#the weighted blanket…….. decadence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 3 months ago

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Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry.

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair.

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead.

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs.

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold.

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy.

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #nikto fic #nikto cod #nikto x reader #witch reader #afab reader #mind the warnings #heavy kink

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utterlyotterlyx · 8 months ago

Note

18 with Azriel because mans is taaaaall

Little Thing

Summary - Azriel loves finding any reason to hold you, his height restricted mate, in his arms, and isn't ashamed to admit it.

Warnings - absolutely none really, slight swearing, just Az fluff x 1000

"I've been breaking my back to kiss you."

"I'm not that fucking short."

The weight that occasionally pressed against the tips of his toes had become something he found endearing, because it meant that you were trying with all of your might to kiss him by using his feet as leverage to boost your own height.

Azriel was abnormally tall, his six foot seven to your five foot three was the source of copious amounts of teasing from your shared family, mostly from Cassian who always questioned aloud how Azriel fit inside of you, like it was all he thought about whenever he looked at the two of you.

"Would you like to watch since you're so intrigued about our sex life, Cass?"

"I, uh-," Cassian had stuttered that chill afternoon, the stars had blanketed across the sky, and you were stood in the centre of the lounge in your floor length skirt which only reached Azriel's knees, (he'd tried it on one day much to your delight); you were tapping your foot against the wooden floor, eyebrow arched and waiting for a real answer, "No."

Azriel had to give it to Cassian, and Rhys, and well anyone who questioned how Azriel, the brother with the largest wingspan, managed to fit inside of you. Cassian said often that his cock must rearrange your insides and he was surprised how you could walk around after your nights, mornings, and afternoons together, let alone go to work and live a normal life.

"Thought not. Shame, you could have learnt a thing or two for Nesta," Azriel chortled at your words and sent a wave of pride and adoration down the bond, a shower of affection that you lapped up.

"Ouch, y/n. That stung," Cassian fluttered his fingers over his heart and winced dramatically.

"Bite me," you flipped him off and headed back into the kitchen where the most incredible aromas floated from.

Once a month, you promised to cook a family dinner for them all, having negotiated your family away from the once a week they had begged for. It was as though they believed that you didn't have a life. The most decadent bakery in Velaris had your name plastered on the front of it in pale blue swirls, that was how you had met Azriel, after Feyre had dragged him into the store owned by the tiny fae female who made the best pastries she had ever tasted in her life.

The bond had snapped immediately for him when he saw you in your black apron dusted with flour, pink icing and white buttercream on your cheeks, hair strewn up but spilling over your forehead, boxing up a larger than you three tier cake without breaking a sweat.

The pastries you had made for him once you had decided to accept the bond, and the life that came with it, were almost as good as the passionate love he gave you that night.

Azriel loved everything about you, from the larger than life ferocity and sass you carried in your tiny body, to your equally ferocious loving heart; you were independent, talented, sweet, and kind, a ray of sunshine in his otherwise shadowed reality.

Though, there were two things that Azriel loved more than anything. The first was being able to find any excuse to lift you up in his hands, whether that be to help you reach the top shelf or fuck you against a wall; he wouldn't admit it easily, but he did purposefully hide things out of reach from you so that he had a reason to hold you in his large hands. The second thing he adored was how you would stand on his feet, on your tiptoes, to capture his lips on yours. It was such a sickly sweet part of you, but one that he wouldn't change for anything.

Hearing you strain, Azriel furrowed his brow, imagining you struggling to reach the second shelf of the cupboard in a home where furniture had been made for three huge Illyrians, not a tiny fae baker. Rounding the corner, he smirked at your form, he smirked at the way your skirt was hitched around your thighs as you clambered onto a nearby chair to hop onto the countertop.

Azriel sauntered over to you, laying his large hands on your hips and pressing his lips to the small of your back, grinning against your skin when you shuddered at the contact, "Need any help?" Azriel had moved the stool away from the edge of the counter, placing himself where it used to be.

Turning in his hands, you looked down on him with a wide smile, "No, I got it," you presented the bag of sugar to him and he took it from your fingers, placing it down for you, "Is this what it's like to be you? I can see so much up here."

Azriel chuckled, resting his chin on your stomach and peering up at you through his long lashes that always made you curse his Illyrian genes, "I guess so," he shrugged, locking his arms around your hips, enjoying the moment you had taken to run your fingernails over his scalp which drew a whine from his lips.

Taking his face in your hands, you leaned down and placed your lips to his, a tender embrace, one full of love and the faint taste of your vanilla lip balm that gave your lips the most incredible glossy finish, "How does it feel to kiss someone taller than you?"

Grinning, Azriel prodded, "Amazing actually. I've been breaking my back to kiss you."

You gasped, swatting his shoulder with the towel you had tucked into the back of your skirt, "I'm not that fucking short!"

His laugh boomed throughout the kitchen as you fiddled with the ends of your hair, "Okay, maybe I am just a little bit. Cassian's right, how do we have sex?" Azriel continued to laugh at your mumbling as he lifted you from the counter, placing you back on to the ground which felt so far away from where you were stood moments before.

Your mate bent down to peck your pouting bottom lip, pulling you into his body and stroking his fingers through your hair, "Who are we to question science? It works, that's good enough for me."

"It's definitely good enough for me."

"Oh I know. You told me as much last night - ow!" Azriel hissed as you dug your heel into his foot, frowning, he asked, "What was that for?"

Your cheeks flushed pink and you bashfully whispered, "I don't need Cassian to know what I tell you when we're doing that."

"You said it first."

"And?" There it was, the sass, the popped hip and arched brow, "Now move, I need to finish cooking and you're blocking my view."

Azriel smirked, "Oh my beautiful little thing, but I am the view."

A giggle floated through your lips, his favourite sound apart from when you were moaning his name beneath him, "You're lucky I love you," you fell into his open arms and pressed your lips to his clothed chest, to the exact place where your lips always met when you stood before him.

"I wouldn't change anything about you, you know that right?"

Humming in agreement, your hands wrapped around his back, "I know, Az," you pulled away, craning your neck toward the ceiling to look at him, "I'd change one thing about you though," his face dropped, "That you'd stop purposefully hiding things on the top shelf."

Azriel took a step back, "You know?!"

Scoffing, you turned, focusing back to the slowly simmering melting chocolate on the stove top, "Of course I know. I'm small, not dumb."

Azriel's warmth swarmed you, his huge arms nestled over your chest, and he rested his head atop your own, "All I can do is do it a little less. You know I like man-handling you. It makes me feel strong."

"Big Illyrian baby."

