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writers-hes · 1 year ago

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Sydney Saw it First (c. berzatto x reader)

You’re Carmy’s friend from Noma and he asks tou to mentor Marcus before he heads to Copenhagen to stage. Sydney thinks you’re both fools in love and she’s determined to fix it. (fluff, sydney being the best wingman, inspired by the scene in new girl when nick points his shoes to jess, two fools in love)

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It was hard for anyone to read if the Carmen Berzatto cared.

Some days, he was loving but most days he was tenacious. It’s not like he meant it. It was just how he was wired; how he reacts to things. The crew learned that the hard way, when he exploded on Marcus, when he screamed at Sydney…when the stress gets to him, it really gets to him.

He’s imposed penance on himself for his actions, secluding himself from the world…being unreachable. If there was one thing in the world that he craved and that he was afraid of, it was love. So he secludes himself until he feels alone. Relationships were unnatural to him.

But it came naturally with you.

You were training to become a pastry chef at Noma when Carmy was there. You met each other at the halls, shared friends that it was inevitable for you two to become friends. He was your first taste tester when you first made croissants. He helped you make your own sourdough starter for the sourdough cookies that you were experimenting on. You were the first person whom he cooked his mom’s picatta. You were his sous chef, helping him prep the vegetables on important dates. When news arrived detailing Mikey’s death, you were the first person he called.

You two were great. You were great.

If anyone deserved praise, Carmy thought that it was you.

He didn’t know why but when he saw that Marcus was really interested in pastry, he called you; asked you to come and teach a really, really eager student that was going to stage in Copenhagen soon. Sydney also suggested that sweets are needed in a restaurant. You didn’t hesitate to board the plane upon his request. If anything, you were glad that he was finally asking you for a favor. It only meant that he was still—if not more—comfortable with you.

You arrived in Chicago all smiles, and greetings. It was Richie and Carmy who picked you up from the airport and Richi was floored. How did his cousin even manage to tolerate you? He didn’t hate you immediately, of course. In any case, Carmy told you about his little girl; you decided to bring her a little gift.

“I didn’t know what to get you but Carmy said that you have a daughter so I got this instead,” you said, extending a toy. “My niece has the same one…so, I figured…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie nodded. He muttered a small ‘thanks’ before helping you with you luggage.

The night before, Carmy instructed everyone during family to behave.

“Look, there will be no funny business, alright? My friend is flying in tomorrow to oversee Marcus and act as his mentor while we fix the Bear. No taking her knife away, no screaming, no fighting, no fucking anything, alright, chefs?” he asked. When he was met with silence, “Alright, Chefs?”

A couple of ‘heards’ were thrown.

“Who is this friend, anyway, Jeff?” Tina asked. “You didn’t tell us to behave when Sydney over here first came,”

“Someone from Copenhagen. She, uh—“

“She?” Sweeps asked, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. “You got a girl, chef?”

“No,” he replied. “She studied in Copenhagen as a pastry chef, okay? No big deal—“ he proceeds to mention your name and how you’re just really super cool. “No big deal—“

“Wait, Chef, that’s a big deal!” Marcus said. “Oh, you know her recipes are all over my station, right?” he asked. “Sydney—“

“I went to the place she worked at in New York after I graduated. Everything’s just so…good. Amazing,” she recalled. “So, yes, it’s a big deal,”

“Yeah, whatever. Just promise me to behave, alright?” Carmy asked. “She’ll have to make do with what we currently have but I’ll try to stock up and set up the station before she arrives tomorrow.”

You arrived at the Beef—er, the Bear a day after your arrival in Chicago. You were able to find a place that was near the city center for a good deal. You were here indefinitely, still trying to figure out if you wanted to run your own bakery or just work with others for the rest of your life. Seeing Carmy take the leap was insipiring.

“Hello, chefs, I’m Y/N,” you said, a friendly smile gracing your features. Carmy was right beside you, watching everyone. “I’m a pastry chef and I graduated with Carmy in Copenhagen. I’m here to mentor Marcus but of course, if you have any questions regarding anything, you can ask me. I know how to cook too…and uh, I’ll be taking care of family tonight,”

Carmy jerks from his relaxed position.

“You sure?” he asks softly. “I can take care of family, if you’re too tired.”

“Yeah. It’s like initiation,” you nod, looking at him and then looking back at the new faces in front of you again. “Do you have any questions…”

Sydney raises her hand.

“Um, I’m sorry if this comes across rude but why are you here?” she asked.

“Oh, well, I’m not really tied down to anything right now. When Carmy called me, asking if I could come here, I decided to go. I’m here in Chicago indefinitely and I’ve been receiving invitations to cook, teach a class, whatever. I might accept some of those,” you said. Sydned nodded. Damn, Noma’s chefs were being chased from left and right. She was in the presence of two.

“Do you have a little notebook?” Tina asked, making Sydney scofd. “With recipes?”

“Um, no,” you shook your head. “I keep all my notes in my head and then write it afterwards,” Tina liked you already.

“What do you think about Carmen Berzatto—“

“Anyway, that’s all, Chefs! Marcus, come to the office with me, chef,” Carmy said, breaking up the huddle, and making you laugh. He discreetly pulls down your shirt, a sign that you should follow him too to the office. When you were both out of earshot, Sydney asked no one in particular.

“That girl and Chef? There’s something,”

That afternoon, during family, Sydney watched the two of you like a hawk. Confirming her suspicions when Carmy stayed for family and sat beside you.

Sydney notices it for the second time. You were going over the Noma “picture book” with Marcus, telling him how some of the desserts came about.

“What’s this?” Marcus asked, pointing at a photo of the dessert that put you on the map.

“That’s a dish of candied hallabong peel, with a prosecco peach sorbet, on a bed of meringue, topped with candied cherries. I got it because some of my friends went to Jeju sometime and brought back this orange hybrid. I think….I think we can recreate it but it wouldn’t be the same without the orange.”

“What about the flesh and the juice?”

“I turned it into like an orange-chocolate cake with chocolate mousse,”

Carmy was just passing by but he decided to watch you interact with his employees instead.

“Anyways, where’s your chocolate cake? Let’s taste it and compare it from the last one. Also, I can send you my recipe for sourdough doughnuts. Just give me your email,” you said, looking up briefly to find Carmy already looking at you. It made him feel good to see you incorporate yourself so well in the kitchen. Well, it’s not like the Bear is open but his staff went to you for some tips and advice. They were all undergoing some sort of training to make everything more elevated. “Hey, Carm. Do you need anything?”

“Hey-hey,” he coughed, ashamed for being caught. “Nothing. Uh—“

“Chef, did you ever try Y/N’s stuff?” Marcus asked. He’d really, really, really want to taste something that you made someday. They were all delicate and so detailed. It’s probably why you got multiple awards at such a young age.

“I did. She used to bring big Tupperware containers of things they made in the kitchen,”

“He finished them all,” you told Marcus. “Wouldn’t spare me a bite,”

“I don’t know, bug,” he teased. “I vividly remember you begging me to do it because you were so sick of fucking croissants.”

“You’re so annoying,” you huffed, a playful smile on your face. “Go on now. Marcus and I have stuff to do and you’re distracting us.”

“In my own restaurant,” Carmy mutters, shaking his head. Sydney’s eyes immediately directed to Tina. Did you see? Did you hear the word ‘Bug’?. Tina only shrugged.

Sugar dropped in to check on the improvements being done at the Bear when she saw you and Carmen at the back, talking. She had to double take what she saw because it was quite…odd to see him talk to you with the same twinkle he used to have. She has never seen him like this. He was genuinely laughing at some of the things that you were saying, a shared plate of leftover chocolate cake between the two of you.

“Who’s the girl outside?” Sugar asked, looking at Richie and Sydney for answers.

“Some fancy pastry chef Carmy met in Copenhagen,” Richie replied. “It’s a whole bet now, you know? They’re always out in their own world ever since she got here,”

“Everyone puts in 10 to predict what’s going to happen,” Tina said. “You’re betting?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sugar says, giving a bill to Tina. “I bet…I bet they’ll fall in love right before she leaves Chicago. Like, on the way to the airport. Carmy’s going to tell her that he loves her and she stays,”

Laughter echoes in the room.

“This is not some fucking movie, cousin,” Richie said. “Obviously, Carmy’s not gonna do shit about it.”

“I think…she’ll call him over and they’ll share a moment,” Marcus said. “He’s always at her place, did you know that?”

Meanwhile, unaware of the ongoing bet, Carmy looks at you.

“What do you think about Chicago?” he asked, a cigarette hanging idly on his fingers.

“It’s nice…chilly,” you said. “But it’s nice. I’ve been offered jobs here, you know?”

“Hm?” he asked. “Are you planning to take them?”

“I’m…thinking about them. They’re all the same but like, I want my own bakery, you know? My own place.” you said. “It’s going to be a lot of work if I do that and I don’t necessarily have the staff to do all that.” you said.

“If you want…you can come stay with us if you’re not sure,” he offers. “Like a pastry chef. Actually, I’ll have to ask Sugar and Sydney if it’s alright with them but you can stay here,”

“Bear, I don’t want to impose—“

Sydney was walking outside to throw the trash but she stopped her trackes when she heard you talk.

“I want you here,” Carmy said with conviction. “But if you don’t-don’t like it here in Chicago, I wouldn’t mind either, you know? It’s just that…I want you here and-and fuck, I don’t know. I guess working with you made it so much more fun again, you know? Like us in Copenhagen. I mean, we’re always a team and-and it’s nice to have you here with me. Sugar and spice? Sweet and spicy or whatever the fuck they called us back then,” he chuckled, inhaling his cigarette to calm himself down. “We can make it work,”

“Yeah, yeah. You go talk about it to Nat and Syd,” you said, taking a swig of your water. “And then we’ll talk. Cool?”

“Cool,” he shrugged. Sydney leaves and goes back to where the commotion was.

“I change my scenario,” she said.

“You can’t do that, Sydney,” Richie said. “It’s a bet! You have to pay again,”

Sydney breathed, what was ten more, right? Fuck.

“Fuck, sure, okay. Whatever,” she said, giving Richie the bill. “She’ll stay here. She’ll realize the there’s nothing waiting for her back home and she’ll stay here,”

“Where did you get this?” Fak asked. “Quite—oh my God. Sydney, did you fucking cheat?”

“No, I didn’t fucking cheat!” she defended, it was a lie. “Can’t you see the two of them? Always in their own world? How would Carmy let her go?”

“Jeffrey has a point,” Tina shrugged. “But if she loses, just know that you lost twice, Jeff,”

“I know,”

You, Sydney, and Carm all went to his apartment. It was where the two of them made a menu while you acted as a consultant and a taste tester. Their palates were fucked and they didn’t know what to do or what to cook anymore. So they asked you. But you weren’t there today. You and Marcus were in your apartment, making up stuff for dessert. The Beef has officially closed down and is a rubbled mess. There was no space and Carmy just wanted to be there with you.

“Can I ask you something and you can tell me to fuck off?” Sydney asked while she watched Carmy plate the hamachi crudo.

“Hm?”

“Do you…have feelings for Y/N?” she asked, looking at Carmy. He blushed, his ears turning red for being caught.

“Is it obvious?”

“To everyone but her,” she shrugged.

“Fuck, really? I thought I was being discreet,”

“Oh, you can stay here! You’re so good and so smart and so pretty,” Sydney gushed, mocking Carmen.

“Fuck off,” he laughs. “I…I do,”

“Yeah?”

“I just…just…she’s uh, so amazing, and like, I’ve been feeling these feelings since…since Copenhagen,” he mumbles, finishing the garnish with an oil.

