street, for the bus. Something nudges him in the side. He looks, and it’s the handle of the spare, green umbrella.

“May I tell you a story,” the man offering it says. Nicky looks up into a pair of warm brown eyes and with a wide, welcoming smile. Soft-looking curls cover his head, and a well-groomed beard rounds his face. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath. Paint splotches cover both, in a rainbow of colors.

Nicky, stunned by this man’s beauty, can only nod. The man moves the umbrella, poking him again, and Nicky takes it. He doesn’t open it, though, he can’t get his hands to cooperate.

“I saw the weather report this morning,” the man says, voice so bright and happy, it warms Nicky up from the inside out. “And I grabbed two umbrellas before I left the house. Two. I didn’t even think about it until I walked into the studio and my friend noticed.”

He’s looking at Nicky and Nicky should say something. He tries, “That’s interesting.”

The man looks at the umbrella in Nicky’s hands, at the way he’s clutching it and not opening it. He takes a step closer, so that his open blue umbrella covers them both.

This close, Nicky can only see freckles.

“I have a question to ask,” the man says, “and I really hope the answer is yes.”

Nicky swallows hard. He nods.

“Do you like bitter coffee, pasta, and philosophy?”

Nicky’s breath catches in his throat. It cannot be possible, but... if it is. And if it is this man... Nicky’s heart leaps out of his chest with hope.

He clears his throat, he must find words now. “Do you...” Nicky stops and tries again. “Are you an artist, do you like things too sweet, and do you notice the ducklings?”

If Nicky thought this man’s smile was bright before, he was mistaken. For now, it is a beaming sun, pushing back all the gray.

“I love the ducklings,” the man says.

Any moment now, Nicky will awake, having fallen asleep at his desk, and Booker will mock him.

Instead, the voice in Nicky’s heart whispers, This one, and he knows.

The man reaches out a hand and places it on Nicky’s chest. Nicky must look like hell, drenched in rain, but this man stares at him with open reverence like he can see the moon in his eyes.

“Hello, my heart,” the man says. “I have been looking for you.”

Nicky’s having trouble with full sentences again, so he takes a step closer instead.

“My shared soul,” the man continues, speaking for them both now. He knows the words Nicky’s heart whispers. “My light. My warmth.”

He motions to himself, then. “Joe.”

Nicky does the same. “Nicky.”

“Nicky,” Joe repeats, and it takes all Nicky has not to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk, ready to be washed away with the rain.

“Joe,” Nicky says, and it’s sudden relief. The word he could never quite remember right there on the tip of his tongue. He says it again, loving the feel of it in his mouth. “Joe.”

It’s perfect. It’s everything.

Later, Nicky will cook the pasta in Joe’s cabinets, and Joe will sketch Nicky with the charcoal.

For now, Nicky places his hand over Joe’s on his chest and knows he’s home.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #nicky x joe #soulmate au #modern au #artist joe #finding each other :)#two halves of a whole #fluff #this is really only fluff lol #booker is here and so is nile

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axwalker · 3 years ago

Text

Jealousy--One Shot

Book: The Royal Romance, Book 2. Engagement Tour.

Pairing: Drake Walker x Alexis O’Brien (MC)

WORDS: I’m using my WD golden ticket so 3,000 words.

POV: Dual

TRIGGER WARNINGS: SMUT!! 🍋🍋🍋 A very frustrating Drake and Alexis.

ALL MY FICS ARE +18 !!!!

I’m participating in the @wackydrabbles prompts. This week’s prompt is “I can’t do this anymore.”

I apologize for any grammatical errors.

Tags in the comments ;)

DRAKE

Standing next to my window, I admire the Roman ruins of the Palatine hills as the royal train rolls into Rome. I’ve always loved Italy, but something about this trip is getting to me. It might be the woman occupying the cabin next to mine. It might be the fact that my best friend is almost as crazy about her as I am. Almost. He can’t possibly care for her the way I do. I down the rest of my glass and pick up a simple shirt and a pair of pants for tonight’s banquet. Fuck the black tie.

Since O’Brien came back to court, I tried to avoid her as much as I could. As a result, I’d cut off a leg tonight just to lay eyes on her again. I crave her like a drug. I spent the last few days debating with myself, and each day I grow a little more desperate, my arguments growing wilder and less probable by the minute. “Maybe” is how every single thought began, each one borne of desperation. Maybe I can make Liam understand that I’m crazy about the woman he loves. Maybe he’ll understand that I’ve been lying for months. Maybe Alexis will realize that she wants a quiet life with me. It’s a weakness on my part; I just need to get through this banquet without giving into it.

Thank God there’s a bar. I’m going to need something to make this experience tolerable. I grab a whiskey and drink half of it before I even head to my table. I’m halfway there when my eyes meet Kiara’s. She’s been leaving me flirty messages since we built the barn to celebrate Liam’s engagement. She’s a beautiful and smart woman but I couldn’t be less interested.

“Come with me,” she says, pulling at my elbow. “I saved you a seat.”

At that very moment, Lexie walks in. She’s wearing a red silk dress that matches her lips, pours over her curves, and reveals only a hint of cleavage while allowing you to imagine what you can’t see too fucking easily. Her hair falls over her shoulders and down her back, highlighting her long neck and her gorgeous face. As always, I seem to settle on her mouth. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her wear red lipstick before, and, for some reason, this opens an entire box of fantasies. I want to see it soiled. To kiss her so hard that neither of us can breathe. To pull back and find that mouth ajar, panting, the lipstick a red blur around the edges., I want it so badly I’m not sure how I’ll get through the goddamn night without having it. My hands sliding that silk dress over her head, learning every inch of her the way I’ve dreamed about for months. Except right now, Lexie’s eyes are fixed on the point where Kiara’s arm is linked with mine, and her expression—sad and wounded—is like a knife to my chest. I step away from Kiara, grabbing my drink and draining it. “I’m sitting with Maxwell and Olivia,” I tell her firmly.

“Doesn’t Lexie look gorgeous?” Max asks. My eyes move across the room again. Her red dress shimmers, sticks on her curves. `

“She looks like she needs more clothes,” I complain.

“Olivia helped her choose that dress,” Max says with a brow arched. “It fits her like a glove.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “That’s sort of the problem.”