Authors Note

Just a little drabble on a Wednesday evening x

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pedroscowgirl · 27 days ago

Text

In safe hands

Aaron hotchner x (fem)reader

(could be read as gn reader but aaron calls reader princess if you're fine with that)

Masterlist

warnings: fluff /slight angst but also a lil suggestive! so minors dni, mentiones of surgery, reader is high on anesthesia, secret relationship, lmk if i forgot something

Summary: After undergoing surgery, you wake up to find Hotch by your side—and under the influence of anesthesia, you accidentally let some unfiltered, unholy thoughts slip

wc: 1.7k it's a small one srry

A/n: i was actually planning on writing some crazy naughty stuff but i couldn't bring myself to ruin the sweet moment so. Edit: this was an ask from a friend :))

The world was a haze of muted colors and soft lights as your eyes fluttered open. Everything felt… heavy, yet oddly light at the same time. The last thing you remembered was the searing pain, the sound of shouts around you, and the warmth of Aaron’s hand gripping yours as you were rushed into surgery. Your head was spinning, and the sterile smell of the hospital filled your senses, reminding you that you were safe now. But that comforting thought wasn’t fully real until your eyes found him.

Aaron was there, sitting at the edge of your bed, his normally composed face lined with worry. His dark eyes softened the moment he saw you stir, as though some enormous weight had just lifted off his shoulders. His hand moved, almost instinctively, reaching out just enough to brush against your blanket-covered arm. You knew he was keeping it subtle, keeping his usual public reserve, even though you longed for his touch to be closer. You didn’t mind. Just knowing he was there was enough.

“Aaron…” you murmured, his name slipping out in a breathy whisper, almost a plea. A sleepy, lopsided smile tugged at your lips as you raised your hand weakly, the gesture an open invitation. And he understood instantly. He moved forward, his hand enveloping yours with a tenderness that, even in your groggy state, sent warmth spreading through you.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning close enough that his familiar scent, clean and comforting, washed over you. “Are you okay?” There was a hitch in his voice, and his gaze searched your face for any sign of lingering pain.

You felt a giggle bubble up, uncharacteristic but unstoppable under the heavy influence of the anesthesia. “Yes,” you said, your voice slurred but light with relief. “But gosh, I really am so horny for you right now.” The words tumbled out, raw and honest, before you even registered what you were saying. It was as if, in this dreamy, half-awake state, you couldn’t help but speak exactly what was on your mind.

And for a beat, the world felt perfect.

Then, as your senses sharpened, you became acutely aware of the quiet—unnaturally quiet. You blinked, focusing past Aaron, and that’s when you saw them. The entire BAU team stood around your bed, a collective look of utter shock written across their faces.

JJ’s mouth was slightly open, her eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of surprise and excitement. Beside her, Morgan was struggling—and failing—to hide a grin, while Garcia looked as though she’d just stumbled onto the juiciest secret of the decade. Reid was there, too, his head tilted in deep thought, clearly recalculating every recent interaction between you and Aaron. Emily was one of the first to piece things together, thanks to her observant nature and razor-sharp intuition, and her expression quickly shifted from mild surprise to amusement.

Embarrassment surged through you, but Aaron didn’t let go of your hand. His grip was steady, grounding, and as you looked up at him, his expression remained calm, even gently amused. You caught the faintest hint of a smile as he glanced down at you, his eyes crinkling at the edges in that rare, quiet way that he reserved just for you.

Morgan was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat and crossing his arms with a sly grin. “So… looks like there’s a little something we missed here?”

Your cheeks flushed, but Aaron gave your hand an encouraging squeeze, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. He wasn’t going to leave you to face this alone. You took a deep breath, glancing at each member of your team, your family, before you spoke.

“Guess… the secret’s out,” you said, your voice still a bit wobbly from the anesthesia but carrying a hint of humor.

“Oh my God,” Garcia burst out, clapping her hands together with a gleeful little jump. “This is the best plot twist of all time! I knew something was going on! Didn’t I say something was going on?”

JJ let out a little laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “You two… Really?”

Aaron, ever composed, only smiled, his face calm as he finally addressed the team. “Yes,” he said simply, his deep voice carrying just a hint of pride. “We’ve… kept it quiet for a while.”

“Quiet?!” Garcia’s eyes were practically shining. “This is FBI-level stealth, boss man!”

Emily cleared her throat, causing everyone to pause and look her way. "Well, well, well," she said, her voice teasing but not unkind. "Hotch, I never would have pegged you for a rule-bender. But hey, I’m impressed.”

Reid, still analyzing the situation, gave a little nod, murmuring as he looked back and forth between you both, “I suppose that does explain the slight change in body language I’ve observed between you two over the last few months…”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, a subtle, almost playful challenge directed at Reid. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Reid’s cheeks turned pink, and he adjusted his glasses. “Well, um… no,” he replied, with a sheepish little smile.

Morgan crossed his arms and chuckled, nudging JJ with his elbow. “Man, Hotch, I never thought I’d see the day! But you know what? I’m happy for you both. Really.” His grin was genuine, the teasing look in his eyes replaced by one of warmth and respect.

With the laughter and light-hearted jabs filling the room, the awkwardness melted away. The anesthesia-induced embarrassment faded, replaced by a sense of belonging, of trust. This team—your family—was nothing but supportive, and you felt a profound sense of relief and gratitude that they knew now.

Finally, you turned back to Aaron, who had never let go of your hand through it all. His gaze was soft, a glint of humor still in his eyes as he leaned down just slightly, murmuring so only you could hear, “Guess we’ll have to get used to a little less privacy.”

You smiled up at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I think I can live with that.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice as steady as ever, though a hint of relief softened his tone. “I think it’s time for everyone to let the patient get some rest.”

The team murmured their goodbyes, each leaving their own quirky remarks. JJ gave you a warm smile, mouthing “we’ll talk later,” while Garcia blew you a playful kiss, winking at you and Aaron as she left.

But Morgan lingered a little longer, crossing his arms and giving Aaron a mischievous grin. “Take it easy in here, Hotch,” he said with a laugh, then pointed a finger at him. “And behave, alright?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the anesthesia still making your giggles sound a bit loopy. Morgan winked at you before finally heading out, and with that, the room fell silent, leaving just you and Aaron.

The laughter faded, and the quiet settled around you both. Aaron still held your hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your palm. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, his gaze softened, his brow still creased with the worry he hadn’t quite shaken. He let out a long, shaky breath, his thumb pausing as he looked down at you.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly, his voice a low murmur. “When I saw you go down…” His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if replaying that moment was too painful. “I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

Your heart twisted at the vulnerability in his voice. You’d never seen him like this—Hotch, the stoic, unshakeable leader, allowing himself to show this depth of emotion. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, your fingers weak but wanting to comfort him in any way you could.

“I’m right here, Aaron,” you said, your voice a little hoarse but filled with as much warmth as you could muster. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a small, relieved smile. Leaning down, he brushed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as if grounding himself in the fact that you were safe and alive.

Then, unable to resist, he moved lower, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. It was tender, slow, filled with all the things he couldn’t say. When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling yours, he looked at you with an expression so full of love and relief that it made your heart skip a beat.

You smiled up at him, feeling a little cheeky despite everything. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice soft but playful. “Now you need to fix it.”

Aaron’s brows rose slightly, and a hint of a smirk crossed his face as he realized exactly what you meant. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “When you’re better, I’ll treat you like the best pillow princess that you are.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you reached up to lightly tap his arm, both touched and amused. “You’d better keep that promise, Hotchner.”