“Damn. You never made a move?” she asked, getting forks. She gives one to Carmen and they both taste the crudo. It was amazing. “That’s good,”

“It is. Good job, Syd,” Carmy replied.

“It was her who told me to try adding jalapeno slices,” Syd said.

“You can’t do that,” Carmy warned her. Why did she want to get you two together so bad? “But I haven’t done anything. I mean, like, she was dating these guys and they’re so cool that-that it was never really my turn,” he remembered.

“But you’re the best chef in the world! That trumps that,” she encouraged. “None of them worked out?”

“No,” Carmy shook his head. “She’d always end things and I don’t want that for myself. She told me none of them worked out…wasn’t what she was, uh, looking for?”

“Oh,” Sydney nodded. “Well, if you’re feeling brave enough…”

“I haven’t been having…fun,” Carmy acknowledges. “With the Beef and the Bear until she got here, you know? Made me feel like I was young in Copenhagen again,”

“Another question. You can say fuck off if you want,” Sydney says and watches as Carmy bites a smile. “The last one. Is that why you asked her to stay? It’s just that I heard you the other day and…”

“Fuck off,” he laughs but Sydney noticed how everything about him conveyed everything that she needed to know.

“This is a quenelle,” you told Marcus. You, Marcus, Carm, and Sydney were at your apartment. It was bigger than Carmy’s and your oven didn’t have jeans in them. “This took me at least a hundred tries,” you chuckled. “You just…away, back, and then hands…” You demonstrated, making a quenelle of a yuzu mousse.

“Damn, Chef. How’d you do that?” Marcus asked, trying it for himself. He failed, his quenelle being a little bit smaller than yours.

“I had a friend named Luca. He didn’t let me out of the kitchen until I made a perfect one,” you recalled. “Carmy was there and he was laughing at me. He could do it in like three tries and I remember hating him,”

“You hate me?” he asked, leaning on the countertop. He didn’t like to hear about Luca. He only wanted you to talk about the two of you.

“Hey, Bear. Try this?” you asked, spooning him the raspberry curd. Carmy opens his mouth and you walk over, feeding him the pinkish liquid and then watching his face. “It goes with a black sesame shell. Do you like it?”

He notices your close proximity and flushes.

“Y-yeah,” he coughed, looking away. “Really good. Uh, very good,”

“No notes?” you asked and he swore he could kiss you right there because you were so beautiful.

“No notes,”

“Thanks, Chef,” you said. Sydney whistles as you help Marcus master his quenelle. Carmy looks at her and she teases him with a mockery of what he just said.

Carmy and Marcus left after cleaning up. You and Sydney decided to have a girl’s night. You were both sitting on the couch, mud masks on your faces when she turned to you fully.

“You know, he likes you right?”

“Who?” you asked, trying to fit a handful of chips.

“Carmy,” you heard and you choked on the bits of chips in your mouth.

“Fuck!” you choked. “Sydney!” You were coughing while Sydney handed you a glass of vodka cranberry. You gulp it down. “You—can’t say shit like that!”

“What?” she laughed. “Look, I’m not kidding! Whenever he talks to you, his feet are pointed at you. I’ve read enough fucking books and body language shit to know that he’s interested,”

“I don’t think so,” you said. “That’s bullshit,”

“It’s not though,” she shrugged. “He asked you to stay for a reason,”

“He needs a pastry chef,” you shrugged. “Besides, he and I are friends, Sydney. I’ve been trying to get him jealous all my time in Copenhagen but he never…he never got the signal,”

“Oh,” Sydney nods. Two idiots in love. “Have you ever tried telling him?”

“Of course not! He’s always on about how he doesn’t have the energy to love or date. I tried the jealousy thing before but it never worked. Trust me, there’s nothing.”

Carmy arrives at your doorstep the next morning, bright and early. Sydney had already left, telling you something about stopping by at her dad’s apartment to get stuff. You were going to the Bear with him to help Sydney choose plates for the restaurant.

“Good morning,” he greets. Two cups of take-out coffee in his hands. “I got us some coffee while we walk on the way,”

“Thank you,” You took the cup from his hands and clutched your jacket tighter. It was so, so, so cold. “Didn’t know it was going to be this chilly today,”

“You wanna wear my jacket?”

“You’ll be cold,”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said, already taking off the jacket to the best of his one-handed ability. He was only wearing a gray sweater underneath. “I have something. See?” He doesn’t take no for an answer, taking your coffee and your bag from you so you could wear the colorful jacket.

“Thanks, Bear,” you said, smiling at him. The sight of you in his clothes does something to him and he couldn’t help except give you a slight nod before forging on in the chilly Chicago weather.

You both entered the Beef giggling amongst yourselves when the usual buzzing stopped.

“Remember when Luca—“

You halted, finding the silence odd. You looked around to see everyone looking at you.

“What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Carmy asked, removing his hand from the small of your back. “Syd—“

“Love the sweater,” Richie teases. You look down and feel the warmth on your cheeks.

“It was cold and he asked me to wear it,” you shrugged, leaving Carmen to deal with the staff out front. You were signalling Sydney for help but she only looked away. Traitor. “Um—“

“Y/N, if you could please help me out here,” Carmy called you.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,”

“He’s not!” you huffed before walking over. “What is it?”

“I need you to time me, is that okay?” he asked. He nodded towards the stopwatch and you complied. “Thank you. I just need to check or like, map out the kitchen you know?”

“Of course,” you replied.

“Do you need help getting on—“

“It’s okay it’s just an old thing,” you replied.

“Yo, cousin! If you’re done eye fucking, Sugar needs you.” Richie calls.

“We’re not eye-eye fucking!” you complained. “What the fuck?” You stood up from your corner before you could even work and accidentally looked down. If a man is interested his feet will—

You move to the side and Carmy follows. And then to the side again.

“Y/N–“

“Stay there,” you asked, walking around him and him turning around. “Carm!”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders. He looks down to his shoes. “Are my shoes dirty?”

“No, it’s just—“ you tried again but Carm still followed. “Sydney told me about like, how when a guy is, uh,”

“Cousin!”

“Fuck, okay. Let’s talk about it later okay? Once everyone’s out?” he asked, looking at you. “Can we do that?” His jacket felt softer on you than it ever did on him.

“Yea-yeah,” you nodded. “I’ll go help Sydney,”

The afternoon passed by and you were alone at The Bear. You waited for Carmen to finish up at the dining area like you promised. Your heart was beating so fast, maybe a thousand miles an hour. What Sydney said has been on your mind and what if it wasn’t true and you get embarrassed? Fuck, could you even handle that?

You sighed, burying your head between your hands when Carmy walks over to you.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Everything alright?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod. “Can you stay there and just, I don’t know, be Carmy?” you asked, standing up to test the theory again. He just stands there, dumbfounded. You circle around him and he follows. You were looking on the ground.

“Fuck, what the fuck?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with my shoes? I know they’re old and not—“

“Carmen, shh,”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders for the second time that day to steady you. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck, I don’t—“

“What’s wrong?”

“Sydney told me that there’s like, this body language thing and like, uh, says that when a guy is interested his shoes are always pointing at you and well, she told me to look at yours,” you rambled, looking away in embarrassment. “Look, if this will be weird between the two of us, I mean—“

“Why would it matter?” he asked, hands inching closer to your neck. He was nervous but maybe this is the opening that he’s been waiting for for years. When you didn’t reply, he asked again. “Why would it matter?”

“Because…because I’ve been trying to make you jealous for years in Copenhagen and it never worked,” you whispered. You were embarrassed. It felt like you were in high school telling your crush that you liked him. “I know you don’t see me that way,” you replied, trying to look for the right words. Carmy lets you finish. He wanted to hear you. “And it’s fine. If this is stupid, let’s forget that this ever happened. Okay? God, I’m so fucking embarrassed right now,”

“Hey, hey,” he cooes, his thumb tucked the hair back and then caressed your cheek. “Whoever said that I wasn’t jealous? I had to leave all the time because I was so fucking jealous. Those guys were cool. Don’t-don’t be embarrassed, okay? I like hearing that-you, uh, like me,”

“Carmy…don’t lie to me, okay? You don’t have to pretend—hm,”

Carmy had just kissed you. Carmen Berzatto just kissed you. You were clutching on his shirt so tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he’ll be gone. But he doesn’t. He just trails his hands down to your back, touching skin to skin until you’re one.

“I’ve been waiting years to do that,” Carmy rasps, breathing heavily.

“Yeah? Then, do it again,” you whispered, smirking slightly at how he seemed to blush hard. Before you could tease him though, he tucks your hair back again, bringing your lips closer to his.

He did.

A/N: Thank you for giving my recent fics so much love and for being so motivating. Your kind words really make my day and I hope that you love this too. Don’t forget to reblog and comment! Thanks again!

TAGLIST: @kpopgirlbtssvt

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #fanfiction #fluff #the bear #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fic #carmen berzatto fluff #the bear fx

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tired-biscuit · 1 year ago

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today i’m having thoughts about a mean dom, who refuses to fuck you because he doesn’t think you deserve it.

who basically forces you into having to fuck yourself on his cock when he’s sleeping, because you simply have no other choice left. who makes you crawl into bed and curl up next to him, pressing your back against his chest and pulling his big, strong arm over your middle until you feel all snug and safe; holding hands with him and toying with his thick fingers.

who starts kind of rocking his hips forward into you in his sleep, the movement pure instinct because it just feels so nice. your pussy is warm and wet; you’ve got him breathing hard into your ear and grabbing handfuls of you without him even realizing it. he’s literally rutting into you, slow and lazy.

and finally, i’m thinking about a mean dom, who wakes up from all that pleasure you’re giving him and who squeezes you so tight all of a sudden then, his grip so tenacious that it makes your breathing outright stagger. who nearly purrs into your ear as he catches you mid-act, and who holds you completely still as he starts to speak, remnants of sleep making his voice devastatingly deep.

“you bad, bad girl… look at the mess you’ve made.”

#don’t look at me jdjdjdjd

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roamingleaf · 1 month ago

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"Park Bench"

TW: Public Park, G@ngbang, R@pe, Creampie, age difference, Cnc

You filthy, needy, degenerate little whore. So many different posts, some flashing your perky, Hershey kissed nipples. Others showcasing the sloping curves of booty hiding behind a host of different panties. What a brazen call you put out into the depraved, horny void for men twice your age to tell you how they'd use your curving, hypnotic, canvas like it was nothing more than a Fuckdoll. Could you imagine what would happen when all of these hungry lions cornered you?

It would have been another dimly lit evening thanks to the watchful, chilly eye of the moon being shrouded by the swaying, swooping clouds passing before it. Daintily you would have been strolling along those emptied streets in the thinnest clothes your closet had to offer. Despite the darkness of the night being clutching, your glowing physique beautifully stood out. Why? In hopes of finding a place to pack your camera with provocative pictures of that perky, petite, portrait you call a body. Thankfully your adventure into the violet nightfall would not last too long before a perfect oaken tree stood out to you in the middle of a park.

With hurried breath you headed towards it, unaware of the silver Acura that had been following such a scampering, alluring canvas for a few blocks. Once your scurrying ways had landed you not in front of the tree, but instead, on top of a park bench on your knees your personal photoshoot had started.

Snap, snap, snap.

Went the subtle cold stare of your familiar phone camera all while that silver Acura calmly, as if stalking its prey circled to the back of the park.

There in that empty lot did four, brutish, burly men leave that car with only one intention in mind. As those shadowy monsters crept their way closer towards their prize, you would be foolishly drunk off the thoughts of attention these photos would reap for you. Before that familiar snap could be heard one more time you would feel it.