My gaze is still on her, though. Moving up from her hips to her waist to her breasts, back up to that mouth of hers. I picture it again; the lipstick smeared, her breathless under me. And then a single hand cups her hip bone, visible through the thin silk, and I’m ejected from my fantasy at high speed. My lust transforms into rage in a single breath. Fucking Signore Francesco Lombardi. When everyone finally takes their seats, I discover that she and Francesco are at the table on the other side of mine, giving me a painfully direct view of the two of them. Whenever she stands, his eyes are on her, devouring her. He paws at her when she returns, jumping to pull out her chair but managing to get his fucking hands over approximately sixty percent of her body when he does it. And if he tries to look down her dress one more time, I’m definitely taking him out. I don’t give a fuck about our diplomatic relationships with Italy. I go to the bar again and ask for another glass of Macallan. Tonight it’s either get drunk or completely lose my shit in front of hundreds of witnesses. Pretentious food and great speeches are given out that I don’t notice. She is more real to me than anything in this room or out of it, the only thing I can see. No one knows her fears like I do. No one knows how fragile she really is, how deeply sweet. How funny and smart and kind. But I know. And for all the fighting we’ve done, there aren’t two people in this room as made for each other as the two of us. My world is constructed entirely of rules about what I owe Liam –my education, my career, and so many other things. But somehow, it excludes the only thing that matters to me. Her. If it weren’t for how Liam feels about her, she’d be here with me tonight. I watch her say something to Liam, and he nods, his eyes telling her how he feels. Jealousy runs through my veins.

“Enough,” I say quietly as I stand. I don’t know what possesses me to follow her. I know, with every bone in my body, that I have no claim on her. But I saw that look in Liam’s eyes, the one that says he’ll do anything for her, and I found myself on my feet. She’s halfway down the hall by the time I reach her. She looks over her shoulder warily when she hears me, but she is too late. I’m already there. I grab her elbow before she has time to react and pull her into an empty office. She stiffens and pulls back, ready as always to fight. Eyes flashing and hands on her hips. Seething before I’ve even said a word. “You have no right to—” That’s when I cup her jaw and capture that mouth I’ve longed for the whole goddamn night.

ALEXIS

His mouth comes down on mine, demolishing my pathetic attempt to object. He seizes it thoroughly, with such certainty, as if he’s spent his entire life practicing for this precise moment. His hands raking back through my hair, his tongue finding mine as he presses against me. His mouth moves over my neck, and he groans, a noise of both despair and satisfaction.

“You didn’t want me a week ago, but now you do?” I start to push back, but he holds me tight against him.

“I just don’t want you stuck in a shitty ranch with a poor veterinarian when it all ends. It was never about not wanting you.” I know there are other reasons why I’m supposed to object, but they escape me. I’ve wanted this too long, his hands on my body, my skin pressed against his, and his mouth creating a trail of kisses down my neck. It’s right. I’ve known nothing in my life with such certainty as the fact that nothing in the world matters more to me. His hands move from my hips to my breasts, and then he pulls one strap of my dress down, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses over my shoulder and collarbone, almost reverently. Nipping with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. He pulls the dress down to my waist, unclasps my bra with a single hand. He cups my breasts, bringing his mouth to them in the same way, sharp and sweet at once and creating a need in me so intense that it borders on pain. I gasp and arch toward him, submitting entirely as my head falls backward against the wall. He pulls back just enough to see my face. His chocolate eyes are dark now as he searches mine, looking there for something he desperately needs. Permission. He wants permission. As if I’d ever tell him no.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

“You’re sure?” His voice is gruff with desire. And when I nod, he pushes the dress over my hips and allows it to slide to the floor. His hands follow, skating over my hips, down my thighs, and I stand before him now in nothing but panties and heels. “That fucking dress nearly killed me,” he says, smoothing my skin as he kisses me again. He pushes against me, his shirt against my bare skin, his erection pressed hard to my stomach, a quick pulse there as if he is desperate for friction. He slides his index finger under the elastic of my panties. The moment he touches me, my whole body jolts.

“Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “You’re already soaked.” His finger slips back and forth, lightly, in torturous circles before it pushes inside me.

“Oh God,” I whisper, my body bowing toward him. He adds a second finger, and this time his groan is louder than mine.

“Jesus, Lex,” he growls. “You’re going to be the end of me.”

I unclasp his belt and unzip his pants reaching down to pull him from the confines of his boxers. He is thick and heavy in my hands, hissing as my fingers wrap around him, tugging gently.

“Stop,” he exhales after a minute. “I’m not gonna last if you do that, and there are so many things I want to do to you first.”

He pushes my panties down and lifts me up almost simultaneously, turning to deposit me on the table behind us. He kisses me once, hard. “Lie back,” he commands. He drops to his knees, spreading my legs so I’m displayed before him. Suddenly, his fingers are joined by quick swipes of his tongue.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Drake … just—”

His mouth and tongue lick and brush and pull, creating flames that begin there and spread all the way to my toes. I try to move, but his free hand clamps down on my thigh, holding me in place.

“I’ve dreamed about doing this every goddamn night for months, Alexis. So let me.”

I can’t even nod in agreement because suddenly, everything inside me is building so quickly that I can’t tell where I am or where I’m going.

“Oh,” I gasp. And then his fingers push inside me and I explode with a cry of ecstasy and surprise, arching against his mouth. He doesn’t pull back, but instead slides his hands beneath my legs and tugs me closer, buries his face to create wave after wave of something I never thought would happen in the first place.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. He leans over to kiss me and when he does, I wrap my legs around his waist, bringing him against me so suddenly that he gasps in my mouth.

“Lexie,” he groans.

“Please,” I whisper. It seems impossible for anyone to be more satisfied than I am now, yet I still need the very thing Drake wants most, the thing he is so sure he shouldn’t give. He looks tortured and pulls back, but I tighten around him, pressing him against me. “Don’t even think about stopping right now.” He shifts his hips just enough that he is pressing right there, not inside me but mere seconds away from it. In a single pulse, he could be buried deep inside me.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice tight. “Do we need …”

“No,” I beg. “Just do it. I’m on the pill.”

He pushes in, barely. He’s so thick that already I’m stretched to the point of pain.

“Oh fuck, Lexie,” he whispers. “God, that’s so good. Just give me a minute, or this is going to be over before it starts.”

Finally, he moves once more, going slowly, a low noise deep in his chest as he finally shoves all the way in.

“Are you okay?” he asks between clenched teeth. I nod as I adjust to the size of him, pain still outweighing the pleasure. It’s when he starts to withdraw that the pain recedes as a burst of pleasure sucks the air from my lungs. It feels too good, something so vast and all-consuming it can’t possibly end well. I never finish this way but oh my God… If it were ever going to happen, it would be now. His next thrust is faster, more certain, but he stops entirely at my sharp inhale. “Did I hurt you, baby?” he asks.

“No.” He didn’t hurt me. He stunned me. His strokes come slow and rhythmic then, as he leans over, finding my mouth with the table bracing his weight, his arms taut. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long,” he says, holding still inside me.

“Keep going,” I beg. “Don’t stop.”

“Patience,” he grins. “You have no idea how hard it is not to come right now.”

I grab his ass and push upward, ignoring his warning, thrilling at the low grunt he makes. “Alexis,” he growls, “goddammit.”

His hips jerk back and then forward, almost involuntarily. It’s all I need. I cry out as it happens again, everything inside me bursting. He thrusts quick and hard, desperate now, and then stiffens with a single guttural noise as he pushes in one final time. He falls against me, his mouth against my neck, his breath warm on my skin. It’s closer than I’ve ever been to another person, and I would like to stay here, just like this, forever. But after a moment, I open my eyes when I realize what we’ve done.