He chuckled, his own tension easing a little as he looked at you, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I don’t make promises lightly. You know that.”

And in that moment, as you lay there under his warm gaze, you felt the absolute certainty that you were cherished, protected, and loved in a way you never imagined.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added): @looking1016 @pear-1206 @doe-eyed-diva @ssa-aaronhotchner @sweetpinkchampagne @totallyjovialblaze @pastelpinkflowerlife @donttrustlove @actualdeemon @jencole214 @fandomawesomeness @devilslittlehelper @mrs-ssa-hotch @gamingfeline @rousethemouse

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds smut #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff

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celestiamour · 2 months ago

Text

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ to have & to hold ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ you allow him to possess you entirely, body & soul┊1.2k words

kinktober 2024: oct 8. virginity loss

setting: logan (2017) old man! logan contains: fluffy smut!! dom logan & sub reader┊age gap, virginity loss, receiving oral & fingering, unprotected piv, abrupt ending

➤ author's note: i’m sorry for this being short and the abrupt ending, i’m just so tired from college because my substitute professor is a bitch and i have to work twice as hard just to get a 70% T-T the single mother reader is ending up to have three parts so look forward to that when kinktober is over teeheehee

your old man isn’t sure what kind of small deed of goodwill he must have done decades ago to deserve you, but it makes him perform more of them in his day-to-day life thanks to the existence of the biggest blessing of his miserable life. every time he comes back after a long day of work and dealing with customers of varying irritation levels, there you are patiently waiting for him no matter how late into the night it was. you help take off his suit jacket and tie in well-rehearsed moments, whistling a little old-timey tune on your lips and asking him how his day was.

he’s never really been a talkative guy, so most of the time he’ll just say it was fine and leave it at that, but occasionally, he’s willing to complain and vent about something that happened that got on his nerves. all the while, you’re finishing off a freshly cooked meal with garnish and serving it to him with a smile, listening to everything he has to say and massaging his weary muscles.

usually, however, you’re the one doing all of the talking, telling him about what happened today at work with that annoying co-worker and how you got invited to the wedding of an old friend from high school. he settles himself in the worn leather recliner and feels himself relax with your voice almost acting like a form of meditative music, and even if he doesn’t look like it, he listens to every word— you can tell because he doesn’t turn the newspaper page once and asks little questions like “who?” “when did that happen?” “is that so?” instead of just humming deafly.

he doesn’t even remember how you ended up moving in with him and acting like his housewife, giving him a taste of domestic life he didn’t realize he was yearning for. you’re just a stubborn little lady, he guesses, remaining persistent about how much you liked him despite his claims that you should steer clear of a bad man like him. he’s glad it ended up that way though, he couldn’t imagine where he would be without you by his side if you listened to him and went off with a human your own age who didn’t have the shackles he did.

there’s always a bit of lingering guilt regarding the last part, worried that he’s holding you back from fully experiencing life like a ball and chain bound to your ankle, but you were an adult who was mature enough to make your own decisions. if you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have spent over a year trying to pursue it with someone as headstrong as him.

sometimes logan dozes off in that armchair, allowing you to drape a blanket over him and place a kiss on his forehead with a whisper of sweet dreams for the cherry on top. sometimes you coax him to join you in bed where it’s more comfortable, tangling your legs with his and clinging onto his frame like he was a giant living teddy bear. maybe he’ll do the same if he’s feeling particularly soft tonight instead of sleeping on his back like a soldier on active duty would. both of you always get a night of better sleep in the presence of the other, holding onto the dead weight of the other’s still body, feeling the slow rise and fall of their chest, and listening to their steady heartbeat.

yet your relationship had never gone past heated makeout sessions, not until tonight when you pleaded with him so sweetly to help you relieve the ache between your legs that you couldn’t fix yourself.

he’s hesitant at first, surprised at the slight and unfamiliar feeling of fear tugging at his consciousness. is this really okay? is a lovely angel like you really asking a dirty old man like him with the blood of dozens on his hands to be your first experience of something so intimate? he’s profoundly aware that he’s never been a good man, but maybe he would start now and let you go in your own direction…

before he could say anything, you reach out to kiss him, so tender and full of adoration to ease his worries. the way you look at him while gasping his name and making pleas for him is almost overwhelming with how blown-out your pupils are from need, looking at him like he was the only other soul in the world— like he was the only other soul in the universe who was meant to complete you.

he asks you one more time if you’re sure, absolutely sure, before taking the opportunity to

taste the sweetness of your arousal and quickly realize that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get enough anymore, scraping at the soft skin of your inner thighs with his beard although the pressure in your core overpowered the feeling of friction. your hands find their way into his graying hair and tug on them whenever he swirls his tongue around your engorged clit, making him groan and repeat the motion until you gush all over his mouth.

then he drags a calloused finger along your folds, collecting your slick and instinctively licking his lips at the sight of it despite just eating you out seconds before. his eyes aren’t really what they used to be, he briefly wishes he had his glasses on so that he could watch your virgin pussy take his index followed by his middle. even if he can’t quite see it clearly, he can certainly feel your walls pulsating at the intrusion as you let out a breathy whine.

you feel a bit dizzy already from your first proper orgasm, much less from the pleasurable stretch of his fingers starting to move in a scissoring motion as your cheeks burned in embarrassment from how intently he was staring like a man hypnotized. if you were in your right mind, you would have asked him to quit it, but all you were focused on was the unfamiliar feeling of tension in your torso while he praised how tight you were.

logan is exhibiting more gentleness with you than he’s ever been with anything in all his two hundred years, scared of hurting you and treating you like a fragile porcelain doll. you basically need to beg him to fuck you right because you worry you’ll be far too exhausted to continue if he continues like this, already reaching peak at least three times now and needing to pull at his belt to free his throbbing erection.

kiss him when he lines himself up with you and slowly pushes in, allowing you to feel every inch of him and taste yourself on his lips. claw long scratches into his back as you take him, allowing his regenerative powers slowly take effect yet still being able to leave lasting marks in his skin for him to admire the next day. tell him you love him when he finally bottoms out in you, watching him through teary eyes as he rests his forehead on yours, and listen to his beating heart open up to you as he tells you he does too.

#📜. her works #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel smut #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #old man logan #x men #x men x reader #x men smut

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ennabear · 2 months ago

Text

− ⌗ CATALINA ISLAND ⊹∿

cw: catalina!abby/mamabear!abby/loser!abby/sub!abby, yara mention (i’m sorry… we miss u babygirl), slight themes of homophobia but nothing too heavy, post-pillars timeline so abby has short hair and no muscles, abby falls first but reader falls harder, tribbing eventually… 🙏 (not proofread)

wc: 6.0k

quite vividly does abby remember the first time she saw you. bright overhead lights stabbed through her vision, gloved fingers and cold metal tools poked and prodded at her extremely burnt, extremely sensitive skin. but not you, you were gentle with her. speaking in a hushed voice that comforted the dull ache crawling up her head, hands keeping their distance from her sore and aching body.

she felt at ease. for the first time in… months? years? decades? suddenly the weight of previous events didn’t seem so heavy. she felt lighter, calmer, unafraid. but maybe it was just the morphine making her feel this way, because she passed back out minutes after having this epiphany.