The sudden grasp of multiple hands clambering for a feel of that summer rain soft skin of yours. This rather bold move done in the middle of such a public place was one to send your head into a spiral. Though, sadly, much bigger things would swiftly start to feel those thoughts in your head. You could feel it, five? Six? Who could tell how many hands in that shadowy park had been helping weigh you down. All that could be told for certain was the long, thick, meaty shaft of one of these strange men had pushed past your pastel lips to invade your soft, dripping mouth.

The fighting spirit that would normally circulate through that tenacious frame was all but drained as you felt your skin, tight shorts being torn from your roaming, luscious hills you call hips. This couldn't be happening, one invader reshaping your throat into a Fleshlight was plenty. How could someone else hope to plunder the silken, sticky, greedy halls of your sacred shrine? But, like the toy they intended to turn you into, they proceeded to do just that. Test the holds of your hungry little body.

Through muffled, breathless, moans you tried your hardest to push with whatever you could. But atlas, these men were too strong for such a fragile doll to fight back. That's when you could feel it, the first of many loads to paint that once uncovered canvas. The first man grunted as he freed himself from the tight coils of your throat to start the painting process.

As you grunted, and gasped for air you could feel the firm grasp of the man pounding into your starved pussy clamping to your hips. With this hold up a delicate work of art you could feel his matching rhythm of his thrust by colliding your hips back into his. Sadly however, this intoxicating daze would be sullied by the feel of your hair being pulled so your regal face would be eye to eye with another hard, shaft that meant to continue the training.

For what felt like an eternity they passed you around between their grimey grasp. Each of them leaving their own bruises, marks, and of course seed planted deeply inside your once fruitful garden. Only once your dainty frame meekly lay sprawled across that park bench leaking from every single hole, and painted properly like a priceless picture would those gentlemen's hunger be satisfied and off into the night would they return.

-🪶

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obeymeshallwedateaddict · 2 months ago

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hello hello! i saw that your request are open soo here i go i guess? 👀 so - for context - something funny has been happening to me: ever since i got my first barbatos card, which makes him appear as a surprise guest, ive tried to get all the different reactions out of him. however nothing i do actually works?? i ALWAYS!! get the stars or the hearts and i just can’t get him to be upset even a little bit!! not once!! no matter what i do skdhsk SO! may i please request a cute funny drabble where mc tries to be a bit mischievous/prank barbatos a lot of times because they want to get more reactions out of him that isn’t that super polite smile on his face but it sorta? backfires because instead of pissing him off or scaring him or something like that he’s genuinely amused and totally enamored by mc and their behavior? thank you so much in advance <3

Hello!! Im sorry for the delay but I've been in a writer's block lately which is why I don't post as often but as soon as I got an idea for your request I wrote it down and I genuinely like it. Enjoy!

Summary: MC tries to prank Barbatos but instead of being mad or annoyed the demon finds it amusing and endearing.

Contains: Fluff

GN!MC x Barbatos

You can find more of my work here: Masterlist

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A Devilish Attempt

MC peeked around the corner, eyeing the pristine kitchen with gleaming counters and perfectly arranged ingredients. They knew Barbatos would be there any second to check on the afternoon tea preparations. Today, they’d be testing out their newest prank.

The idea was simple: they had swapped his tea leaves with the spicy demon realm “dragon’s tongue” herb. It looked the same, smelled similar… but the taste? A fiery, eye-watering kick that could surprise even the most seasoned demon.

As soon as Barbatos stepped in, MC grinned and slid into place, pretending to “help” near the teapot.

“Oh, hello, MC,” Barbatos greeted, that signature polite smile already in place.

“Hey, Barbatos! Care for a cup of tea?” they asked, barely able to keep from grinning. They expected shock, maybe a flicker of irritation something that wasn’t his unruffled calm.

Barbatos poured himself a cup, and MC watched, their eyes wide as saucers, waiting for his reaction. He took a sip and…

“Oh! Quite an interesting choice, MC,” Barbatos said, barely a blink of surprise in his expression. “A little spice can truly awaken the senses. You have such a… creative taste.”

MC was baffled. “Wait, you actually liked it?”

He smiled that calm, unfazed smile, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Not what I would typically choose, but if you wanted me to try something new, I would happily indulge.”

Undeterred, MC decided they’d have to try something bigger. Over the next few days, they went all out, each plan more elaborate than the last. They swapped out all the sugar in his cakes with salt, set up a harmless spell that made glitter burst out when he opened his recipe book, even snuck in a little toy snake to “surprise” him in the storage room.

Each time, Barbatos barely batted an eye. He’d even chuckle or offer a sincere compliment, like, “How clever you are, MC,” or, “It’s refreshing to have a little unexpected sparkle.”

MC was beside themselves. “How do you keep your cool, Barbatos? I’ve tried everything!”

Barbatos’s eyes softened as he looked at them, amusement sparkling in his gaze. “You’re quite tenacious, MC. I admire that about you.”

MC blinked, feeling their cheeks heat up slightly under his warm gaze.

He leaned in just a little, his voice low. “If it helps, I’ve been thoroughly entertained. The effort you put in to try and surprise me… I find it charming.”

Caught between laughing and blushing, MC finally threw their hands up. “Fine! I give up. You win, Barbatos!”

Barbatos chuckled softly, watching them with a gentle expression. “Thank you for the fun, MC. You’ve made each day a little brighter… and a lot more interesting.”

As he walked away, MC realized they might not have succeeded in flustering him—but in the end, Barbatos had somehow turned the tables on them completely. And maybe… they didn’t mind that one bit.

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chobani-flip · 4 months ago

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outsider perspective @bucktommypositivityweek

Lady Cassandra Elizabeth Andromeda the First despised the tall loud one with all her heart. She longed to dig her claws into his stupid big arms and hiss-scream in his face: "LEAVE AND NEVERMORE LET YOUR HORRID STINK DARKEN OUR DOORSTEP!" but she knew there was no use.

For she'd already tried to do so the first two times he invaded their domicile with his loud noises and twitchy feet. But Her Human had always prevented her from driving her point home by picking her up and trying to cuddle her against his lovely warm kneadable chest. The ignominy! And he had the AUDACITY to make low, distressed, sorry noises at the Loud Stinker INSTEAD OF APOLOGIZING TO Lady Cassandra FOR THIS EFFRONTERY!

"I'm so sorry, Evan, I swear I don't know what's got into her."

"Hahah...Er, well, I suppose I need to give her time to get used to me."

The Loud Stinker was back again. Lady Cassandra supposed she'd have to add the use of forbidden magics to the black book of his sins for he appeared unexpected, uninvited and entirely under his own power! Without Her Human! One moment she was napping in a glorious sunbeam by the Tastes-Evil-Green-Leaves, and the next He was there! Armed with a horrific minion whose obedience he compelled by the continuous twitching of a thin black wand.

But Lady Cassandra would not be so easily threatened into submission! Not even by a chimera such as the one The Loud Stinker controlled, whose hideous long furred limbs and feathered tail quivered to the metallic beat of the jingle bells affixed to its collar.

She would allow that she had first chosen to take cover under the Tastes-Evil-Green-Leaves receptacle. But that was only to ascertain the threat and decide on the best plan of attack.

SHE WOULD NOT GIVE HER LIFE CHEAPLY!

She tucked her front legs under her neatly and readied her back legs and tail. She could feel her warm blood rushing through the clenched muscles of her belly, tension tingling from the the tips of her ears to the end of her whiskers.

"Jingle-lin-lin-ling," mocked the chimera.

Lady Cassandra let out a low growl and leapt. Like an avenging fury, she flew through the air and fell upon the foul beast.

With fang and claw, she tore at its treacherous limbs. With her back legs, she pummeled the soft body. She was not yet victorious for some evil magic still moved the chimera, trying to reanimate its corpse through a thin black hair. But Lady Cassandra was stronger and her cause was righteous and the jingle bells now tolled the invader's death!

Yowling, she gnawed at the hair. It was tenacious but her molars where sharper and stronger and at last, the beast lay dead at her feet.

"I honestly don't think she swallowed any of it, babe, she just bit through the elastic and the moment it wasn't moving, she lost interest. Well, she tore it up a bit. But it's all accounted for. Still, I wanted to let you know anyway ... No yeah no, you're right, I shouldn't push it. I just thought the toy might help, you know? ... The bedroom, I think. I thought I saw a bit of fluff under your pillow. ... Listen, I wanted to surprise you with dinner and wait for you here but I don't want to stress her out, so... You sure? ... OK, then. See you later, Tommy. L- See you!"

One foe vanquished. Another to go.

Unseen and in the comfort of her sanctum, Lady Cassandra bided her time. The Loud Stinker was in the Treasury now--she could hear his clanging and banging--but that could not be helped. She might have been worried if she thought the Loud Stinker shrewd enough to discover Her Human's stash of Delicious-Soft-Juicy-Meat-Bags in the topmost cabinet, but Lady Cassandra had observed the Loud Stinker enough that she was certain he lacked the wit.

Still, she needed a plan. The Loud Stinker could not be allowed to take up her side of the bed with impunity, nor beguile Her Human into his mating ritual when, accompanied by wretched new sounds from the metal box, he and Her Human slowly shambled back and forth from the Treasury all the way to the Sunbeam Room WHEN IT WAS TIME FOR LADY CASSANDRA'S DAILY BRUSH AND CUDDLE AND SHE COULDN'T EVEN NUMBER-EIGHT BETWEEN THEIR LEGS AND THUSLY MARK HER POSSESSION OF HER HUMAN BECAUSE THEY MIGHT STEP ON HER!

Lady Cassandra contemplated the contents of her stomach and whether there might not be enough for a hairball which she could then deposit into the Loud Stinker's shoe.

Hmmm, perhaps. It would not be very large, but in such cases Lady Cassandra believed a little went a long way.

She rose, stretching leisurely and began to plot her route. Moving swift and unseen until the deed was done was the key!

Lady Cassandra shot towards the sofa, then stilled, pressed her belly against the ground, and with bated breath listened for signs that she'd been detected.

Nothing.

He hadn't even turned one ear her way, the fool!

She allowed herself one satisfied wriggle and a swish of a tail before she rushed towards the hall. Keeping low to the ground, she danced through the shadows, claws contracted, not letting even a whisper of a footfall sound.

Almost there, almost there, just one more corner, then behind the door, almost-!

A loud wooden thud sounded from the Treasury and Lady Cassandra felt her feet freeze unbidden under her. She blinked, twitched her ears and hoped against hope that-

And then, as she knew it would, the siren song commenced.

Snip-snip-snip-sliiiice-scrape, resounded gloriously, tingling through every nerve and hair follicle of her body.

It was stronger than her.

Lady Cassandra turned and with the mien of one going to their own execution began her walk towards where the song of the Long-Shiny-Claw was calling her.

She made no effort to hide now, what use would it be? The Loud Human saw her then, stopped his song and made a hideous pigeon sound. Lady Cassandra was dismayed and disgusted at herself for approaching closer.

"....grrrssshh-ooo-argh-Lady-Cassandra-aeoiwgoad-lovely-girl-joihwadivawečtgae-would-you-like-some?"

Curse him! Somehow he'd learned the Spell only Her Human knew!

Ensorcelled, she stepped closer and craned her neck. Before she knew it, the Loud Human was bowing low to her, producing an offering.

Gingerly, unable to resist, Lady Cassandra took it between her teeth.

"Hi?! I-"

"Shhh!"

"-thought you... were asleep... What? I don't get a hello today?"