It’s a little like waking from a dream. What the fuck have I done? The best sex I’ve ever had and the biggest mistake I’ve ever made just occurred simultaneously. The guilt and astonishment collide with each other. It was wrong. No matter what other considerations there are, I just slept with Liam’s best friend.

I know I don’t owe Liam anything. I came to Cordonia to see if there was something between us beyond that kiss in New York, and there wasn’t. He’s engaged to Madeleine and I’m hopelessly in love with his best friend. Bu this isn’t about me. This is about Drake.

I just became that woman. The kind of woman that would stand between two brothers. The type of woman capable of breaking a lifelong friendship in a moment of lust.

I know that sooner or later, Drake will resent me, us, if he loses Liam. Somewhere inside, I knew that, but because I wanted him and was jealous of Kiara, I chose to ignore it. He looks up at me, and his smile fades.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. There’s dread in his voice. His jaw hardens. “You regret it.”

“Drake,” I sigh, nestling in his chest. “It’s not that. It was…amazing. I just need to figure this out.”

“Figure what out?”

I bury my face in his neck. I don’t want to be having this conversation with him. I wish there was a way he could just hold me and take me to his cabin and work this all out on my own later. But there’s not. “What happens next. I mean, it shouldn’t have happened. We both know that. Liam… “

“No,” he snaps, pulling away. “Do not bring him up. Are you really going to let the way it might look to everyone outside this room dictate whether or not it’s okay? This is about us, Lexie. No one else.”

Except it’s not everyone outside this room. It’s him. Until a week ago, Drake was determined to push me away. He didn’t want to betray his best friend. He told me over and over again that he wasn’t that kind of man. That he would never forgive himself.

I let my need obliterate every reasonable thought, as usual. And in doing so, I’ve let myself down and—far worse—I may have put Drake’s friendship with Liam at risk. I pull away and grab my dress and bra off the floor.

“We have to get back out there before someone notices we’re gone.”

He buttons his shirt. “So you want to go back and continue flirting with Liam like this didn’t just happen?” he asks.

It’s right then, at that precise moment, that I realize that no matter what happens, Drake and I will never be together. Liam will always be there, between us. Right now, in our post-orgasmic bliss, Drake is not thinking straight, but I know what he will be telling me tomorrow morning. Or at least how he will be feeling. Guilty.

“I can’t do this anymore.” I take a deep breath to calm myself. “So what matters most is that we both get through the banquet like nothing happened.”

“And then what?” He growls.

His anger doesn’t scare me. “Can we please just get through the next hour?” I ask. “Liam is out there. Olivia, Max, Kiara are out there. The most important thing either of us can do right now is to act like nothing’s wrong.”

He fastens his belt and moves to the door, his jaw rigid. He’s doing what I asked, but I hate that he’s leaving mad. I’m doing this for him. I don’t want him to lose the only relationship in his life that matters to him. “Drake, wait—”

“For what?” he demands. “I just fucked you on a table, and now you’re sending me on my way. What more could you possibly need to add to that?” With those parting words, he crosses the door and walks out, leaving me heartbroken.

#axwalker writes #drake walker #drake walker x mc #drake x mc #trr fanfic #drake x lexie #n*sfw #🍋🍋🍋#trr fanfiction

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bronzebtch · 2 years ago

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by right, no man should have their hands on her.

if not the full grasp of her hands, then certainly not the narrow shape of her waist. rhea has been taught of this as of late — well, she has been taught of this ever since her monthly bleeding has started to come, but it has been emphasised recently with the possibility of this engagement. she must keep her body pure, the older staff who are in charge of washing her would oft remind her. a woman's body is a sacred thing that should be fully looked upon, touched with reverence, only by one's rightful husband. any other lords upon her would be scandalous, and her house is an honourable lot. scandals are not something rhea would have ought to risk.

yet — as klaus twirls and moves her about, rhea finds herself spinning and dancing along, caring very little of the fact that he has his hands on her where tradition would've otherwise believed it is reserved only for her future intended. on top of that, there is a hearty smile on her face as she follows his footsteps quite seamlessly when it is a dance without a rhythm nor music. the smile, you see, is a luxury; something she knows she hasn't spared much of as the years of adulthood looms closer, and the extent of her father's duty has since sunk itself into her knowledge. no. had it not been for klaus' yearly visit, surely rhea would have been in her studies or library or somewhere, attending to business and trades and stock-counting, or learning how to.

just last week, father had put her in charge of ensuring that their potato crops for this year would have gone well, and rhea had spent nearly everyday visiting all the farmers to speak to them regarding their soils and crop-caring. what time would she have left to be like this, to simply grin and spin without a worry in the world ?

klaus is speaking jargons. words rhea recognises from the time she equally spends with him as well as with her father whenever he comes to runesport to deal with the sea-trade. quartermaster, he calls her, which is a word rhea would have never otherwise attached to herself, and yet the description of it is appealing. would she speak for him, defend his honour ? she would, she thinks instantly; and she would now, at present, even if he gives her no title, and he would give her no means of escaping her upcoming fate. she would do all of that simply because she could, simply because she would want to, because they are friends, and he is her dearest one. she would do all and more.

and it is— rhea's throat is tight. it is much to take in, she thinks, when the revelation of what she would have done for him sinks. it is a lot to promise to a young man who comes from a foreign kingdom, while rhea is relatively in a position of power. if she is not careful, she could easily be deceived. she could easily be tricked — of what, she is not certain, but the thought of it all is precarious. yet, she would give him her all if that is what he would ask. for what, some logical part of her demands. to what extent ? it asks angrily. she doesn't know. perhaps for this; for just a chance to smile like this again and again, having klaus twirl her with each new land they find, with each new adventure they stumble upon.

she says none of this, of course. her sister had once said that rhea is the kind to love so quietly, but fiercely, and she supposes, in this case, the notion applies. instead, rhea chooses to roll her eyes, pushes at his chest, and ignores the way her own feels as if it would like to cave right in from the pressure of it all; from the fact that this would truly be the last she could ever be like this. aloud, she only protests : ❝ stop calling me a wildling and do not call me a pirate ! ❞

though inside, she wonders : would he come again once she is married ? or, even if he would, would it be like this ? rhea knows the answer to that.

she would not think it.

despite her shove, rhea's hands still find themselves back on his chest, as if their two bodies insist on being stuck in their final dancing pose just a moment longer. her eyes trails on the details of his coat, suddenly fixated on the a loose button. her fingers go over it, and it attempts to fix, to no avail. to his collar, she manages, ❝ ... i would like that very well. ❞

and then, as if to close the act, rhea whispers; finally meeting his eyes. ❝ thank you, klaus. there is none i would've been honoured to spend all my past summers with if they are not you. i fear i will... i will be thinking about this my entire life. i hope- my future husband would like me half as you do, even if it's a political arrangement. or, i suppose, especially if it's a political arrangement. tell me - are ravkans also subjected to such a thing ? or does your kingdom lend you the choice of choosing your spouse ? ❞

⠀

❛⠀⠀⠀⠀You are right, my dearest lady. Ravkan women are much better behaved than your lot. That’s why they keep banishing me here every summer, so I’ll miss their pretty manners when the sun sets.⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀ ⠀ Nikolai teases with the confidence of a man who knew women, when that was the farthest thing from the truth.