“abby…” the boy whispered. she didn’t hear it, too deep in her slumber to respond.

“abbyyyyyy, wake up.” he pleaded. nudging her sides and arms in an attempt to wake her. still, her rest was uninterrupted.

“ABBY!” he finally shouted, yanking her braid in despair.

“j’sus christ, lev, wha’ddyou want?” she yawned. one benefit of living out at sea was that there were never any threats out there. other than the occasional storm, they were completely safe, and abby could let her guard down for the first time in what felt like forever.

“come look at the stars with me.” he demanded, pointing to the front of the boat.

“are you serious?” abby asked, somewhat furious she got woken up for this, but could she blame him? his childlike wonder provided a refreshing new perspective. and as abby always said, lev used to live under a rock, so she was always happy to introduce him to new things, although his lack of general knowledge sometimes startled her.

“come on, please?” he added. “i’ve never seen them so bright before, pleaseee?”

abby huffed and got up, grabbing her blanket and taking it with her, already predicting lev would be shivering in an instant. and she was right. somehow, in the middle of the pacific ocean, the sun beating down on them for 12 hours a day, lev was always cold.

she took a seat on the deck next to him, wrapping the blanket around the two of them as they stared up into the sky. it was beautiful, she had to admit. it was hard to see the stars this clearly on land, and seeing the whole galaxy like this was such a treasure. it never stopped, no buildings or mountains concealing the sky, it was just pure space for miles.

they were silent for a while, lev looking up at the night sky with wide eyes, and abby still trying to shake the sleepiness from her mind.

“…abby?” lev asked after a while.

“yeah?” she responded.

“do you believe in a god?”

she debated this for a while. what a tricky question. did she want to believe? yes. 1,000%. but did she believe? … did she? does she? will she?

“i’m not sure.” she says. “no, i guess not.”

“i do. and i think that’s where yara is right now.”

oh. abby’s face falls, it’s always tough to think about lev’s sister. sure, she died a hero, but she shouldn’t have. she was so young, so strong, so determined, intelligent, kind, strategic, resilient. abby never knew her very well, but she replays the conversation she had with yara quite often. she wishes so badly she could’ve saved her, but at the end of the day it’s permanent. a script written in ink, a final decision.

if there is a god, i swear i’m gonna kill him she thinks.

“do you see that star?” lev asks, pointing up to an extra luminescent star twinkling brighter than the rest of them. “i think that’s her.” he continues. “and she’s always with us.”

abby huffs a laugh and stands, returning back to bed. “i don’t believe in all that.”

lev has no choice but to chase after her if he wants the warmth of the blanket back, so he does. “maybe your dad is up there too.” he states truthfully, climbing into bed next to her. her arms wrap around him as she settles back into slumber. “maybe,” she says. “or maybe he’s just gone.”

“do you ever miss him?” lev asks.

“every day. more than anything.” and suddenly she’s asleep again.

“abby?”

“abby?” …..

“ABBY!” the voice asks again, and suddenly she’s wide awake. she’s not on the boat with lev anymore, instead she’s… in a hospital? or an office? somewhere too bright that smells too much of disinfectant.

“it was just a dream,” you soothe, shushing her pained whimpers and cries. “you can go back to sleep if you’d like.”

she looks over to you, one of the sweetest sights she’s ever seen. “i’ve seen you before.” she whispers.

you smile and pat her hands, abby is one of your favorite patients. being on narcotics for weeks makes for an easy client, all you really do is change her bandages and occasionally silence her night terrors. you’ve actually gotten to know her quite well from her… son? you still don’t know the full story on that, apparently she betrayed the entire washington liberation front to adopt him and his sister, and that she’s been a better caretaker to him than his biological mother ever has been. but you can see in her youthful features that she’s still young. too young to be a mother. and lev cringes at the thought of calling her mom.

“where am i?” she asks, voice gravelly from being asleep for so long.

“catalina island critical care unit.” you respond gently. “or, CICCU, but i don’t wanna confuse you with too many letters.”

“where’s lev?” she asks frantically, suddenly fully aware that she’s not in the same room as him right now.

“he’s okay. sleeping. it’s pretty late.”

“was i talking?” she asks, cringing at the thought of someone as perfect as you listening to her blabber in her sleep.

“no, not this time. but i always prefer your talking over your screaming.” you joke.

“what do i talk about?” she asks, although not sure she wants to hear the answer.

“lev mostly. sometimes others, usually ‘manny’ and ‘alice’.”

“oh.” she sighs. she feels so much better compared to the night she first saw you. was that when she arrived? whatever, she can’t remember anything other than you. her muscles aren’t sore anymore, her skin feels cooler and softer, finally.

“you should go back to sleep.” you say. “your body needs the rest, and i’m not really supposed to be talking to my patients anyways.”

she raises an eyebrow at this. “why’s that?”

“my social skills are no good, that’s why they put me on the night shift. i’m not sweet or gentle enough for daytime caretaking.”

blasphemy. you? not sweet or gentle? this is the first time in her whole life she’s felt truly comfortable, and it’s all because of you. she closes her eyes, willing herself to get more rest before she sees you again.

her daytime nurse fucking sucks. she’s an old lady with a scratchy voice, not deep and smooth like yours. and she’s mean. abby always catches her talking shit about other doctors at the hospital, and it’s not even normal stuff like gossip or personal experience and whatnot, she takes real jabs at the people in the community, coming for their looks and personalities. worst of all, the mean nurse hates you.

she always chatters on about how you can never do your job correctly, and apparently you’re wasting all of god’s honor by not being married yet. but it’s not until the mean nurse mentions “sleeping around with… females…” that she finally listens to what the mean nurse is saying, and she has a strong feeling she relates to you just fine.

abby sighs in relief when you walk in for your night shift. you catch this, giggling a little “what was that about?”

“i hate the other nurse.” she pouts, grimacing at the thought of seeing her again when dusk turns to dawn.

“who, dr. cosby?” you ask.

“yeah, if that’s her name.”

“i don’t like her either,” you admit. “but she’s the only one completely trained in full time caretaking.”

“do you have to work with her?” abby asks, growing slightly defensive over you. she’s gotten to know you over the past few days, too, and you’ve been able to fill in some of the gaps from the stories lev has told you.

“yeah, almost every day. she’s kinda like my boss since she’s training me, but she doesn’t pay me or anything… which kinda makes it worse. i feel like i deserve an extra paycheck for putting up with her.” you laugh.

abby still can’t get over your laugh, the sweet, deep giggles that seem to float out of you like bubbles. abby doesn’t realize this yet, but she has a huge crush on you.