"Look. L o o k! Look at her!!"

"Oh wow! That's only what? One and a half? Two feet? How did you do that?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, what got her out of hiding?"

"I'm telling you, I have no idea. One moment I'm mincing the carrots and the next she's rubbing up against my leg!"

"Oh yeah, the magic of the cutting board."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, works better than her name. Every time. Am I right, lovely girl?"

"Don't wake her! She'll remember she hates me!"

"Nah, the way to Cassie's heart is through her stomach and you can bribe her stomach so very easily. Isn't that right, Cassie-girl?"

"Oh my god, she touched me! Can you see that? She's touching me!"

"Honestly, I don't know who's more adorable right now."

"Is she purring?!"

Lady Cassandra Elizabeth Andromeda the First stretched one of her paws languidly and shuffled closer to the warm Human. With five crunchy carrot sticks and a whole inch of a bacon rasher warm in her belly, she felt quite reconciled to his presence now.

After all, following his enterprise in the Treasury, he didn't even smell entirely objectionable now. His fingers under her cheek were perhaps untrained, but not altogether unpleasant. Lady Cassandra signaled her approval with one single soft trill of a purr.

It wouldn't do to show too much fervor, of course.

But yes, she decided, perhaps, with a little training, she might grow to enjoy having Her Human's Human around.

___

author's note: look, i don't know what happened? hope you enjoyed?

#bucktommy #911 abc #9-1-1 #bucktommy fic

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eywaseclipse · 10 months ago

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Sully Siblings as Kids Headcanon

Fluffy Headcanon for how the Sully kids were as babies and kids

Neteyam:

By far the easiest baby, Jake and Neytiri thought they won the lottery with him

They had no problem with how Neteyam accepted Kiri when they first adopted her

Neteyam didn’t know any better: that’s his sister

He latched easiest, and sleep training was quite seamless

Fast learner

Very curious as a baby and once he started walking Neytiri had to watch him at all times because he’d get excited using those little legs to run everywhere

He started speaking first out of all his siblings learning Na’vi and English simultaneously which is something Neytiri and Jake did for all their children

Super bubbly and giggly as a baby always laughing and easily entertained

He was more attached to mama constantly gripping her legs and crawling onto her chest at night cooing into her neck

Neteyam possessed a strong connection to his Na’vi heritage like his mother and took a liking to mimicking everything he could watching her

As a toddler Neteyam showed great interests for hunting so Jake started taking him to the small river by the camp where he caught his first fish

His first woven armband Mo’at helped him make, he gave to Neytiri which she still wears

Has a small scar on his forehead from tripping and falling on a rock playing tag with Lo’ak, Kiri and Spider but he makes sure everyone knows he never cried

Kiri:

When Jake and Neytiri saw Grace’s pregnant body they immediately knew what to do

Kiri was a shy little thing but very alert and tenacious

She was colicky as a baby and had a hard time breastfeeding but eventually got the hang of it

Slightly fussy eater

Jake was absolutely enthralled with his baby girl always watching her with careful nervous eyes

She had and has him wrapped around her little fingers

Would often follow along with Neteyam watching him and copying his actions

Her first toy was a hand carved wooden Toruk figurine Jake made her which she constantly Carried everywhere; she even slept with it

She was the kid sucking her thumb all the time until Jake and Neytiri bribed her with toys to get her to stop

Proud daddy’s girl

Lo’ak:

Kiri and Neteyam were relatively easy when it came to parenting until Lo’ak showed up

He’s the wildcard baby

Came into world screaming, crying and kicking making his presence known

One word: BITER

He was the most fussy with feedings and latching took forever, Jake had to make bottles for Neytiri just so she could have a break

Absolutely obsessed with Jake, constantly following him around as soon as he learned how to walk

He developed an infatuation for tugging on his brother’s tail and tackling him and biting his ears

Also a thumb sucker

Him and Kiri caused the most mischief together

His first word was ‘No’

Lo’ak would throw temper tantrums when frustrated and Neteyam would be there to comfort him “Lo’ak why you cwyin?”

By the time Lo’ak was old enough he was causing havoc around the clan pulling pranks and getting into trouble

Jake made an extra big wrap just to strap Lo’ak to his body so he could keep an eye on the youngest at all times

Stressed Jake tf out but Neytiri has a soft spot for him the most

Tuk:

By the time Tuk was born Jake and Neytiri had pretty loose rules

She could get away with just about anything

Tuk was fairly easy as a baby but loved to tug everyone’s braids

If you held her she’d have a fist full of hair in no time

She had a sensitive stomach as a baby and on multiple occasions threw up on Jake

Once old enough to walk and talk all she wanted to do was follow around her siblings

Absolutely idolized Neteyam and because of the age difference he would just carry her around the clan as she’d piggyback along for the ride

Tattle tail

Always telling on Lo’ak because he’s mean to her and complains when she would try to follow him around

When she was little she was very similar to her mama; curious, vivacious and totally unafraid

Learned all the curse words from Lo’ak like ‘shit’ and ‘pussy’

Jake almost fainted when he heard those words from her

She secretly loves to annoy Lo’ak

Got the most hand-me-downs

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graphicpolicy · 2 months ago

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NYCC 2024: Tenacious Toys brings some action with Action Figures

NYCC 2024: Tenacious Toys brings some action with Action Figures #nycc #nycc2024 #nycc24

Tenacious Toys is bringing some action to New York Comic Con! With a wide selection of exciting 1/6 and 1/12 scale action figures from indy brands, the Tenacious booth #1771 promises to be a cornucopia for action figure collectors. This year Benny focused on three of his favorite manufacturers: JT Studio from Taiwan, Devil Toys from Hong Kong, and PureArts from Canada. The Devil Toys selection…

#devil toys #jt studio #new york comic con #nycc #purearts #tenacious toys

0 notes

chrisevansonly · 1 year ago

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the day has finally come, and as a parent, you’ve never felt this amount of nerves before in your life…

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of anxiety, but other than that, fluff and cute family moments

𝐀/𝐍: AHHH here is chapter 7! You’ll notice there is a time skip as Matteo is now 7 years old, i did this because i don’t anticipate this series being SUPER long, so i hope that’s okay and you enjoy, im sorry if it’s bad, my writing has been bothering me lately🫶🏻

𝐖𝐂: 1K

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

There was no pep talk, family meeting or even conversation that could prepare you for today. Matteo had been restless all-night waiting for today, and now as you watched him with Charles and Arthur checking over his custom kart, a recent gift from his uncle Max, you couldn’t stop the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Matteo was looking more and more like Charles every day that passed, there were each others twins.

“How are you feeling?” A voice caught your attention from beside you, when you turned you saw Lorenzo had gotten back from finishing up all the paperwork

“Anxious…but seeing him so excited, it helps to keep those feelings aside”

“Maman felt the same when Charles and Arthur started as well, he’ll do great though, I just know it”

Never was there a doubt in your mind that your little boy would be amazing, you couldn’t wait to see him go out onto the track and race his heart out. Matteo was tenacious, he always had been, you see it at the track with Charles when he wants to help and sit in on meetings, and you see it now, helping his uncle and father make sure his kart is ready to go.

“Maman, es-tu prête à me regarder piloter mon kart!?”

Matteo was quick to run up to you, race suit on, helmet in hand, his eyes wide and bright with excitement

“Oui petit prince, tu seras incoryable, je le sais!”

“Merci Maman!”

Leaning down you smiled, kissing his cheeks gently, bringing a hand up to fix his hair, Charles coming over to get his helmet done up and ready

“Be careful and be safe okay my love? I don’t want anything to happen to you”

Matteo nodded

“Maman don’t be scared, you shouldn’t be worried!”

“Matteo laisse maman s’inquiéter, ça montre qu’elle tient à toi, ce n’est pas une mauvaise chose, n’est-ce pas..”

The young boy looked up at his father and nodded, still learning that it was okay to show feelings and emotions. Ever since he’d turned five, there had been a few issues with hiding and being scared to talk about how he was feeling, so the three of you had been working together to remember that

“Oui, c’est normal, je suis désolé maman”

Cooing gently at Matteo you pressed another kiss to his cheek

“C’est bon bébé, amintenant va finir de te preparer avec ton oncle Arthur.”

Watching him run back to Arthur by his kart you stood to hug Charles, his hands rubbing up and down your back soothingly

“He’ll be okay baby”

“I know.. I just-”

Charles nods, always knowing exactly what you’re thinking and where your thoughts are going, he’d always been extremely good at reading you

“I understand, I’ll be with you the whole time, he’ll be great my love I just know it”

If you didn’t choose to think of the positive and agree with your husband, you think you’d spin out and think of every single worst possible option that could happen today, so you settled to agree and held Charles close as you both watched Matteo get into the kart and head out for his warm up lap.

The last lap of the race came faster than you anticipated, Matteo had fought hard and raced clean throughout the entirety of the competition, your hands were holding onto Charles’s arm almost in a death grip, but he was doing the exact same, especially when you saw him come around the last corner, in second, but pushing for first.

“Vas-y bébé, vas-y bébé!!”

You found yourself yelling, heart pounding out of your chest

“Poussez Matteo, poussez-le, attrapez-la!”

Charles yelled from beside you, both of you inching closer towards the barricade of the track, and moments later, Matteo pulled out and flew past the first-place kart, just in time to cross for the number one position. The feeling of pure elation spreading throughout you instantly, overshadowing the anxiety you felt before.

Matteo had won his first karting race.

“He did it, Char he did it!!”

Charles couldn’t have taken you into his arms faster than he did in this moment, holding you tightly to him, never wanting to let you go, only pulling back after a few minutes to wipe his eyes gently

“Oh my love, you’re crying!”

Bringing your hands up to wipe at his tears softly he smiled, leaning into your touch

“I’m just so proud of him…and-and so thankful for you, for everything.”

Butterflied erupted in your chest as you leaned forward and press a kiss to his lips

“I love you so much, forever.”

“Forever.” He answered back softly, both of you snapping our of your little bubble when Matteo ran to you both screaming in happiness

“I won papa!!”

Stepping back in time for Charles to catch him as he jumped into his arms hugging him tightly. The three of you would have to head towards the podium within the next few minutes for Matteo to receive his trophy, but for right now, this was absolutely perfect. No one could take this moment away from your family, and knowing his grandma, uncles and your close friends were waiting just around the corner, made this moment even more special.

Right here right now, as the three of you stood at the track, you knew this was where Matteo was meant to be, he wanted to be just like his father, and just like him he’d be.

ʚlittle karter taglist

@goldenalbon @goldenmclaren@a1leexxa@treehouse-mouse @therealcap@wintfleur @lovrsm

english translations:

Maman, es-tu prête à me regarder piloter mon kart!? - Mom are you read to watch me drive my kart?

Oui petit prince, tu seras incoryable, je le sais - Yes little prince, you'll be incrediblem I know it

Merci Maman - Thank you mom

Matteo laisse maman s’inquiéter, ça montre qu’elle tient à toi, ce n’est pas une mauvaise chose, n’est-ce pas.. - Matteo, let mom worry, it shows she cares about you, that's not a bad thing right?

Oui, c’est normal, je suis désolé maman - Yes, it's normal im sorry mom

C’est bon bébé, va finir de te preparer avec ton oncle Arthur - It's okay baby, go finish getting ready with your uncle Arthur

Vas-y bébé, vas-y bébé - Go baby, go baby

Poussez Matteo, poussez-le, attrapez-la - Push Matteo, push go get him!