Women knew of him. His looks, courtly manners and general elegance were generally regarded as pleasing. When he joined his parents in events, he never missed a mark. A perfect, gently-bred prince. And that was as far as his interactions with women went: short snippets of conversation while surrounded by a dozen onlookers, the chance for further conversation, or the merrymaking men his age were becoming familiar with, out of his reach. Save for his summers with Rhea, though that hardly counted. Soon, this fake-poise would serve him well. After all, a green soldier started the game with a bad hang from the moment he put on his clear-starched uniform, but one who was as green as he was unexperienced would be laughed off the table.

What little Nikolai lacked in life experience, he more than made up in confidence. It was not without merit, or without backing, for what he did not know, he studied until he could give the author a lesson. And he was clever enough not to only rely on books of information/ sailors with loose tongues who were eager to shock the little prince provided more knowledge than entire sections of his father's library.

❛⠀⠀⠀⠀Of course! I wouldn’t trust your safety to anyone else. I would lead the crew, maybe the same one which brings me here. Don't let their appearance fool you, they are a good loyal lot, but then again, they know who you are. You know how us sailors are. We have an eye for gold. I think we’d need to steal a vessel first, win the crew, promise them riches and take them with us on our whirlwind adventure.⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀ ⠀ With each word, the stakes get higher, sillier. They are both trying to escape the bleak world which awaits in adulthood. If it was just her marriage, he would not keep feeding this silly dream of theirs for longer than a jest, as there is no space for hope when it comes to matters of state, but he has his own future to ignore.

Eager as he is to leave the castle, make a name for himself and step away from the shadow of the crown, his fingers still shake every time he explain what he is planning.

He is not ready to take this step. To get closer to a future where he is either the shadow of a spoilt, rotten king, watching in disgust as his brother further sinks his country into despair, or turning himself into a true shadow-power. More and more thoughts which can only be called treasonous slip into his mind and today he does not want to entertain them. Nikolai wants to hold Rhea’s hand and twirl her in a silly dance across the grass because there is no one else who is entitled to his time yet; so shaking off those worries, he does. Catching her by the waist, he guides her in a small circle, smiling down with a wide grin, hair so golden in the sunlight it appears there is a crown around his head.

❛⠀⠀Hmm, so, in this scenario, you are my quartermaster? You are a little small, but sturdy and clever enough. You’ll do. First things first, I need you to answer a few questions. If I was injured, you would speak for me? Defend my honor and do exactly as I instructed without deviation? It is very important for a captain and his right hand to trust one another. Now, trust in you, that I’ve got in spades when it comes to hunting and dancing, but you've never really seen the sea before. Haven't felt the wind in your hair or the excitement in the air. You can taste it, you know? It's sweeter than any cake you've ever eaten and more filling than honey. My Wildling Lady would not betray me, but Rhea, the pirate princess? Now, she might lead a mutiny against me, and, well, that would break my heart.⠀⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀⠀ ⠀ Nikolai finishes with a small pout, drawing their little dance to a close, a hefty-sigh escaping his lips. ⠀⠀ ⠀

❛⠀⠀I think I prefer the future you described. You’ll create beautiful things for us to sell at faraway ports while I find somewhere new for us to go. Yes, that's the future I want. Nothing else.⠀⠀ ⠀ ❜⠀⠀

A future for the two children who chased each other across the bay and cried when they had to part. A future where they would never have to stop being these children. Never grow up.

#stcrmhund #and to think the angst is FAR from over #oh god ... she still doesnt know hes a PRINCE #BRONZE BITCH: INTERACTIONS.

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lubdubsworld · 4 years ago

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The Bet. Rated ( 18 +)

Pairing : Taehyung x Jimin X Jungkook x Reader. ( Foursome ) But you can see that i favor Taehyung a whole lot here ;)

Warnings : Listen, this is a foursome...three hung guys fuck one girl if you’re gonna need warnings I’m gonna just say , unfollow me. :D

Just kidding : Everything is consensual and everyone has a good time . yes and thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re serious? All three of us ? At the same time?” Jungkook’s eyes are even bigger than usual which is really saying something. You squint into them, trying to fathom where that devilish sparkle comes from. it’s so fucking unfair. The dude has eyes like bambi and the twin orbs seem to carry every star in the fucking milkyway.

“Sure...” You slur, only a little drunk but still feeling it. Next to Jungkook his best buddies, Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin stand leaning against the kitchen counter , watching you like you’re the last meal they’ll ever have.

You blink a bit, trying to remember what you were talking about.

Oh, yeah.

The Bet.

“Sure, Jungkook-ah.... you guys win the match this friday and I’ll let you fuck me. All three of you. “

It’s actually pretty stupid, how amusing this whole thing is to you.

Don’t these idiots know who they’re playing this weekend? Astro are national level players.... They’ve played in matches in other countries for fuck sake. the likelihood of Bangtan winning the basketball match on friday is none to none.

“I’m gonna want that in writing, angel.” Kim Taehyung’s deep as fuck voice practically vibrates through your body, his sultry brown eyes heavy with lust as he stares you down .

You gaze at him, the beautiful features clearly crafted to perfection by some god looking to show off. You don’t see beauty like Kim Taehyung on the regular and it feels like a scam, that people get to look at his face for free. A privilege if there ever was one, you think reverently.

But for all his beauty, he’s still very much a stranger to you.

Jimin and Jungkook live next door and are your friends. You’ve known them for years. Even hooked up with them a couple of times ( individually that is ) . Jungkook’s a sweetheart, kind and generous and Jimin is a bit of a pervert but very gentle.

You like them.

Kim Taehyung’s the one here you don’t really know too well. Taehyung’s the new transfer student, and for all his beauty and popularity he holds himself aloof from others. Polite but somehow intimidating. He doesn’t have a lot of friends save for Jimin and Jungkook and he’s turned down every girl that’s asked him out so far.

In fact you half expected him to make a noise of disgust and walk away when you offered to let the three star players of the basketball team , fuck you in the locker rooms after the match if they won the match on friday.

You certainly hadn’t expected him to straighten up, face showing interest for the first time this entire night, eyes lighting up as he sauntered closer , clearly eager to make you follow through on your promise.

There’s a very familiar voice screaming in the back of your head, going, ‘ what the fuck are you doing you idiot, ‘ but that voice is way too faint. Easily silenced by the lust and anticipation clouding your senses.