“anyways, you’re supposed to be asleep, anderson.” you accuse, pointing a jokingly angry finger at her.

“yeah, yeah, i know.” she says, sighing deeply. “but i missed you, and i wanted to see you again after the mean nurse.”

“that’s sweet.” you start. “but if the mean nurse finds out you haven’t been sleeping because of me, i’m fired. and they’ll replace me with someone worse.”

abby laughs, pulling a pillow over her face to cover her giggles, and falls into another restful sleep after a few minutes.

she manages to survive a few more days with dr. cosby. or, the mean nurse, in the vocabulary the two of you share. the only thing that makes it bearable is knowing she’ll see you every night, and lev even visits her sometimes. tonight is different, though, because you don’t walk in at 9:00 pm when you’re regularly scheduled. dr. cosby does. abby groans audibly, she wishes she would’ve done it louder. well, she wishes she could scream in dr. cosby’s face, but she isn’t trying to get kicked out of the CICCU before she’s fully healed.

“usual nurse is out.” the mean nurse spits. ‘usual nurse’? so she can’t find the courtesy to learn your name?

“out where?” abby questions.

“on a… date.” she hisses.

oh shit, abby grins. a date with a woman i bet. dr. cosby isn’t happy about that.

and then it hits her.

oh shit… abby frowns. you’re on a date with someone else right now. you decided to spend the night with another woman, ditching your usual visits with abby. this hurts. her heart twists with jealousy, suddenly the room is spinning, and she has to turn and face the wall before dr. cosby can catch her weeping into her blanket like a little kid.

abby hasn’t seen you once since the night before your date. when the mean nurse comes back in the morning, she discharges abby and orders a soldier to escort her to the lodge she and lev are to share. so that’s it? she’s never gonna see you again? lev is out at school when she gets there, so abby has the whole place to herself until he gets back. she finds herself staring into the mirror for an unhealthy amount of time. christ, she looks different. her hair is short and choppy, although it’s gotten longer since she’s arrived. her muscles are almost completely gone. whatever the lack of training couldn’t remove, malnutrition withered away. she has scars all over her face and arms, her skin is still bumpy and blistered from the overexposure to the california sun. she looks… smaller? not tall and buff and scary anymore, but weak. fragile. she doesn’t look like abby. and that’s a terrifying thought.

she spends about an hour in the shower, scrubbing the hospital scent off of her skin and running her fingers through her short hair. she decides to spent the rest of the day orienting herself in this new space. she’s never lived in a real house before, and she feels like an alien trying to do so. lev finds her laying on the couch, studying the bumps and ridges in the ceiling.

“abby?” he calls from the doorway, slinging his backpack off of his shoulders. the poor kid almost cries when he sees her, out of excitement or fear, nobody knows. abby tries to pick him up as he throws himself at her body, but she can’t anymore. she doesn’t have the strength with how much she’s been weakening and how much lev has been growing. this crushes her even more, but she settles for a firm squeeze to the kid, and realizes how much her ribs do still hurt.

she doesn’t sleep well that night, it’s not the same without you. she misses your heavy voice lulling her to sleep and the euphoria she got from laughing with you. something deep and heavy settles in her stomach when she remembers you now spend your nights with someone else. she’s jealous. and she’s sad. overwhelmed from being in such a new place. and she misses you. and tonight when she sleeps, it’s dreamless and restless and leaves her even more exhausted.

you miss abby. you didn’t know the night you were gone would be the night she got discharged, and you wonder if this is a coincidence or if it’s some evil plan from dr. cosby. your date wasn’t even a date anyways. the girl you were meeting showed up to the diner, but left after a few minutes after saying she needed to freshen up. you saw her leave out of the back door. so you snacked on soggy fries and day-old fish until you got fed up and went home and cried into your pillow. was dr. cosby right? are you really not likable? to make matters worse, now that abby is gone you don’t have any more easy patients. you have to take care of a snappy old man who was in a boating accident. nobody can tell if he’s suffering from brain damage or if he’s just stupid, and it’s starting to drive you mad.

you miss abby. you miss watching her sleep, how her sweet face would contort into an expression of pure bliss as she finally had a peaceful dream, and how sometimes she would reach out and hold your hand for a few hours while she slept. she might be the only person on this whole island who likes you.

you two don't run into each other for about a month. the community you live in is small, but the whole island is divided into communities of about the same size. abby is sentenced to a desk job, something she'd never seen herself doing. she spends all day crunching numbers, scribbling things down on various documents and punching in even more symbols on her calculator. she's surprisingly good at it, her brain works efficiently and she's incredible at finding mistakes and working through them. lev teases her about becoming a nerd, but he's the one who voluntarily stays after school for tutoring, so she teases him right back.

you run into her right before one of your shifts, picking up a prescription from the pharmacy and dropping by her workplace to pick up some more documents. you freeze in your tracks when you see her, awkwardly blurting out an "abby! wow, uh... you look good."

and it's true. she looks better than good, she's glowing. her hair looks softer and fluffier now that it's not matted from the pillows, her skin is clearing up and restoring its natural color (which is a lot more peaceful than the burnt red it was), and she looks fuller. not nearly as big and muscular as she used to be, but she's started to gain some weight back and finally doesn't look tiny. abby notices you staring, taking in her new appearance. "thanks... so do you." she chuckles.

"i didn't know they cleared you to work." you stammer. actually, you didn't know anything about her ever since she was suddenly good to go, which you've decided is definitely dr. cosby's fault. so the two of you spend the rest of the night chatting and catching up with one another. she tells you about her job, her house, and how good lev is doing in school. you tell her about some of your newest patients, and when she asks about your date, you find pleasure in telling her that it was terrible. abby feels giddy after hearing this, not that she gets a kick out of your humiliation, but she's happy to know that you're single, and that you regret ditching her that night.

the time completely slips away from both of you, and before you know it you're an hour late for work. "shit!" you jump. "god, i'm sorry. i gotta go, i'm about to get fired!" you cry as you run down the hallway and out of the building. she laughs at this, tidying up her desk before clocking out and waking herself home. she sleeps very well that night, knowing that you're single and that you're willing to be late to work just to talk to her.

she greets you two days later with coffee outside of your office. "glad to see you didn't get fired." she jokes, you roll your eyes. "if i get written up one more time i'm done for." neither of your bosses are in today, so you finally have some peace to do your job without being yelled at. when you're not meeting with a patient, you let abby follow you around like a lost puppy, you notice how soft her hands have become when you grab them and tug her along next to you.

"thanks?" she mutters, cheeks sparkling with a pretty pink blush.

"oh, shit, i didn't mean to say that out loud." you cringe. "but it's true. they're very soft."

abby blushes impossibly more at this, so you like her hands? does that... mean anything? you're so forward with her it makes her a little dizzy, it's hard to keep up with your subtle flirtatious remarks when she can barely look at you without stuttering and tripping over herself. you're like a savior to her. you are her savior, if you didn't patch her up after her and lev had arrived, would she still be here? if she didn't get eaten alive by an infection she might've offed herself after the countless exhausting interactions with the mean nurse.