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bullet-prooflove · 8 months ago

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ATF!Series Part One: A Rabbit You Don't Want To Chase - David Hale x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hatersaremymotivators @bennykk @kelpies-shed

Before you there was ATF Agent June Stahl.

David doesn’t know what he was thinking when he stuck his dick into that particular bag of crazy. The two of them had a mutual hate for the MC and for each other. She was there to get the job done and he utilised that. They ended up fucking on his desk barely a week after she landed, kept it up for over a month before things turned sour.

What he remembers the most from that time was that it was always filthy, always violent. He’d hurt for weeks in the aftermath, his uniform chafing the scratch marks she left on his back. At no point during that ‘relationship’ did he feel good about himself.

It's been a couple of years since then and he hasn’t thought about her once, not until she strides into his stationhouse with a couple of junior agents and a bundle of files tucked under her arm.

“A war is coming.” She tells him.

And that’s it, the devil is back in his life.

David sighs because there’s been a couple of months of peace since Clay Morrow’s ‘excommunication’ and the Sons seem to be turning their hand to more legit enterprises. Their assets have been tied up in porn since Suzie Quinn took over Luann’s business.

“Galen O’Shay, he’s one of the Irish Kings, leadership in the True IRA. The Sons are hunting him.” She tells him before she shows him a picture of a man he doesn’t recognise.

“What do they want with him?” He asks as he leans over the desk and studies the image. He can feel her eyes on him, sizing him up just like the first time and he shifts uncomfortably. She sets another picture down in front of him and this one he does recognise.

“Evelyn Shaw, unofficial matriarch.” She says leaning in close. He can feel the heat off her body rolling over his skin, the overripe sweetness of her perfume invading his nostrils. It’s suffocating being this close to her, it feels like she’s trying to claw her way underneath his flesh. “The club’s defence attorney and Chib’s fuck toy.”

David sighs because he knows Evelyn, he’s dealt with her in the past. She’s a nightmare in the courtroom, fiercely intelligent, tenacious but she’s also a good person. He’s lost count of the domestic violence cases she’s brought him. Each and every single one wrapped up neatly in a bow, ready for an arrest. He suspects it’s personal for her, that if he tracked back her history, there would be a report somewhere that detailed something terrible that had happened to her.

“I don’t understand how the two connect.” He tells Stahl as he shifts away from her. She follows him the same way she did back then, maintaining proximity, keeping him close.

“Intelligence suggests that Galen took her a couple of months back, hurt her and left her for Chibs to find inside a barn on the outskirts of town. They’ve been calling him the Mad Scot from here all the way up to Stockton because of the violence he’s left in his wake trying to find him.” She tells him, her hand coming to rest on his and it feels like his skin is crying to crawl right off his bones to escape her. He pull his hand away, tucking it into his pocket. “It only stopped when Chibs received confirmation that Galen had left the country.”

“And now he’s back.” David guesses as he replays back the past couple of his months in his head. It’s been a while since he’s heard from Evelyn, he doesn’t realise it until now.

He’d thought that the Sons had gone quiet but now he realises what’s really been happening, they’ve been circling their wagons. Someone hurting one of their women, they won’t let that slide, the same way he wouldn’t. He’d go to the ends of the earth anyone laid a hand on you.

“Sure is baby and so am I.” She says her hand gripping his tie and drawing him closer, her lips ghost in his ear as she whispers. “My pussy’s missed that mouth of yours, why don’t you get on your knees and give her a kiss.”

He tears himself away, his cheeks colouring.

“I’d rather eat glass.” He tells her, using his palm to smooth over his tie.

She raises a eyebrow, her hand coming to rest on her hip as her voice turns cold.

“What? Your little art student lets you come in her mouth and you’re suddenly in love?”

His head snaps up and he senses his mistake the instant he makes it. He’s given her an opening, an acknowledgement that there’s someone important in his life that she can fuck with.

“How does it feel sticking your dick in the same pussy that Teller’s blown his load in?” She asks him, that cruel smile pulling at the edges of her mouth. “Or is that part of the allure, you get off knowing that you have the one thing that he wants.”

David tries not to react, he tries to keep his face impassive but she must see a flicker of something in his features.

“Has she told you anything about her time with him?”

David crosses his arms over his chest, his teeth grinding together as his eyes bore right into hers.

“You’ve never asked her have you?”

No, he hasn’t and you’ve never volunteered. There’s a line in your relationship that neither of you will cross because if you tell him something, you know he will have to do something about it and it tangles you up with the Sons all over again.

“This is a rabbit you don’t want to chase.” He warns her, his voice full of vitriol.

“We’ll see.” She tells him with shit eating grin of hers. “We’ll see.”

Love David? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#David hale #david hale x reader #soa #taylor sheridan #sons of anarchy #deputy chief hale #deputy hale

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selfetishizing · 6 months ago

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the nearness of you

loid forger/yor briar | rated T | oneshot | 5.7k words

mild hurt/comfort, mutual pining, romantic tension, scars, tending to wounds, identity reveal (sort of)

A wife in tatters.

AO3

In the hour before Anya’s bedtime, Twilight had come to the startling realization that his daughter is growing up. The hem of her favorite onesie had hiked up to the bump of her ankle, bump of her wrist. Anya, heedless to many things, the intricate and crucial things—a father’s silent suffering, a mother’s concerning absence—hugged him good night, telling him that he’d be in “big, hugiant trouble” if she caught him staying past midnight waiting for Mama. Bond, whom he wished could speak and voice the wisdom that seemed to be held within his marble eyes, nudged his nose against his calf as if to show his sympathy for his companion’s indifference. Then, they had left him in a quiet apartment to fill the Yor-shaped spaces with his thoughts.

The first hour after the first snore, Twilight contemplated calling Yor, whom he presumed sat lonely at her desk, saving the country one file, one staple, one document at a time. It could be no one else. It had to be Yor to help carry this obfuscating weight that their precious girl was outgrowing her clothes—that they were becoming older themselves. That they were drifting apart.

Tomorrow, he'd tell her, they’ll go shopping together as a family for shiny new dresses, skirts, blouses, and pajamas. He will buy them in bulks—small, medium, large—so that he will never have to experience this silent heartbreak, this wearying awareness that he, shrewd and tenacious as he was, was powerless against the hands of Time. WISE would have to understand the incoming banknotes; this agony would last him for the entirety of Operation Strix.

Twilight dialed the phone and watched the numbers reel back and reset. He listened to each ring and hung up, assuming that Yor must have been on her way home.

He grieved the onesie in his lonesome. It would have been nice to hear Yor’s voice.

The second hour, he tidied up the apartment. Watered the plants. Wrapped leftovers in plastic. Played with his daughter’s toys. He created homes out of blocks, families out of plush—a fox, a bunny, a kitten.

Hearing footsteps outside, Twilight darted to the door, knocking the blocks over in his haste. His hand hovered over the knob. He listened a beat longer and knew by the slow drag of feet, by their unhurried stride that it was not Yor. Yes, he knew her by step, by breath. She would have silently stepped across the hall, keys jangling in her pocket. She would hum on particularly nice nights or mumble to herself when she was especially exhausted.

It was past midnight. Yor was not home.

Twilight wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay up that particular night. Yor had been late before. He knew that she could take care of herself. She had brought an umbrella to work that morning. She wouldn’t come home shivering. No colds would be carelessly caught.

As he cleared the rest of the dinner table—a silver candelabra, blown-out candles, unopened wine bottles—the answer he had swallowed whole made itself known. Somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, it was there anchored by reason. It would tremble at the raise of her lip, travel far enough to the heart where hundreds of buzzing bees would prick at his arterial lining for the chance of release.

Release had come close many times: mornings when she’d asked how he’d like his coffee; Saturday afternoons as she napped on the couch; nights he’d bandage the tip of her fingers after prepping dinner. It was a seed burgeoning into honeysuckles—honeysuckles that, as far as Twilight knew, had already grown in parts of his body and made his blood sweet as sap. They were honeysuckles that nearly sprouted from his mouth at the sound of his name or the touch of her palm.

Twilight could cut the vines and twine the flowers. He could dress up, slick his hair back, and have his shoes shined downtown. He could bow down like a gentleman, kiss each of his darlings’ dainty hands. A bouquet for Anya and a bouquet for Yor—their names written in his neatest penmanship on parchment. Anya would snap the honeysuckles from the vine and break their pistols off, supping them of their nectar. Yor would bring the flowers to her face and take in their scent, and Twilight, absently staring, would catch himself and clutch at his chest. Then, they would know everything. They would know all of the words he doesn't say.

It would be so simple to tie those feelings up with chiffon lace. Surely, it would save him the embarrassment of voicing those stubborn emotions that more often than not translate to knuckle biting, bedroom pacing, and worried, sleepless nights like tonight. But he knew by now that every day spent with them had watered the garden hardly contained within the bed of his skin. Giving each of them a bouquet would not capture even a fraction of how much he yearned to truly be on their side of the world.

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

Yor returned home at three in the morning.

The rain had stopped two hours ago. She was drenched. Her umbrella, dry, dropped to the floor as she stumbled in her heels looking for her lost balance in the lightless apartment. Before Twilight could open his mouth to speak, she clutched at the breast of his shirt with the abject fear of falling, pleading with him through ragged breaths to hold her, to not let go.

He didn't. Twilight hugged her close, arms fastened around her back just beneath her coat. She winced. Her body burned hot from shivering, and her cheek, pale and wan, was cold on his collarbone.

Twilight called to her softly, called again to stir her. She could only sigh.

A hand slid from her back, up to her side, trailing to trace the curve of her face. Twilight hesitated. Yor pushed herself against him as if to feel for pressure, for validation that this warmth was his. The grip on his shirt loosened when she was sure that she had made it home. After a deep breath, Twilight stroked her jaw, coaxing her to spare him a look—just one—to know that all was right.

All was not right.

When she finally moved her head up to stare at him, Twilight nearly gasped. The color had wrung from her skin. Her eyes, usually so bright with curious wonder, had shrunk half a flame. The lip that would whisper his name could only quiver with dread. She shook in his embrace as she discerned his expression, anticipating a question and readying a stolid defense. Twilight would not have it. Yor, always so strong and resolute, felt so small in his arms. He absolutely would not have it.

He caressed her cheek and he swore his heart had stopped. Red smeared over her skin. But where? How? His hands cautiously slipped down the plane of her back. Yor mewled, and he knew.

All at once the corpuscles in his body rushed in surges to the tips of his fingers down to his toes, to the heart, the head. He must have been flushed red with how quickly the blood ran in his veins—how quickly rage consumed him. Twilight inhaled shakily, tempering those thoughts of twisted necks, mutilated legs, snapped elbows, and headless torsos; of bodies cold and ashen as Yor was now in his hold.

“Who?” he whispered sharply, using the last of his constraint as he eyed the front door. Ask, and she’ll answer.

“An accident.” Ask, and she’ll lie. But the eyes? No, they never lie. She smiled despite it all. This he knew was true. He slipped her coat off from her shoulders, letting it pool at her ankles. She held on tighter. “I’m so tired. I just wanted to come home.”

Twilight could have cried from the tenderness she seemed to have saved just for him. Gone was the wickedness in his body, relinquished to the dark, dark, night. He took her face in his palms, tucking the errant strands of her disheveled hair behind an ear. One of her earrings was missing. Twilight, shattered by this disquieting and crucial detail, waited for his tears to come. They never did.

“I’m sorry, Loid. You must've waited so long,” she murmured in his neck as he delicately lifted her up into his arms. “You even lit the candles for dinner.”

“How did you know?” Twilight asked, redirecting her guilt to the shadows where it could vanish alongside vice. He clung to softheartedness, to goodness, to kindness. Tonight, he'd give it all to her.