You blink at him, affronted.

“You don’t value my word?” You frown deeply. Jimin laughs at that, voice breathy and angelic.

“Not when something like this is at risk.” He teases, eyes fond and eager , but tongue licking his lips as he trails his gaze up and down your body, blatant and shameless in his admiration.

You pout a little, tugging the plush softness of your lower lip between your teeth , too tipsy to notice the way the three men follow the movement, hungry and eager as they stare at your tongue as it peeks out a bit to wet your lips.

“Hmm...okay.” You grab a napkin off the counter, looking around for a pen. But the chances of finding a pen in a frat party is next to none and you frown.

“Here you go angel.” Taehyung taps his chest and you stare. Oh yeah, Taehyung’s wearing a black button down and there’s a shiny pen sticking out of his pocket. You hold your hand out for it but he doesn’t budge. Instead he curls his finger , asking you to come get it yourself.

“So mean.” You pout, voice a little whiny as you move to get it from him. He’s so distressingly tall and you reach up to grab the pen, only to stumble a little, face crashing into his chest.

Strong arms come around your body, grip hard and sturdy and the scent of his cologne makes saliva pool in your mouth. You’re almost drooling because of how fucking good he smells, how warm he feels and god he’s built like a dream. Hard abs, thick arms and broad shoulders. His fingers grip your waist, squeezing hard and you wince a bit because it stings .

“little slut.” He whispers, and you blink , confused. You look up at his face and there’s nothing but fondness there, like he’s praising you.

You press your fists against his chest to push away from him. His hand shoots out gripping your wrist hard before bringing it up to his chest.

“Your pen, angel.” He smirks and you grab it quickly, shaking his grip off your wrist.

You stare down at the napkin in your hand.

“What am i supposed to write here?” You feel completely disoriented. Both Jimin and Jungkook merely smile and its Taehyung who steps forward, eyes glinting.

“Let me help.” he drawled, leaning over the counter and scribbling quickly on the piece of paper. i watched as he straightened away eyes flitting to see what he’d written.

I, ---- , agree to be the perfect little cum dumpster for Kim Taehyung, Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin, for the duration of one night , to be an obedient little slut, doing as asked , when asked without putting up a fight, like the whore that I am....

I felt blood rush to my ears, the words obscene and wrong in my ear.

It was a good thing there was no chance they would win.

I glared at him, signing the paper with a flourish.

“Did you even read it?” He raised an eyebrow.

You nod.

“Read it aloud for me anyway, angel. Just so i can be sure.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’ve never seen you at a match before.” Your best friend looks completely surprised by your presence in the front row , at the game on friday night. You’re here for one reason and one reason only.

To gloat in Kim Taehyung’s face after he faces crushing defeat in the hands of the other team.

Except, that’s not quite what happens.

Astro are good but apparently the only thing your school had needed all along was one Kim fucking Taehyung. He seemed to know exactly what plays the other team was going to use , out maneuvering them each time and you feel the first inkling of regret begin to stir. Throat going just a little dry at half time ,you turn to your friend.

“How’s he beating their ass like that?” You croak out pointing at Taehyung, who’s drinking water . His eyes are searching the crowd and you just know. Instinctively, that he’s looking for you. Feeling hunted, you crouch lower, gripping your friends arm in a death grip.

“Didn’t you know? He used to play for them before he transferred here. “

Your heart takes a straight dive to your knees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the match ends, Bangtan winning by a huge margin, you hightail it out of the stands. You get held up a bit by the crowds, a precious fifteen minutes pent fighting the throng of bodies and you can feel your pulse racing.

The bet said one night. Not tonight.

So maybe you could put it off... maybe you could get some time... just to prepare yourself... getting fucked by three guys at once was definitely NOT on your bucket list and while the idea is thrilling and exciting you just need to get your bearings, get some semblance of clarity in your head.

The halls are deserted , nearly everyone is at the game and you begin running , almost sighing in relief when you reach the final turn in the hallway , opening into the parking lot.

You turn the corner, still running , only to crash straight into a broad , strapping body.

His fucking scent is what hits you first and you panic.

no...no..fuck...

Before you can get away he wraps one arm right around your middle, lifting you clear off the ground , his palm coming down to muffle the scream that bubbles up your throat and the sound of Taehyung’s deep laughter makes your hair stand on end.

“Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.” Taehyung sings softly into your ear and you close your eyes in despair.

Now you know that the faint voice you ignored that night was the voice of reason.

It takes you a second to notice that both Jungkook and Jimin are there as well, freshly showered and dressed in sweats looking cheerfully amused.

“Changed your mind, baby?” Jimin teases and Taehyung growls behind you, the sound low and raspy against your ear.

“Like hell she has. Know what I’ve been jerking off to for the past week? Play it for her ...jungkook-ah.”

Jungkook looks entirely too happy as he fumbles with his phone.

Your own voice fills the hallway, soft and sultry and slurring just a little.

“ I,----, agree to be the perfect little cum dumpster for Kim Taehyung, Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin, for the duration of one night , to be an obedient little slut, doing as asked , when asked without putting up a fight, like the whore that I am....”

You whimper because yes...you definitely said that out loud and fuck him for having recorded it when had he even done that.... and yup you definitely signed a paper too.

“ Did you change your mind, angel?” Taehyung asks gently and you hesitate. Your body is already thrumming with anticipation and the idea of putting this off , going through it all over again is unappealing. Why not just get it over with?

Hos bad could it possibly be , right?

You shake your head slowly.

“Good girl.” Taehyung’s arm relaxes a bit, letting you go and you stumble away, moving to Jimin instinctively You know Jimin. Jimin is safe.

The latter gives you a warm hug, pulling you closer.

“I got you, baby.” He says softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek,” its just a good time. You’ll have fun. Don’t be scared.” He soothes. Taehyung’s eyes glint devilishly and Jungkook rubs a reassuring hand up and down your arm.

“We’ll take my car. “ Taehyung says coolly, slinging an arm around Jungkook’s shoulder and dragging him along, , already walking away and you cling to Jimin for security, following the other two to the parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taehyung is, apparently filthy rich.

He has a huge dance studio in his house and apparently, he was well prepared. Your eyes fall on the plush mattress on the floor, the condoms nearby and you feel yourself flushing.

You open your mouth , ready to say something...what you’re not so sure, but then Jungkook is grabbing you by the arm, yanking you forward and pressing his lips against yours. You’ve kissed him enough times that it is instinctive for you to put you hand on his shoulder while he holds your waist gently, his tongue licking its way into your mouth as he tilts his face to get a better angle

“Can’t believe you agreed to get your cunt wrecked by three guys at the same time.... It’s just like they say... its always the ones that look innocent. ” Taehyung’s voice is soft against your ear and you can feel him behind you, pressed up against your back.