“how did you know how i take my coffee?” you ask suddenly. abby doesn’t know how to answer. well, she does, actually. but she’s too shy to say that sometimes she’d wake up and watch you while she was supposed to be sleeping. you’d place your coffee cup on her nightstand and flick on the lamp next to it, and then instantly stick your nose in a book. when she got done studying your face, she memorized the books you liked and the coffee you drank.

“if you’re stalking me, i won’t be upset.” you joke. abby laughs awkwardly, still calculating her answer in her mind.

“i dunno, i just know you, i guess.” she finally responds.

“fair, but now i feel bad because i don’t know how you take your coffee.” you frown. she chuckles, dismissing your concern.

“no, seriously. i feel like i barely know you, and i miss getting to know you ever since the mean nurse discharged you the night i was out.” you tell her. she can’t see where you’re going with this, so she just freezes and waits for you to make it obvious. “we should go out for coffee sometime. this weekend, maybe, if you’re free.”

are you asking her on a date? platonically or romantically? do you actually like her as much as she likes you? abby stares at the ground as she thinks about what to say again. “if you don’t want to, that’s okay.” you smile. “i won’t be offended.”

“i-” she starts, trying to speak deliberately as to not stumble over her words. “i do want to. that would be really great.”

you plant a kiss on her cheek as she turns to leave, heading to her own job instead of yours. she barely registers it, giggling and swatting you away before realizing that you kissed her. she halts her stroll when she finally processes it, reaching her fingers up to feel over the spot your lips pressed to. her cheeks turn beet red as she replays what happened, and fuck, she wants you to do it again. she debates running back into the hospital to beg for another kiss, but decides not to make a fool of herself. not today, at least.

her shift passes in what feels like forever. she wants to see you again, she wants it to be the weekend so badly. curse the calendar for deeming today a thursday, and curse your work schedule for not letting you go on a date with her now.

she clocks out excitedly as soon as her shift is over, practically jogging home to meet lev for dinner. they eat on the couch, watching some old dvd of a pre-breakout day cartoon. lev falls asleep as the show crawls on, so she has to face the disappointment of shaking him awake, wishing she still had the strength to pick him up. she watches as he waddles with all ten of his blankets to his bedroom, and then collects the dishes to scrub them off in the sink.

just as sleep is about to take her, she bolts awake with a great idea. shoving her shoes on, she jogs back out of the door, practically sprinting to the hospital to catch you before you clock in for the night. when you see her standing behind you, you jump backwards and yelp, almost knocking over a cart full of needles. “god, abby!” you curse. “you scared the shit outta me.”

“sorry…” she smiles sheepishly, a look you’ve grown to love.

“what are you doing here?” you question. “are you hurt?”

“no, i just wanted to see you. i couldn’t sleep, if that counts as an ailment.” she says, lying through her teeth. she was about to sleep soundly knowing your date was only in a few days.

“well, i’m glad to know you’re okay, but you really need to work on prioritizing your sleep.” you scold her, but you can’t help but melt at the dopey smile on her lips.

“yes, doctor.” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “are we still on for this weekend?”

“of course, if you’re not a zombie by the time we get to saturday.” you smile, nudging her with your elbow.

“alright, sorry,” she sighs theatrically. “i guess i’ll leave you alone now.”

“i’m sorry for kissing you on the cheek earlier.” you blurt out, although you probably should just let the moment be. “it was just… muscle memory i guess.”

“muscle memory?” she asks, dumbfounded.

“i dunno, sorry, it was definitely inappropriate. but you used to ask me for a small peck whenever i woke you up from your night terrors. i’d be surprised if you remember it, though. we had you on some pretty hefty meds.”

abby has always had trouble sleeping. as a kid, she’d have terrible nightmares that she couldn’t wake up from on her own. her dad would nudge her awake, and then soothe her back to sleep with a firm kiss on the cheek. it helped every time, and she slept like a baby knowing her dad would protect her. after he passed, the nightmares were more frequent, and there was no one to calm her down once she woke.

that must’ve been why she’d wake up screaming, eyes open yet unable to focus as you calmed her down to the best of your ability. you’d take her heart rate and blood pressure to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary, and then stroke her short hair while she fell back to sleep. she’d huff and kick for the first few minutes, and then reach out for your hand, guiding it to the apple of her cheek. you thought at first she wanted something cool against her burning skin, but once you moved your hand away, she demanded a kiss in a raspy and very delirious voice.

“no, it’s okay, really.” she assures you. “it’s a comfort thing i used to do with my dad. you don’t need to feel bad, i promise.”

“go to sleep, princess abby.” you demand again. “i’ll see you saturday.”

with a smirk, abby turns and walks back out the door she came in. she slips back through her front door as silently as she can, and falls asleep thinking about all the ways she’s embarrassed herself in front of you. how many more times can she do it? and how long until she cuts the shit and admits her feelings for you?

saturday comes quicker than abby would like. ever since that night, she couldn’t help but fret about your feelings toward her. did you really kiss her out of muscle memory, or did you genuinely want to? her heart warmed at the sweet gesture of you soothing her back to sleep on the nights her dreams were infiltrated with death and fear and abandonment, but did you do that with all of your patients?

she tried to ignore these thoughts as they came up, but it was nearly impossible to. she dressed herself in a beige sweater and a pair of jeans, tucking her hair behind her ears and accessorizing with a black hair clip. she looks gorgeous. it’s hard not to faint when you see her, the fluttering in your stomach keeping you on your feet.

the pair of you sit tucked away in a cafe booth, chatting away like time isn’t real. you’re surprised to learn that abby knows quite a bit about medicine, the knowledge coming from her father who was a doctor too. she tells you stories of her childhood, and you can see the resemblance between her and her dad, she treats lev just as well as her dad treated her. you don’t mention this, though, because you can tell she’s starting to tear up the more she talks about him.

when the conversation slows down, you decide to bite the bullet and ask her something that’s been on your mind. “abby? can i ask you something?”

“shoot.” she says.

“do you… like me?” you try. “i mean— i dunno. i’ve never really had friends before, not like you. i guess i just wanna know if you enjoy hanging out with me, or if you’re just doing this because i seem desperate.”

“of course i like you.” she affirms. “i’ve never met anyone as sweet or as gentle as you, and i’ve met a lot of people.”

“okay, cool. good. i like you too.” you say, reaching out to grab her hand that’s resting on the table. she smiles and squeezes your hand, looking deeply into your eyes.