“I smell smoke on you.”

“You can?”

Yor cupped her hand over her mouth. “You haven't been doing anything naughty, have you?”

“Heavens, no.” Twilight forced a chuckle. “I guess I should have put on cologne before welcoming you home this evening. You're exhausted, and you come back to a reeking husband. How flippant of me.”

“Silly.” She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he carried her to the couch. “It’ll stain,” she rasped, too exhausted to put up much of a protest. Yor sunk into the cushions.

Twilight kneeled down to remove the heels from her throbbing feet. His fingers glided down the bend of her calf, noting the runs in her black stocking that weren’t there this morning. The heels, he imagined, had worn down from frantic mad dashes down crowded hallways to deliver reports and proposals. Yor must have tripped somewhere along the way knowing how clumsy she could be. It would explain the scrape on her right knee.

Twilight didn’t allow himself to think anything else of it. He'd crumble the very second he did.

“May I go into your room, Yor?”

She seemed to have enough energy left to flinch at the otherwise innocent query. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Surely you weren’t thinking of changing without me tending to your…?” He could not bring himself to say it. To speak the very thing into existence would mean acknowledging the suppositions he had previously dismissed as soon as they were conceived.

Twilight, insisting that she give in to his request, kept his hands on her knees as looked up at her imploringly. The more she turned his words in her head, the more flustered she became. The implication made the hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stand. Surely, she wasn’t thinking something so unseemly.

He counted the moles dotting along the sides of her face and neck—five—as she pondered the question, connecting them to constellations he’d read about as a boy.

Cassiopeia—Queen of Ethiopia. Boastful and vain, she had boasted that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful than the Nereids. Angered by Cassopeia’s remarks, Poseidon, god of the sea, had unleashed a disgustingly powerful sea creature, Cetus, onto her kingdom. Ethiopia would sacrifice Andromeda to the beast by chaining her to a boulder by the sea to restore order to the kingdom.

Twilight pondered the tale—the bonds between a mother and her child, the consequence of vanity, the peace offering that is a daughter. He thinks of Cassiopeia and Andromeda, Yor and Anya. The hero Perseus, who had rode upon the Flying Horse to save the princess, would cease to exist. Had Yor been Cassopeia, Twilight knew, she alone could have protected Andromeda. There would be no need for epic knights in shining armor. A mother would have been enough.

Twilight imagined a woman with Yor’s features—a pale woman with a black cape for hair, pursed red lips, crows feet at her eyes. He thought about a mother, about death, and the selfishness in succumbing to it. Does Yor forgive her mother? Does he forgive his own?

And perhaps Yor had been Andromeda this entire time, chained against a rock as the sea rages and tears her hosiery, her skirt, her skin. Her kingdom—the house she once knew with the iron fences and rose bushes— was reduced to rubble by manmade terrors unbeknownst to myths and their slithery beasts. Only a cellar with a frightened boy cowered in its dark corners remained, waiting for his dear sister to come back.

Yor didn’t need a Perseus to fight this battle for her. But maybe, Twilight naively supposed, it wouldn’t be so bad to have one fight alongside her. A Perseus to patch her wounds. A Perseus to listen and to hold her when words succumbed to sobs.

"There’s a nightgown folded on my bed,” she instructed carefully, voice hoarse, as if it were some secret mission.

“Alright.”

“My pillows and blanket too, if you could.” She bit her bottom lip, thinking a request as simple as that could be a burden to him. “I think I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“I can carry you to your bed, you know.”

“I’m so heavy, and—”

“Light as a feather.”

“But if you touch me again, Loid, who knows what I’ll do? I could kick you, or, or… I could slap you! You’d definitely bruise or bleed.” She was hysterical. From blood loss? Fatigue? “And if I melt?”

Twilight raised a brow, amused. “Melt?”

“Yes. If you touch me again, I fear my flesh might slide right off my bones. Might turn to goo.” Yor looked down at her lap, making sure that she was still all together. Then, she imagined herself liquified—a wash of taupe and pinks sluiced over the carpet—and gasped. “It would take forever to clean me up.”

Yor shifted on the couch, letting all of her weight fall to one side. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The entire room stilled. An austere foreboding, cold and misty, crept into the chasm that separated them. Moonlight caught in the dark curtain of her undone hair, sanctifying her with faint halation. Twilight clasped his hands together and called upon the angels—pulled them down by those golden threads stitched to billowing clouds— to do everything in their power to keep Yor awake.

“You mustn't fall asleep,” he said. “Not until I’ve dressed you.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Yes, darling, I know,” cooed Twilight, slipping her hand in his. He rubbed the smooth swath of skin above her knuckles with his thumb, absolving her of the unspoken remorse that was written all over her, that was slashed onto her back. He would take it from her. He would bear it all. “It will only take me a moment.”

The fondness that he never knew he could possess with Yor shocked him, terrified him. What would be more difficult, he wondered? To turn his shoulder and leave this sentimental mood? Or for a subliminal confession he so desperately wanted her to understand to plague her mind?

Every red flag was raised and yet here he was, groveling before his fallen Madonna. One word and it would be done. Yes—Twilight took that risk, a leap of faith. He chose the latter—the novelty of infatuation, of being completely and thoroughly consumed by the off-chance that Yor, too, harbored symptoms of a heart starved of the kind of feelings reserved for two.

Yor swallowed thick and squeezed his hand weakly. She nodded, and Twilight, the ever loyal husband, obeyed her command.

Quickly, he minced to his room, careful to not wake Anya. Underneath his bed was his personal first aid kit of gauze, sterilized needles, tourniquets, adhesive plaster, tweezers, wound washes, and antibiotic creams in a worn cardboard box so cleverly labeled “TOOLS'' in hasty print. Somehow one of Anya’s pink star-printed bandaids had made its way inside. The alarms went off in Twilight’s mind before he remembered that he had absently slipped an extra band aid that was in his pocket in there after he had patched up Anya’s knee. (Just the other weekend, she had somehow fallen off a bicycle with training wheels. It was an understated art how kids seemed to find the danger in otherwise safe devices.) He gathered an arm-full of these things and pushed past his bedroom door with his back.

Then, Twilight’s hand hovered over the doorknob of Yor’s bedroom, bracing himself for the metaphorical crossing between flatmates and something more. Her room, steeped in the indigo night, pulled him in before he could reconsider. The lace curtains billowed out toward him, swathed him in dove white. Before he knew it, he was caught in a whir of Yor.

This room was indisputably her. It was furnished simply: a bed, a dresser, a cabinet, and a vanity. A patched pilled quilt Twilight presumed had been from her childhood was tightly tucked down under the sides of her mattress. Her uniform—an impeccably ironed button down, a green vest and skirt—hung from a hanger on the corner of her cabinet. Anya seemed to imprint herself here too; another fox plush toy sat against her fluffed pillows, waiting to be cozied up against a warm, beating heart. Adorned on the walls were not posters or prints, but rather Anya originals in crayon, pastel, pencil, and acrylic.

Yor didn’t seem to hold on to a lot of things—or perhaps there wasn’t a lot of things to hold on to—before she lived here, but he knew by the multiplying photo frames—water-stained shots of Yuri, Forger and Briar family portraits, picture day at Eden Academy— that slowly, she was carving a permanent home here.

Capless tubes of lipstick—reds, pinks, nudes— were strewn across her vanity along with ticket stubs to matinees they’d seen together after work. Lacquered dishes with tableaus of rolling fields and carnivals held her precious pearls, her golds, her handmade beaded bracelets. A green perfume bottle with a tasseled pump spray shimmered under starlight. Like a gem, its glean enchanted him into a sandalwood-induced stupor.

Twilight stared into the looking glass as a mirage of Yor nimbly braided her hair into a neat side-plait. She patted her face with loose powder and slid pink lipstick over puckered lips. Yor then dabbed the pad of her finger on rouge, dotting along the curves of her cheekbones and tapping the excess at the corners of her eyes. So mundane was the act, so effortless and easy, that Twilight felt apologetic for having peered into such a private ritual.

Clearly, he had overstayed his welcome. Twilight nearly tripped over his feet as he moved to gather her beige nightgown and pillows, refusing to let curiosity get the better of him. Beneath her pillows, however, was a familiar trinket.

His engagement ring to her—that grenade pin! Twilight was unsure why she had decided to keep it after all of this time: he had wedded her properly thereafter with golden bands and bridal bouquets. He blushed immediately at the prospect that Yor wanted him to see it. Though slim, there was still the statistical probability that her request for her pillows was a subtle declaration of love—that the ring signified everything she had locked away in her heart and in his own. Could she have planned this? Left the ring under her pillow that morning for him to find? Did she anticipate working off hours so late into the evening? Orchestrate this entire scenario down to the last cut?

It was no accident, this much he knew. But how else would one rationalize those injuries? Why was she soaked when it had stopped raining hours ago? If someone had attacked her tonight, did she not have enough trust to confide in him? If she did not care enough to tell him, then what was that grenade pin doing under her pillow?

Twilight all but stumbled out of her room. He was WISE’s most cunning agent—its most calm and calculated—yet his mind could not quite wrap itself around the idea of Yor potentially reciprocating the feeling he knew he had concealed in some taped-up cardboard box tucked away in his house of bones. There, compartmentalized, were all of the trinkets he thought he'd forgotten: wooden guns, jazz records, a bloodied eyepatch, and burned polaroids. Underneath the old items lay a letter with his heart, scrawled and signed with a name long discarded:

Yor,

I love you most ardently.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Rowan

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

Wound wash in popcorn bowls. Heart-printed face towels for rags. Gauze cut by pink blunt-tip kiddie scissors. A wife in tatters and a husband desperately attempting to stitch the remnants back together.

“I have to—”

“You can't.”

And for five minutes, they exchanged various iterations of these very words. Yor had managed to unbutton the first three buttons of her blouse before stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest, refusing any treatment from Twilight.

Twilight scooted to the edge of the wooden table he sat on, close enough for their knees to nudge. Their eyes met briefly.

Yor much preferred the Moon’s gaze. Moonglow, Twilight figured, could not touch Yor in those damning ways she'd come to know about during the war or in cautionary tales. It could not bruise, breach, break skin. It could not promise her love but at least it gave her assurance of forever. And who was Twilight to contend?

“Yor,” he started futilely, voice softer than he would have liked, “you can trust me.”

The words, like steam, evaporated from her tongue. She clutched the bust of her blouse shut.

“I do.” She was red in the face. He could feel her jittering. “It's just—oh!—I don't know! You weren't supposed to… No, not like this.”

“I’ll close my eyes, touch you only where I should. I’ll be gentle, quick, so please,” plead Twilight, weary and desperate, “let me care for you.”

“You've cared for me the entire night—every day I’ve lived with you. You've welcomed me so into your home, your family, and yet here I am,” she rasped, voice caught on a chord, “proving time and time again that I—”

Twilight's heart dropped to his belly; he felt as though he ought to apologize. For what, he was unsure. There must have been some kind of shortcoming from within him if Yor was unable to articulate her troubles.

Her vagueness, though, seemed purposeful: she would trail off before giving him any indication as to where the root of her problems lay. Twilight secretly thanked her for it. They could, even for a while longer, keep up this charade. He could still love her with her back turned—love her in sight.

“You’ll hate me,” whispered Yor. “You'll despise me. I know it.”