You shiver when firm hands come around you from the back, Taehyung’s fingers making quick work of the buttons on your blouse. Before you can fully process it, Jimin’s already yanking your skirt and underwear down in one clean move. You feel Taehyung’s long fingers flick your bra open easily and you shiver when the fabric falls away, leaving you fully naked in front of three fully dressed men.

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, angel.” Taehyung taunts, pressing closer and rolling his hips into your back, his clothed erection pressing against the cleft of your ass .

You can feel yourself getting wet already, you pussy clenching around nothing, your insides aching . You clench your fists to ground yourself. It was way too early to be feeling this desperate, you think wildly. you won’t survive the night if you get so aroused so quickly.

Taehyung hums hands falling on your waist, cool against your bare skin and he trails his hand down to the flesh of your thighs, fingers digging in with enough force to make you whimper.

“Shut up, you little slut, i barely touched you.” Taehyung snaps, slapping your thigh. Hard.

Jungkook pulls back when you choke a little at the pain. Taehyung points at the younger with a smile.

“Go strip and lie down on the mattress Jungkook-ah. Let’s have her sit on your face for a while.” He says calmly and Jungkook moves to obey quickly. While he strips, Jimin moves to take his place, kissing you gently , hands reaching down to shape your breasts, thumbs rubbing against your nipples till the nubs pucker up, hard and throbbing.

Fingers slip into your pussy, so long and thick that your eyes widen in shock at the intrusion. Taehyung is rough and ruthless, fucking into you with ease.

“Not as tight as i expected. You get around huh , angel?” He asks casually and you feel like your entire body is one fire. Jimin kneads your breasts, tongue licking into your mouth as he moans, tasting you. You can see Jungkook over Jimin’s shoulder, while Taehyung fucks his long, fingers into you , hard and rough. He’s stripped fully now and your eyes drink in the sight of him naked, muscles on display and you tremble, because he looks so fucking good.

“Hmm.. Jungkook looks good huh baby? He’s gonna fuck you so good tonight. All nice and gentle and considerate ... because he’s a good little kid....Not like me. I’m gonna make you fucking limp. “ Taehyung slips one hand around to rub a thumb against your clit, and you clench down around his fingers.

Jimin pulls back.

“You talk too fucking much. Let me fuck her now.” He drawls, eyes dancing as he tugs you closer . You whimper when Taehyung’s finger slip right out, wetness spilling out of you , dripping down your thigh with ease.

Taehyung wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you up, before taking a couple of steps and tossing you on the mattress. You bounce for a second, surprised and then before you can get yourself together, Jimin is pushing you up on top of Jungkook.

“Come and straddle my shoulders, beautiful.” Jungkook says sweetly and your thighs feel like jelly. You struggle a bit to do as as asked, sitting on his chest , knees hitting the mattress on either side of his face and he reaches out, gripping your waist and pulling you closer till your pussy is right over his mouth.

“Guk-ah wait. “ You turn around and Jimin is right behind you, kneeling over Jungkook’s chest as well, stroking his cock to full hardness.

Jungkook laughs a little.

“Looks like Jimin hyung wants to fuck you while I eat you out... Spread your thighs a little, baby.” He says.

You glance up at Taehyung, who’s watching you carefully, fingers lazily stripping off his own clothes and you swallow, turning away to the front and spreading your knees a bit more.

You almost lose balance and crash forward, but strong hands grip your arms, keeping you kneeling over the youngest and you stare up at Taehyung, who’s standing right over jungkook, his cock right up against your face. You stare at the hard, thick length of it mouth watering and he laughs knowingly.

“Can always tell a good slut apart from the look in her eyes.” He grins, “ You look like you can’t wait for me to fuck your mouth , angel.”

“No , I-” you’re cut off by the thick cockhead nudging your entrance and you grab Taehyung’s waist to steady yourself, gasping when Jimin slides right into you from behind. The feeling of being filled

“Fuck, Jimin hyung, i can see your cock fucking right into her pretty pink pussy... She’s dripping all over my face.” Jungkook’s awed voice makes your cheek flame and you grip taehyung harder.

“Lick her clit, jungkook’ ah ...make her cum....” Taehyung says causally, before carefully leaning down and gripping your jaw. His fingers dig into your skin , making you open your mouth.

“Your tongue feels a little too dry , angel..” He comments, after slipping two fingers into your mouth.” i like my fuckholes wet and messy.... “ He smiles, leaning closer. You feel jungkook’s tongue flicking rapidly against your clit and your thighs tremble as Jimin fucks into you. Jungkook uses his finger to lightly pinch your clit and you feel yourself get wetter dripping all over his chin and Jimin swears.

“Fuck so fucking wet...” He fucks into you harder, the squelching sound loud and embarrassing in the room.

Taehyung smiles fondly.

“ Knew you’d be the perfect little fuck toy....Hold your tongue out for me....” To far gone to think, you stick your tongue out and he smiles, “ Don’t fucking swallow...” He instructs and your eyes widen when he leans over and opens his mouth, spitting a mouthful of his spit into your tongue. Before you can fully process it , he’s already feeding his thick cock into your mouth, hands reaching back to grip your hair hair yanking your head back.

He uses one hand to keep your head back, the other tracing your throat, feeling the bulge of his dick through the skin of your neck as he shoves his cock right down your throat. Your eyes water, drooling slipping out of the corner of your mouth as you inhale shakily every time he pulls out, gripping his waist to stop your self from collapsing into a heap on the mattress.

The sensation of being fucked by Jimin , and having Jungkook’s tongue all over your clit , flicking the throbbing swollen nub, while Taehyung fucked your mouth raw with sharp powerful thrust is something you won’t forget till the day you fucking die.

“Your cunt’s dripping wet for us...you love this don’t you pretty?” Jungkook teases between licks and Jimin laughs.

“Slutty little kittens like her always like getting their cunt wrecked....” He presses kisses all over your neck and Taehyung merely groans, fingers tightening on your scalp, yanking you closer so he can fuck you deeper.

“Tight little cunt...can’t wait to fucking break it. “ Taehyung hisses and the words tip you over the edge, your pussy clenching around Jimin , who stiffens at the sensation.

“Fuck... I’m coming.” He grunts, gripping your waist hard, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom . Jungkook groans at that.

“About fucking time hyung, “ He sighs, pulling away from your clit, licking the juices spilling out of your fucked out cunt, “ my cock hurts...get the fuck away I need to get in her....fuck.”

You feel your limbs turn to jelly and Taehyung pulls out of your mouth as well as you collapse a bit.

“You okay baby...need a drink of water?” Jimin asks softly and you nod. He moves away to get the bottle and Jungkook crawls up the mattress till you’re straddling his hips.

“Can i fuck you?” He asks hesitantly and you laugh a little at the tone of his voice. Fuck...he looks like he’s asking for banana milk or something. Before you can fully appreciate the duality of the kid, he’s lining himself up against your entrance and thrusting up into you.

“Hang on Jungkook ah... let me join you.” Taehyung says softly . Your eyes snap open and you stare up at him.