“do you wanna get out of here?” you ask.

sand fills the holes in your shoes as the two of you stroll the beach hand in hand. abby still has that giddy feeling in her stomach, although she still can’t tell if you’re actually into her or if you just wanna be friends. you did mention just friends earlier, but you’re also holding her hand sweetly in yours.

you don’t know how to explain your feelings for abby. she’s such a sweet girl, and she’s a few years younger than you. you want her all to yourself, you want to take all of her pain and suffering away and start a family with her. you wanna run away with her and live in a small beach house together. but is that crazy? you’ve only known her for about four months at this point, how long is too long to wait? how long is too short? you don’t wanna overwhelm her, she just started a completely new life after escaping seattle where all of her friends and family were murdered in front of her. it’s obvious she’s still grieving, missing the family she created and the life she had.

when you reach the top of the hill, you sit and dangle your feet off of the mini cliff, looking out at the horizon painted in front of you. abby takes a seat next to you, wrapping both of her hands around yours. you smile at her, proud of how far she’s come ever since rolling in half-dead and practically fried. she looks human now, and she looks really… pretty.

“you flatter me too much.” she says with a shy smile.

you groan. jesus christ, you need to stop thinking out loud before it kills you.

“sorry, i didn’t mean to make things weird.” you cringe again.

“it’s not weird. i think you’re pretty too.”

your heart skips a beat at this. it’s too late, your habit of thinking out loud is about to kill you right now. because your lips are on abby’s and you’re kissing her with all of your might. her lips taste like honey and coffee, a sweet mix of flavors that you’ll crave for the rest of your life.

“is it weird that i just kissed my doctor?” she asks.

“i’m not your doctor. i’m the crazy person who’s job was to watch you sleep in case you had seizures or heart attacks.”

she giggles at this, leaning in to capture your lips in another sweet kiss. you both stay there until sunset, giggling and kissing and chatting like little kids in love.

to your dismay, you get up and leave as soon as the sunset fades, not wanting to be stranded at sea in pitch black darkness. abby walks you home, arm thrown over your shoulders. you frown when you reach your own cabin, not wanting to leave her. “can i see you tomorrow?” you ask, praying she’ll say yes.

“of course,” she says. “i’ll be here.”

it’s impossible for you to sleep after the incredible day you just had. you keep licking your lips in hope that the honey-coffee taste will still be lingering, but it’s not. tomorrow can’t come soon enough, and now you feel bad for teasing abby about her lack of sleep because you finally get it.

abby sleeps soundly tonight. all of her fears are dissolved floating away like ashes in the wind. she feels free. finally ready to start a new chapter of her life now that she’s escaped the tragedies from seattle and the torture from santa barbara.

you wake up bright and early the next morning, showering and cooking and cleaning and dressing yourself as efficiently as you can. the excitement of seeing her again fuels your motivation, but once your whole lodge is spotless, it’s hard to find something to do with your energy. you sigh in relief when abby knocks on your door ten minutes early, her brain must be in sync with yours.

as you open the door, you practically jump into her arms. she pulls you in for a big bear hug, seeming to have missed you just as much as you’ve missed her.

you have nothing planned, so you snack on a box of cookies while sitting in bed, staring out of the window that overlooks the ocean. it’s a gloomy day, but it’s nice to people watch and gossip about various things you’ve heard through the grapevine.

after a while you get tired, and abby lets you rest your head on her shoulder in case you wanna fall asleep. you don’t, though. no matter how heavy your eyelids get, you force yourself to enjoy every second that passes with her. well, there is something you wanna do with her, but you’re not too sure how she feels about it.

“abby? can i ask you another weird question?”

“always.” she laughs.

“do you wanna have sex with me?”

her heart thrums harder in her chest, and heat spreads from her cheeks to her ears.

“sorry, i shouldn’t ha—”

“yes.” she interrupts. “but, i— it’s been a while. i’m not very… i dunno…”

“if you don’t want to it’s fine.” you assure her. “it’s also fine if you wanna just lay there and let me do the work, i don’t mind.”

she nods at the second option, leaning back and throwing her shirt off while you do the same. her abdomen is less bloody and bruised than you remember, but you can still see her ribs and a few scars. she blushes when she catches you staring, leaning back timidly.

“don’t be nervous, abby. i’m a doctor, i’ve seen bodies. especially yours, and i think you’re beautiful.”

she blushes harder at this, but laughs and says “i thought you were a creepy nurse who watches people sleep, not a doctor.”

you giggle and shut her up with a kiss, reaching down to unbutton her jeans. “can i?” you ask.

“yes, please, fuck.”

as soon as you get her jeans down, you tug her boxers down too. sure you should wait, and it might be polite to engage in a little foreplay, but you’re craving her right now. her bush is curly in the center, right where is dripping wet, and she has a beautiful blonde happy trail that crawls all the way up to her belly button. she’s so hot you might need an oxygen tank.

“the quicker you stop staring and fuck me, the quicker we can get you that oxygen tank.” she laughs.

“oh god… i didn’t mean to say that. again.”

you tug your own underwear off and sit your cunt right on top of hers. abby intertwines her legs with yours, and the angle lets you slide across her perfectly. “jesus christ.” she moans, currently unable to control the noises she’s making.

she’s so sensitive it drives you mad. the last time she hooked up with anyone was more than a year ago, and ever since then she’s been prioritizing keeping herself alive over jacking off. whenever your clits bump, you feel a small, warm splash of her squirt against your cunt, and it makes you more aroused than you’ve ever been.

it gets very messy very quickly. your lips crash together in a heated and very wet kiss, and your cunts are creating a pile of slick that’s currently dripping down abby’s ass and making a puddle on the bed. you can’t tell if you’re dizzy because of your arousal, sleepiness, or love for her, but you feel like you’re on cloud nine.

abby cums after only a few minutes, and when she does she twitches and writhes and squeals so much you think you might have to sedate her. you keep grinding on her until you cum, which quickly overstimulates her even further until you’re almost positive she’s blacked out or something.

when you come down from your own high, you scoot yourself off of her. two clear strings of slick connect you to her, but eventually break and drip down onto the bed. she sighs when you lay next to her.

“was that good?” you ask.

“fuck. i think i need the oxygen mask more than you do.” she pants. you laugh and wrap your arms around her, ready to get a few minutes of cuddling in before you force your aftercare routine upon her.

she sighs. “thanks for taking care of me.”

“you know i’ll always take care of you, abby. right? just because i’m not your nurse anymore doesn’t mean i don’t love you anymore.”

“you love me?”

“ever since the day i met you.”