“There’s nothing in this world that could ever make me hate you.” The statement unknowingly gave way to the garden tucked away underneath the surface of his skin. Could she smell the roses on him? The freesias? Yor could not be so dense to not understand his heart with the way he leapt at her assumption, fitting himself to the gentle carve of her profile. Twilight is close, so close that he catches the moon’s glimmer on her eyelashes. He resists the temptation to eclipse it with a kiss.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Then help me to.” Twilight just could not stop at words, no. When did his hand connect with her knee? When did his fingers move to guide her face back to him?

Yor forced herself to look once more at his gaze, agonizingly adamantine. Resolute. She began the process of unbuttoning her shirt once more, keeping her eyes trained on him.

“Anya grew out of her pajamas, you know,” he droned—a distraction—as he anxiously watched the tips of her fingers. “Wrists and ankles and all. They’re poking out the sleeves. I was thinking,” Twilight swallows thickly, “we should all go out this weekend. Buy some new clothes for her.”

Yor stilled, staring at him with unblinking eyes. She bit her lip and, almost as if to present herself to him, laid her hands beside her thighs. The dark sweep of her hair fell over the hunch of her shoulders. Twilight followed its movement.

Anger was a lit match that burned through the sprawling cord that maps over the expanse of her skin. He stared at the curve of the chest, her heart. Twilight traced the long jagged line of white raised skin down to her right side. Pink stars exploded and dwindled down her hip, dying dust disappearing underneath the waistband of her skirt.

Twilight could stitch a disjointed timeline from the color of her scars alone: faded cat-scratches from her childhood, raised cuts from debris, bullet wounds red and unforgiving, and knife lacerations that had just begun to scab over washes of blue and purple.

Perhaps she could see it on his face, his steely countenance. He had become all hard edges and wrinkles as he scrutinized the marred canvas of her skin. The irony was cruel. Yor, always so gracious, so kind, was seamed with silvery stitches, stained with colors that belonged on sprigs. He was in pieces.

“They grow up so fast,” said Yor wistfully, almost as if to lament the skin she had no choice in claiming. “They come and they go, don’t they?”

Twilight knew all too well that her words meant much more. Yes, he wanted to say, we did. And he’d hold her the way his mother had when days were brighter—the way he holds his daughter now. He’d hold the girl as long as she needed to be held: late into the morning, late for work; in the afternoon when the sun laid over them thickly; into dusk with the stars shut off, dark and still.

There were things Twilight could never understand about Yor, things that she would never divulge to him. But there was nothing as certain and true as the kindness of skin, of a hand over hers, of a brush on the curve of her cheek.

“I’m going to take your…” Bra felt too vulgar of a word. He improvised. “This off.”

Resigned from her initial embarrassment, Yor simply nodded, moving to rest her chin on Twilight’s shoulder. She held onto the sides of his shirt, a half-hug.

Faceless women. Powdery perfume. Wine-stained lips agape, mouthing different names on the nape of his neck. Bodies full in contour, stuffed with down in all the places meant for squeezing. It was muscle memory at this point—the snap of a clasp, the inevitable plunge into passion, and the hangover in the morning. But when it came to Yor, he couldn’t help but feel as though it was an act most sacred. There was no other urge than to press her wholly against him, to feel the pressure of her entire being on him as he wraps his arms around her, merging into one. Deeper than lust, than desire. This much, he longed for Yor Briar.

The straps slid off her shoulders, leaving pink indents in her flesh. His mind blanked. He stopped breathing.

Hands moved on their own, wetting towels in washes, laving it over her back. She’d wince. He’d whisper something sweet. Rinse and repeat. He created a cage out of action, keeping all thoughts and emotion locked away.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Not so bad,” Twilight assured. “Nothing that needs stitches, at least.”

“Oh.” It was empty exchanges like this as more and more questions hung over them. Together they cowered under their weight.

“I know that this is… uncomfortable.” It was awkward, to say the least. He tended to her back, arms rigid so as to not touch her more than he needed to. She leaned forward, chest to chest, so that he could somewhat peer over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Skinship didn’t seem to bother her—rather, she was too exhausted to care or give it any deeper thought. The turmoil within Twilight, though, waged. “Just a while longer. I need to dress your wound. You’ve been a very good patient up to now.”

“I’ve been good?” It warranted a chuckle from Yor.

Twilight flushed, conscious of his entire existence. Too embarrassed by his words, he froze, hands dropping down to the small of her back. “Are you…making fun of me?”

“No. Not at all.” She laughed halfheartedly once more, pulling back slightly to look at him. “So this is what you’re like with your patients. You’re kind and your hands are warm. It’s hard to not like you.”

“Oh, please.” Briefly, he met her gaze, tore from her immediately once he remembered the precarious position they found themselves in. He looked past her. He would be a gentleman.

“That’s who you are. You’re warm wherever you go. You’re warm when you’re here, warm when you’re away.” He looked past her even as she moved to touch his face. “You’re warm even now, when I’ve been so cold. Yes, I’ve been cold to you, haven’t I?”

He said her name, so he thought. She closed her eyes. All it took was this for Twilight see her for who she was. Goodness, through and through.

“Sometimes I think… I think I was born like this. Cold-blooded. ” A beat of silence. “That I might be the way I am forever.”

“I know you, Yor.” He blazed a trail to the side of her face, flames lapping her skin. She shuddered as he whispered low against her ear, lips brushing with every word. “I know you. And if... If you're cold now,” Twilight said, “I'll wrap your blanket around you.” It sounded like a promise—one Yor was sure she would not be able to keep.

“That's the thing.” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure you do.”

This he could not refute. Her past was a mystery to him. Dead parents and a younger brother. She had only herself. Twilight often chose not to speculate about her life; he knew he’d go down a downward spiral coming up with many iterations of her girlhood—rather, lack thereof. What kind of jobs did she take to support her younger brother? Who did she meet? How did she remain soft despite it all—the war that had unknowingly brought them together?

How did she get hurt tonight?

Who had hurt her?

Her eyes, glassy, stared at him in resignation. “I’m scared, Loid. Terrified that one day, you'll come to realize who I truly am."

Yes, he did not know the crucial makings of Yor. Didn’t know the smell of her childhood bedroom. The names of lovesick suitors that, over the years, tried to win her hand. He didn’t know the stations she’d tune in to as a girl on lazy Sunday afternoons under the syrup sun when all the initial excitement of the weekend had worn off. But what Twilight did know was the scent of her shampoo as they drove down cobblestone paths, top down, hair tickling his face as she watched the scrolling scenery in awe. He knew the way her face would glow as she smiled, how everything about her flowered. The feelings Anya, he harbored were certain. Wasn’t this enough?

Twilight gently wrapped around her. It was the best he could do despite the uncertainties that continued to gnaw at him. She melded into him, and, perhaps swept by the moment, did exactly what he had been thinking of doing the entire night.

They kindled, and the fire spread.

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

It was relatively quiet as he cared for Yor. The small cuts she visibly had on her arms were covered in Anya’s pastel bandaids. He tied the wedding white gauze around her bust as if it were a ribbon to a gown. She was pink in the night, hot with pining much like Twilight.

Sucking on a breath, Yor raised her worn arms as Twilight slipped her nightgown over her head.

“You’re staying home tomorrow. No ifs or buts,” he directed as he slipped her skirt off from underneath.

Yor hummed in compliance, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to acknowledge the audacity of that act of utmost affinity—the chaste press of lips.

Twilight was no better. He’d gone too soft, sappy. Too stupid. To make up for the many missteps of the night, he would be calm, collected. The anger and contentment conflicting within him would have to wait until he’s in the confines of his room where he could turn in his bed over thoughts of Yor.

He tossed the blood-soaked rags in the bowl and stood up, moving to position her pillow near the arm of the sofa so that she could finally lay. Twilight pulled the pilled quilt from her room over her body. She looked so small, so snug.

“You were out in the rain too. You most definitely caught a cold.”

“Definitely?”

“Yes.” Twilight swept his palm over her forehead. “Definitely. I’ll be here with you, though. I need you there with me this time. I need you strong when you see how fast Anya has grown.”

“It must have been hard on your own, seeing Anya grow.” Yor smiled with mirth and his heart swelled. He looked away, lifted his chin, and cleared his throat. “I’ve always been strong, though, so you don't have to worry—"

“No,” he interjected, a little too strongly. He kneeled down next to her, and he said, in the most tender voice he could muster, “Did you forget that you’re married? Married to me?”

“I didn’t,” she mumbled timidly. “But there's no one here to watch us. Nothing to prove to anyone.”

With a knowing smile, Twilight responded, “Precisely.” Yor blushed, turning to the other side to face away from him. He reached out one last time before retracting his hand out of contemplated bashfulness. “Get some rest. I’ll be in my room reading. Don’t hesitate to call out to me if there’s anything you need, alright?”

He waited ten heartbeats, waited for a last minute request. Waited to hear the inflection of her voice just before she’s taken by slumber—the voice that would lull him to rose-scented dreams.

As he got up, he imagined that she had said his name. Then, again, “Loid?”

“Yes?”

Her back was still turned away from him, face toward the back cushions.

“I’ve got so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin."

“We’ve got the morning,” he told her, himself. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for me to learn all of you.”

Yor turned to him. Twilight bowed before her, laced their hands together. She squeezed.

"For now," Yor said, closing her eyes, "thank you."

He leaned down and tucked a flower behind her ear. A wind overtakes them. Pink petals flitted.

#my writing #fic #loidyor #twiyor #sxf #sxf fic #spy x family #loid forger #yor briar #this is an old fic #but i'll post it here anyway!#yknow. for The Archives #header is “a continent bridged” by franklin booth #listened to a lot of laufey for this one #fic named after laufey's cover of the song

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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"Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall, Who's the Fairest of Them All?"

This set of headcanons was the most difficult for me to write for of the 7 dorms. I think it’s because I don’t immediately associate Pomefiore with any group activities, unlike most of the others.

Note: Rollo does not canonically dislike apples, I just decided to run with it to go along with the whole joke of him being Catholic... and how apples are representative of "the first sin" in much of pop culture.

A Big Pomefiore Welcome to Rollo!

Four dormitory visits in, and Rollo's dreading the next. He expects it to be every bit as exhausting as the first four were, whether physically or mentally. But no, he won't let his spirit be broken, won't let these NRC students under his skin!! Rollo trudges onward.

Pomefiore boasts a pleasant atmosphere right as he enters their realm. It is filled with soft birdsong and lush greenery, sunshine coming down upon his face. He shields his eyes and squints at the rustic castle towering ahead. it's grand, imposing, and filled with rich history. So far, so good.

At this point, Rollo expects someone to jump out of the bushes to annoy him, but the entire walk to the entrance is uneventful. Something is very wrong here, he thinks, slowly rapping on the doors. Does a jump scare await him beyond it? Rollo braces himself when the doors creak open and push out.

“Bienvenu, Roi du Mouchoir!!” an irritatingly familiar voice calls out to him. Rook rushes at Rollo at a frightening speed, nearly crushing the man's bones in a hug he's too slow to avoid. An arm coiling around him like a snake, a hand on the small of his back, Rook happily welcomes Rollo inside.

The huntsman talks. Incessantly. He talks about how happy he is to be reunited with him, he talks about the beautiful weather, he talks about the wonderful reception Pomefiore has painstakingly planned to welcome his arrival. He just about never stops talking, never wipes that big, dumb smile off of his face. It’s plainly unsettling.

Rollo utters a sharp “Tais-toi!”, which finally silences Rook (but only for about all of 5 seconds). His eyes crease, and something about his expression reminds Rollo of a hungry fox. “Ah, I see that your fiery fervor has yet to dim. Harboring such unyielding ideals… Fufufu, that tenacious spirit of yours makes you a wonderful fit in the realm of the Beautiful Queen.”