“What? i think i deserve to get a turn with that slutty cunt , too right?” He laughed, moving to kneel on the mattress next to you. Jungkook stops moving clearly confused about the mechanics but Taehyung merely grabs your waist and lifts you up.

“Wrap your legs around my waist, he prompts and you do as he says.

“Hyung...” Jungkook whines from the mattress in protest and Taehyung gives him a glare.

“Patience Jungkook-ah..” He says sternly. “ I’m gonna lean back against the wall and you’re going to slip in with me. We’ll fuck her together ..... Make sure she remembers this for a while....” he smirks.

Jimin appears then, fully dressed and with bottle of water. He opens it for you, holding the mouth against your lips and you take big greedy gulps of the liquid.

“Ready to get DP’d baby? Cross that off your bucket list?” Jimin asks with a smirk and you groan.

“I’m not forgiving you for this.” You croak out at him. Your voice scratchy from disuse. You haven’t spoken a word to Taehyung this entire time. Although its clear he’s the one running this entire show. You just can’t bring yourself to say anything to his face. He terrifies you and the worst part is how arousing that fear is.

Jungkook stands up then , stroking his cock impatiently.

“I need to fuck her now. Its not fair that I’m the only one who hasn’t had a turn yet” He pouts petulantly and you swallow, wrapping your arms tighter around Taehyung’s neck. He startles when you bury your nose into his neck, moving your hips a bit till the head of his cock is pressed against your slit.

“I’m ready...” You whisper softly, literally the first words you’ve spoken to him since this started and he swallows.

“Good girl. ” He says gently and you tremble at how deep his voice is. He grips the back of your thighs, spreading you open before gently lowering you down onto his cock . He’s bigger than Jimin and you have to grit your teeth to take in the length of him.

“poor Jungkookie....he looks like he’s gonna cry...” His fingers flutter down to where his cock is fucking into you, tracing the seam of your pussy and scooping up the wetness of your arousal. You groan when he slips two fingers in along with his cock, stretching you out a bit more.

“You can take it.... Your body ...fuck... so tight and so fucking hot...you were built for this... the perfect little doll...”

You feel yourself slipping but then there’s a familiar warm body, pressed up against your back and you sigh as Jungkook grips your waist holding you up steadier, lining his dick up against your pussy.

“Gonna push in, sweetheart.” Jungkook presses a wet kiss against your shoulder.

“Just relax....don’t clench down....relax and your body will do all the work for you angel...relax and you can take both of us in...” Taehyung whispers. You breathe in deep, exhaling harshly. Fear is still simmering on the surface. you’ve never done something like this before.

“Ready...” He prompts and you take a deep breath, letting your limbs go limp on the exhale and Jungkook pushes in , cleaving his way into your body with one smooth stroke.

The pressure is unbearable and you feel like you’re being split apart. But you also feel so incredibly full, both of them lodged so deep inside you that you can feel them in your gut. You let your eyes shut close, dropping your head down on Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Ready, kook-ah?” Taehyung says suddenly and you eyes fly open. Ready for what.

Without warning, Jungkook pulls out and just as he pushes back in Taehyung pulls out.

Your entire body clenches at the sensation, pleasure hitting every single inch of you as they set up a rhythm , taking turns to fuck into you and you can only hang on , gripping Taehyung’s shoulders as your body burns hotter and hotter, fire licking up your insides where you feel swollen and tender and fucking ruined.

This time when you cum, you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, showered and wearing a really big white t shirt and a pair of silk boxers and you blush.

God this was embarrassing. You’re feeling surprisingly okay, consider what just happened. A little sore but nothing too terrible.

The knock on the door makes you jump.

“Come in .” You said softly.

Its Taehyung.

“Hey... How are you doing ?” He asks with a little smile, a glass of water in his hand and you feel yourself flushing.

“I... is Jimin around... “ You ask desperately.

“He’s gone home. You sort of passed out so I brought you here.” He was staring at you so intently, you couldn’t quite think clearly.

“Oh well.. I’m fine.. you should drop me home.” You say shrilly.

"i called your mother. Told her you were having a sleepover with my sister. So you can crash here for the night. ”

“Your sister? “ you blink

“Taehee? She’s in pre med....”

“Oh...okay.” you smile awkwardly.

“I’ll leave the door open. I’m in the guest room down the hall.” he says pointing.

that startles you.

You look around curiously, finally noticing the posters and the basket ball jersey in the closet.

“this is your room?”

He nods.

“ I can sleep in the guest room!”

He smiles.

“The bed’s lumpy there.”

You bite your lips, fighting a smile.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Or maybe you just want your sheets to smell like me.” You don’t know where this is coming from. Are you really flirting with Kim Taehyung?

He laughs.

“Maybe. Good night, ------”

He locks the door behind him as he leaves.

~~~~~~~!~~~~~~~~

Author’s note : how to waste two hours : a memoir by me.

#taehyung smut #jungkook smut #maknaeline smut #bts smut #bts au #bts fics

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sqoiler · 4 years ago

Text

On the Thursday of the last week of kindergarten, the DVD that Miss Martinez was going to play turns out to be scratched beyond recognition, and so she gets out construction paper, scissors, markers, and glitter glue.

“Father’s Day isn’t for a few more weeks,” she says. “But why don’t we make some cards, just like we did for Mother’s Day, okay?”

The kids all get to work, reaching for the pile of brightly-colored paper. Stephanie Brown, who will be turning six in August, is the last one to get up. She shifts through the leftover colors--black, a pukey shade of green, blue, white. She picks up the black one and takes it back to her desk. She does not want to make a stupid card for her stupid dad. The other kids at her table are enthusiastically chattering about their dads’ favorite colors and jobs and drawing crayon drawings onto the paper. The girl next to her is cutting a snowflake out with safety scissors.

Steph picks up a white crayon and stares at her blank card. Across the room, Dexter raises his hand.

“What if we don’t have a dad?” he asks. Steph remembers from Mother’s Day that Dexter has two moms.

“Make a card for someone else,” Miss Martinez suggests. “Your grandfather, maybe. Or a neighbor, or a hero.”

A hero?

Steph looks at the black card before her, and her white crayon. She smiles.

And she makes a Father’s Day card for Batman.

-----

On the Monday of the last week of first grade, Mrs. Arnold, the art teacher, sits down her class and passes out white paper.

“Father’s Day cards,” she explains. Stephanie Brown, seven in August, considers making her own father a card. She didn’t get him anything last year but he didn’t seem to notice, and she’s not really that mad at him this year. But he didn’t seem to notice, and when Steph thinks about it, she thinks Robin probably doesn’t make Batman a card. Steph could make another card for her own dad at home, and make one for Batman at school.

Mind made up, she reaches for black markers and gets to work.

-----

On the Tuesday of the last week of second grade, Stephanie Brown, almost eight years old, sits down in art class and carefully draws a black blob with pointy ears, and a red and green and yellow stick figure, next to it, and she tries to remember what Nightwing looks like, and when she can’t remember she just draws Robin again but bigger.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, she writes in red marker, and she closes the card.

------

On the Wednesday of the last week of third grade, Mrs. Arnold passes out watercolors in art class with pieces of thick paper, and tells them to make presents for their dads. Stephanie Brown, nearly nine, hasn’t seen her dad in almost four months, and she uses up almost all the black water colors at her table painting a picture of Batman.

------

On the last week of fourth grade, nobody sits down their class to have them make Father’s Day cards.

On the Thursday before Father’s Day, Crystal passes Stephanie Brown, age almost-ten, a card bought from the store and tells her that they’ll mail it to Blackgate the next morning. Happy Father’s Day, the card says. You’re the best dad ever! the card says.

Steph stares at it for a long time.

Then she tears out a piece of notebook paper and folds it in half, taking the rainbow gel pens she got in December and picking up the pink one. She squints at it and sees that it’s nearly run out, so she picks up the purple one instead.

When she’s done drawing Batman and Batgirl and Robin and Nightwing, she decides she likes purple, and she folds the notebook paper inside the card her mother gave her, and she doesn’t mail anything to Blackgate the next day.

-----

On the last day of fifth grade, Mr. Robinson turns on The Great Mouse Detective and sets out a stack of colored paper and scissors. He tells the class they can do whatever they want during the movie and even sets up chips and cookies, then he sits in the back of the classroom and maybe falls asleep. Stephanie Brown, ten-going-on-eleven, wants something to do with her hands, so she takes a black piece of paper and cuts out a batsymbol. She learned how to draw them by sticking her head out her window at night and looking at the sky, and she’s proud of her newfound skill. When she’s done cutting it out, she’s not really sure what to do besides maybe tape it to her shirt, but her dad’s been out for a week now and she thinks he’d be mad if he saw that.

Instead, she folds it in half and writes HAPPY FATHERS DAY across the middle using white-out. Skye, the girl who sits next to her, leans over and asks what she’s doing, and Steph pauses. She’s...she’s not really sure why she keeps making these. To prove a point, maybe. She’s not really sure what point, though.

“Do you think Batman ever gets cards?” she asks in a whisper.

“Yes,” Skye says. “Probably every day.”

“Oh,” Steph says. “Well, I probably won’t send it then.”

“Okay,” Skye says, and then she downs half of her dixie cup of orange juice and turns back to the movie. Steph puts purple glitter glue on her batsymbol.

------

On the first week of April, Stephanie Brown, age seventeen, pulls a plastic bin out from under her desk. There’s a cardboard box beside her, and two other cardboard boxes on her empty mattress, full and taped shut. There’s a full duffel bag of clothes next to her, and her posters from her walls have been taken down and rolled up. All she has to do is finish going through her desk, and then she’s done. The rest of her things will be sold or something, she’s not sure.

She pries off the lid of the bin before her and takes out old school binders and ragged notebooks, paper folders falling apart and ancient art projects. She lifts out a collage she probably made in seventh grade and tries to decipher the meaning behind it. There is a cutout of red heels from Kohls on top of a blue betta fish.

Steph decides it will go in the trash pile and sets it aside, lifting out a yellow plastic folder. She opens it, curious, and lifts out a black paper batsymbol. She gasps when she opens it.

Her Father’s Day cards!

Of course, she had never sent them, so she has all--she counts quickly--six of them. She looks them over, laughing at her kindergarten misspellings and looking at the evolution of her drawing ability fondly. This is--she totally forgot about this. Steph closes the folder reverently and puts it on top of her duffel bag. There’s no way she can get rid of this--especially with the purple cape still in the hidden part of her closet. Especially not with where she’s packing up to move to.

----

On the third Sunday in June, Stephanie Brown, age eighteen-in-August, takes up her yellow plastic folder from where she hid it under her new mattress, and she leaves her room, tucking it under her arm. She gets like four steps down the hall before another door opens, and already an accusing voice says, “What’s that?”

Steph whirls around.

“None of your business,” she says. Tim makes a face at her and she makes the same one back, because she is very mature. To prove her maturity, she slides down the banister on her way to the kitchen.

Dick and Cass are in there, doing the dishes. Steph watches them for a second and then says, “Why do you have dishes at this hour?” ‘This hour’, upon checking, turns out to be almost noon, but nobody wakes up early in this house.

“Breakfast for Alfred,” Cass says.

“You can do that?” Steph asks, thinking that Alfred would get offended if someone tried to cook for him.

“You can today,” Dick says, shrugging, and Steph frowns, realizes that they ganged together to make breakfast on Father’s Day for Alfred and didn’t invite her.

It was probably an accident, she reasons, but then she remembers Tim and turns to face him.

“Why didn’t you make breakfast for Alfred?”

“I was sleeping,” he says.

“He’s impossible to wake up so we called it a lost cause,” Dick says. “We have extra pancakes, though, help yourself.”

Steph is still a little affronted, but she knows that she’s the newest person in the house and she’s only staying here until her mom’s done with rehab and whatever, so they probably didn’t think she’d want to be included, even though Alfred is everyone’s grandpa, even Babs’s. She goes to pick up a pair of pancakes and bites into one, deciding syrup can wait, and she leaves before they can rope her into conversation. Besides, she’s a little scared they’ll start referring to whatever plans they have with Bruce, and she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to react.

She heads to Bruce’s study and pushes open the door, glad to find him in there. She thinks if she had to search for him she’d probably lose her nerve and chicken out. Bruce glances up for like half a second and then looks back at the computer, and she takes a deep breath and steps inside fully.

Now or never, she thinks, and so she marches right up to him and slams the yellow folder on the desk.

“What’s this?” Bruce says, and Steph isn’t really sure how to explain, so she says, “It’s, uh, I found it when I was packing my stuff, and it’s...it’s from a while ago, but I thought you might, um…”

She trails off as he picks up the folder and opens it, raising an eyebrow at the contents from inside. She kinda wants to look at his face, but also totally doesn’t want to do that, so instead she looks at the desk, and opens her dumb mouth back up. “They always used to have us do Father’s Day cards at school or whatever and I never wanted to make one for Arthur so I made those instead ‘cause...well I don’t really remember why but whatever I thought you might want to see them.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce says, and she shuts up and bites her lip, looking up at him. “You...made these?”

“Yeah,” she says. He looks back down at the cards in his hands, all spread out--even the one that was intended for Arthur that Steph never sent. He touches the one from kindergarten. “Um. You can keep them.”

Bruce stands up. Steph isn’t really sure at all what he’s thinking, but he steps away from his chair and wraps his arms around her, holds her tight.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Happy Father’s Day,” she says, and when he squeezes her she closes her eyes, exhales, and squeezes him back.

(based on this post x) (ao3 here x)

#(posts fathers day fic in december)#stephanie brown #bruce wayne #brotp: slap #my writing #long post

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