“Tch. You keep speaking in that overly familiar tone of voice,” Rollo snips as he and Rook come to a new set of doors, “acting as though we’re on amicable terms, ushering me into your fold. Make no mistake, I do NOT plan on becoming intimate with…”

The doors open into an opulent lounge decorated for a fancy reception. Streamers are suspended from the ceiling, confetti dusting open seats, vases of flowers topping ever counter, petals spilling in a luxurious waterfall from one table. Sitting upon elegant purple cloths are plates of hors d'oeuvres and flutes with sparkling liquids.

Students in robes with billowing sleeves are scattered around a throne where a beautiful man sits. Nervously standing at the seated queen’s side is a shorter boy with fluffy lilac hair and large eyes. Their gazes momentarily meet, and there’s a flicker of recognition in both of them. It’s Epel Felmier from the masquerade.

Rook approaches, sweeping his feathered hat off and bowing. “Je suis revenu.” There’s a nod from the beautiful man—the dorm’s ruler, Rollo believes—as he raises a hand to the onlookers. “Thank you for escorting our guest to the venue, Rook. Now then, let the festivities begin.” The Pomefiore students clap politely for him as soft orchestral music begins to play, as if by magic.

“Well then, my friend—” (“We are NOT friends,” Rollo sharply corrects Rook.) “—please enjoy yourself! As sorrowful as it is to part ways, cruel Fate dictates it must be so. Worry not, our paths will surely cross again! Until then, I leave you with this token to remember me by.” Rook produces a rose from his sleeve and slips it into Rollo’s hat, then prances off to his dorm leader.

Rollo removed the the rose crushes it in his palm like a stress ball. He lets the crumpled flower fall to his feet, mingling with the petals already on the polished floor.

“Erm, Rook-senpai… Is it okay to really let him walk around the party without supervision?” Epel asks as his upperclassman draws near. “Won’t he… um, you know??” (To this, Rook chuckles. “Non, we needn’t worry. Acting so boldly in broad daylight is not to his style.“)

Rollo tries to minimize his presence, finding some quiet corner to stand in until the reception ends. Unfortunately for him, Pomefiore students keep walking up to chat. He’s on edge, expecting them to be combative or nosy—but no, he finds that they’re a more insidious kind of evil… the underhanded, subtler sort.

Many of the mob students compliment his outfit. However just as many of them raise their eyebrows when they see him up close. They coo about how Rollo’s complexion looks so haggard and how he has such dark circles under his eyes. (A few of them also remark that his haircut is “a choice”.)

Some mob students start giving him (uncalled for) beauty tips and product recommendations. Retinol creams, vitamin C serums, sleeping masks—all manner of lotions and potions to supposedly “fix” his dark circles and sickly look.

Rollo takes their words as gracefully as he can, but inside his annoyance steadily accumulates. (How shallow and frivolous their interests are!! And how dare they try to impose their vain standards onto him?!)

The conversation soon takes a turn into history, a subject which he finds much more enjoyable. He hears of the Beautiful Queen and passes on stories of the Righteous Judge—equal parts give and take.

Rollo learns that their dorm leader, Vil, is skilled in the laboratory. Potions, poisons… he can brew them all. “He even tends to our plants and harvests them to create his own cosmetics,” a mob student excitedly tells Rollo. “That’s our Vil-sama!”

“What a coincidence. I, too, partake in gardening as a hobby.” Rollo chooses his words very carefully, but still a smirk finds its way onto his face. He can’t help but sneer a little at these hapless fools (who misinterpret the look as an awkward attempt at a smile). “Fufufu, yes… I do so love flowers of a crimson color in particular. Lotuses have a charm to them as well. The red ones are reminiscent of fire.”

Every time Rollo has to take an aside to cover his (frequent) grimaces with his handkerchief, the Pomefiore mobs remark on how thoughtful and graceful it is for him to do such a thing. They start talking about how they, too, should invest in their own handkerchiefs—what colors and designs should they consider? “… Any will do,” Rollo grumbles.

When he thinks about it, a lot of the Pomefiore mobs’ admiration for Vil reminds him of his own peers back at NBC. They stare at him with sparkling eyes full of adoration, praising him for every achievement, falling over themselves to be at his beck and call. Hmph, how foolish.

A feeling of unease never fully leaves Rollo as he converses with others. He feels as though he’s still being watched by Rook—yet when he glances over to check on the huntsman, he seems preoccupied whispering into Vil’s ear or laughing a something Epel said. As soon as Rollo looks away, that eerie sensation returns.

When the mob students finally retreat into their own smaller circles and cliques, Rollo decides to have a light snack to regain all that energy he just expended entertaining nosy idiots. He’s pleased to find foods that remind him of home: charcuterie boards, cheeses, grapes, breads—

An awkward cough sounds from behind him. “W-Would you like some juice, sir?” It’s Epel, shyly offering a glass to him. (From a distance, Rook nods encouragingly and gives him two thumbs up. Vil sighs, swirling around liquid in a goblet of his own.)

“You were sent personally,” Rollo remarks. (Epel was; Vil had prodded him to go so he could observe how he handled himself in a strained social situation.) “Why?” (“You um… seemed thirsty?”)

“It’s not poisoned, is it?” Rollo asks suspiciously, cautiously accepting the glass. (“N-Nossir! It ain’t! I swear it on mah life!!” Epel insists.) He peers inside and finds golden juice. “This must be apple. Do you have an alternative? Perhaps grape.”

“E-Eh?” Epel seems surprised (and mildly offended) by the request. “You prefer grapes to apples?” ("I do. Apples may keep for a long time relative to other fruits, but I find the texture of them to be quite mealy and difficult to get down.")

"Mealy?!" Epel's outburst draws the attention of everyone in the room (including Vil, who does not look pleased). The first year mutters an apology before returning to Rollo. "I'm sure there's some kind of apple you must like...? There's many new breeds out now because of advances in MMOs."

"Magically modified organisms?" Rollo sneers at the idea. "What makes you think I would want to ingest produce that has been touched by magic? The concept itself is abhorrent. Apples were simply meant to be the lesser fruit."

"LESSER FRUIT?!" Epel's even louder (and more appalled) this time. “You oughta take that back ‘fore I…!” Vil frowns and rises from his throne. Epel pales and instantly shuts up as his dorm leader sashays toward them.

"My, I do hope our Epel isn't imposing on you," Vil drawls, glaring at the first year. Epel's prepared to be chewed out--but miraculously, he's spared with the wave of Vil's hand. (He scrambles off with Rook, leaving Rollo to Vil.) "As you can plainly see, there’s still much work to be done in terms of his manners and temperament. Some potatoes take more time and effort to whip into shape than others, I'm afraid."

“Of course. I completely understand.” Rollo’s reply is terse and stiff as he regards Vil—a famous face he recalls seeing in various works, posted about almost religiously online. An idol for the masses, is his immediate thought, flaunting about like a primping peacock. Pushing products and an excessive lifestyle for others to ogle and covet. Encouraging sin.

Epel gives Rollo a dirty look when he’s sure Vil isn’t looking. “No way can anyone hate apples and be a good person!! His heart is pure black, Rook-senpai!!" Epel clutches onto the robes of his upperclassman. "He definitely still can’t be trusted!!”

“I don't believe I've had the chance to formally introduce myself." Vil slowly swirls around the carbonated apple juice in his own goblet. "Vil Schoenheit—a pleasure. I’ve heard so many stories about you.” None of them good, Rollo suspects.

With a glance around the room, Vil sighs. He gestures to the garden that awaits beyond a window. “It’s getting to be a bit stuffy in here. Would you care to take this outside?”

Rollo seizes the opportunity to escape from the suffocating space and prying eyes. He enters the night, finding comfort in the darkness and silence. For a moment, he almost forgets that Vil is with him—until he hears the distinctive clacking of a sharp nail against glass.

“I hope Pomefiore’s hospitality has met your standards,” Vil says nonchalantly. “Rook tells me you’re very particular.” And truthfully? Rollo confesses to him that it’s been the least abrasive of the dorms he has visited thus far. Vil makes a face. “… I had my expectations set low for some of the others, but I can’t fathom what horrors you’ve experienced at the their hands.“

“You have some sense in you.” What a shame it is that you are a mage. Rollo doesn’t speak his true thoughts out loud, but Vil seems to sense the animosity radiating off of him.

He gives a snooty laugh. “You must think little of me. As an A-list actor, I can see easily through your facade. Let’s drop the pretenses, hmm? I’d like to speak with the real Rollo Flamme.” At the invitation, Rollo scowls. Vil smirks right back. “That’s more like it.”

“… What is it that you want? There must be a reason why you’ve gone out of your way to isolate us from the rest of them.”

“A queen can be curious,” Vil explains in a dismissive manner. He sweeps a golden lock behind one ear, treating the scene no different from another set. The moonlight on him as he delivers a soliloquy. “… It goes without saying that I do not approve of your methods. However, there is something to be said of your doggedness. That, at least, deserved to be lauded.”

“You’re congratulating me.” Rollo says it as a statement of disbelief.

“In a way, yes.” Vil’s laugh is low and cruel. “The more you want something, the harder is it to obtain. It’s never quite so simple. You’re promised the world as a child, and then you grow up and realize the world doesn’t owe you a happy ending no matter how hard you bite and hiss and claw for it. I know of that frustration well myself.”

Vil wants the truth? He’ll get the truth. Rollo lets the vitriol slip into his voice, turning it pointed and poisonous. “I’m appalled that you would even imply that we are similar. Do not compare me with the likes of you…!”

“Am I wrong? Please, enlighten me.” There’s a newfound satisfaction in Vil’s expression. He knows he has not won, but that he has gotten under Rollo’s skin. “It’s difficult to put on a smile and act as though all is well, isn’t it? That’s the burden we bear. The roles we are expected to play.” Vil smiles a bit. “Perhaps in another life, I would have welcomed you as a student of my dormitory.”

“If a second life exists, I would want a life of normalcy—not to be jailed in your gilded cage of a castle,” Rollo spits out. “I would wish to be free of this burning curse. I would have him back.” I could be happy again in that fairer world.

Vil nods and solemnly lifts his glass. “… To your wish upon a star—and your efforts to realize it.” Rollo finds himself mimicking the motion, compelled by a feeling he doesn’t recognize. Is it a pledge to never give up, even if the world is against him? Is it a part of him acknowledging Vil’s harsh truth? He doesn’t know.

They toast and raise the cups to their lips. Somehow, the apple juice tastes bittersweet on both of their tongues.

With that, Vil turns away. Heels clicking rhythmically, he follows the warm lights spilling out from Pomefiore back inside. He will return to the reception, mingle with his subjects. Maybe scold Epel as he had initially intended to, or tell Rook off for coming onto their guest too strongly.

Rollo is alone in the night.

… Or so he thinks, until a hand comes upon his shoulder.

“Roi du Mouchoir,” Rook says softly, emerging from the shadows as though he were born among them, “Let us make haste back to the reception. You’re the guest of honor—it wouldn’t do to have you running off on us! Ah, but if you do… I would be more than happy to chase you down to the ends of Twisted Wonderland to retrieve you.”

“Wha…?! Where did you come from?!” Rollo jerks away from him with a yelp, which doesn’t seem to bother Rook at all. He keeps smiling that crude, large smile of his and claps. “Très bien, you’re still brimming with vitality for the rest of the evening! Come now, let us return!”

His patience snaps.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep far away from me!!”

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #Vil Schoenheit #Epel Felmier #Pomefiore #Rook Hunt #Rollo Flamme #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk

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