#abby oneshot WHO CHEERED????#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby the last of us #abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #the last of us

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slytherinshua · 3 months ago

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ALL MY LOVE

genre. fluff. boyfriend headcanons. warnings. minghao dreams abt marriage and starting a family. not proofread and written while i'm sick and have half a braincell so i'm rly sorry if this is a mess. pairing. minghao x fem!reader. wc. 558. request. no. a/n. babe wake up slytherinshua is back skdjskd GOD IM SO HAPPY I WAS ABLE TO WRITE SOMETHING FINALLY 😭😭 thought this blog was literally gonna die cause writers block was so strong. also surprised it ended up being svt that broke through my block esp minghao but yk ill take it no complaints !!!!

boyfriend!minghao who’s a gentle, slow lover. he never rushes, but he also never leaves you with any doubt. he can read you like a book, and any concerns on your mind seem to be instantly resolved before you even have time to bring them up. he’s steady and true; your rock that you always know you can fall back on when things get tough. no matter what, he’ll always be there. he gives you a soft passionate type of love that you would never get tired of even after decades.

boyfriend!minghao who’s always been ambitious. he has dozens of things he’d like to do and achieve, but he also knows how to take life slow and enjoy the present. he knows he has time to do everything he wants, and he reminds you that you also have plenty of time as well. sometimes you need that extra voice to tell you that it’s okay to take a break sometimes. it’s okay to breathe and think. no matter what, minghao will always be your biggest supporter— always rooting for you to strive and reach your goals, even if they are small.

boyfriend!minghao who helps you relax after a long day. warm tea and a massage are enough to put your mind and body at ease. his hands work like magic over your neck, shoulders, and back. it’s so good, in fact, that you feel guilty for not paying him for his service. he would never accept anything like that from you, though. once he’s done working out the knots for 20 minutes, he’d fall on top of you, giggling into the crook of your neck as he acts like your personal weighted blanket.

boyfriend!minghao who has a whole collection of couple items with you over the years. whether it be clothes, jewelry, or even mugs, everything he buys seems to come in a set of two. he can’t even imagine buying something for just himself anymore when you always seem to cross his mind whenever he spots something cute.

boyfriend!minghao who scolds you (but truly only out of love). his attention to detail and observant nature is both his strength and his flaw. he’s quick with his tongue— too quick— and will catch himself lecturing or correcting you when it wasn’t strictly needed. although it’s rare for his scolding to get on your nerves, as you know its a way he shows that he cares about you and loves you, it sometimes does. but he’s quick with his apologies as well, so no bickering between you two can ever last long.

boyfriend!minghao who is so happy and secure in your relationship. he knows he’s found the one with you, and now that he’s been able to call you his for years, there’s no way he would ever be able to imagine his life without you. the overwhelming fondness he holds for you plants itself in his head and his heart and always has him thinking about your future together. he’d tell you randomly over tea how much he’s been thinking and dreaming about spending the rest of his life with you. whether it be big milestones like your wedding and starting a family, or smaller ones like waking up in each others arms each morning, he’s excited to experience it all with you.

↳ svt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @ddeonudepressions,, @hannahsophie0103,, @minholing,,

@shuabby1994,, @icyminghao,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,,

@wonwooz1,, @blossominghunnie,, @haecien,, @amara-mars,, @okshu,,

@parkjennykim,, @wootify,, @svtoose,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,,

@heavenfilm,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,,

@talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,,

@gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny

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daycourtofficial · 5 months ago

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I got cursed like Eve got bitten

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.2k | warnings: none

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Next part | Masterlist

Velaris was beautiful tonight. Like most nights, the stars shone over the small city, their incandescent light bouncing off the Sidra, making the surface of the water sparkle as the current rippled. The frigid water looked so dark beneath that light, its depths unknown to those who walk across the bridge.

Rhyasnd watched the stars from his balcony, the violet in his eyes catching a glint under their shine, glass of whiskey in his hand. Feyre and Nyx were spending the evening at an art class across town, a class for children to “paint the stars” as Feyre had said. They would be spending the evening with a dozen or so other small children, his mate and their child on a blanket gazing up at the stars and trying to recreate what they saw onto a tiny canvas, no doubt splattering paint everywhere in the process. He had debated going - he loved the night sky, a fondness he’d had since childhood that carried well into his adult life. He would spend the night telling Nyx about the various constellations, what they mean, and how their planet spins in orbit around a star.

He had, instead, decided to spend his evening in his office, a note on his desk urging him to spend the evening alone until the one person who would understand arrived. He stood on the balcony waiting, his skin growing colder as the night settled in. His eyes traced the patterns of the constellations - the patterns of stars he spent many decades devoting himself to in private. The same stars he prayed to most nights, the changing of the constellations doing little to deter his devotion.

Tonight he needed their guidance, needed their all-seeing gaze once more. He felt his stomach churn as his thoughts whirled, wanting to hurl abuses at the stars above him. He knew they had all the answers, but unwilling or unable to answer his questions, he wasn’t sure which.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, too preoccupied to notice the soft flap of wings nearby or Azriel’s soft descent on the balcony next to him.

Azriel took in his brother’s appearance as Rhys failed to notice him - the High Lord seemed off in some way. Rhys was the harder of his two brothers to pinpoint. Cassian wore his heart on his sleeve, Azriel hardly had to look into Cassian’s big, puppy dog eyes before he knew exactly what troubled him. Rhys was harder - the youngest of all three of them, carrying the weight of everyone’s pleas for help and guidance, one that has led Rhysand to shoulder more than his fair share of burdens. His shoulders sagged as he leant over the balcony, as if he wanted to curl in on himself-

“Stop.”

Azriel blinked once. Twice.

“Stop what?”

Rhys rolled his eyes, “stupid was never a good look for you.”

Azriel’s hummed as a soft breeze blew by, ruffling the skin of his wings. He moved his eyes away from Rhys, looking toward the Sidra instead. He could hear it from here - the water moving downstream, soft splashes as the current met the bank. He spent most of his nights gazing out over the river, hoping to see anything within its icy depths.

“Rivers keep going, and we keep going.”

That soft voice echoed in his mind, the memory feeling all at once like several lifetimes ago and only a handful of moments prior.

“Az.”

Rhys’s voice pulled him from a life so far away, it felt like he traveled galaxies to come back to the present. Rhys’s voice was soft as his violet eyes took in his brother. “There’s a report on my desk.”

Rhys paused, the shadowsinger unable to figure out what could be in this report that had his High Lord so rattled that he had asked him to come as quickly as possible. His shadows moved toward the desk, the black wisps moved across the page before Azriel had even moved, reading the contents of it for themselves but not moving back to Azriel.

That put Azriel on edge.

Rhys nodded his head towards the desk, prompting Azriel to move towards the large oak furniture. Scarred fingers picked up the parchment, reading the report from an Illyrian outpost. All the details from the report went hazy in his mind as his eyes kept moving toward the same word over and over again.

Empath.

The room felt like it had tilted beneath Azriel, something caught in his throat unable to let him get the words out. His eyes scanned the page again, but now the document looked like it only said ‘empath’ over and over again. His shadows were frantically moving about the room, bouncing off the walls, desperate to escape their enclosure of the office. His tight grip on the paper caused some of them to come towards him, affectionately weaving through his fingers as if they were perfectly fitted gloves.

“Rhys, that’s not possible. There hasn’t been a known empath since-“

“I know.”

Rhys’s voice was sharp and clipped, the unspoken words hanging in the air. He took a sip of his whiskey, finishing off the glass before meeting with Azriel behind his desk, putting the glass down where the paper had lain. The paper in Azriel’s hands was shaking now as Rhys lifted one of his own to push the paper down back onto the desk.

“I know.”

His voice was much softer this time, the words coming out not much more than a whisper.

The next morning the two of them left for the village mentioned in the intel, the sun barely peeking over the horizon as they took off from the balcony, neither male looking rested. The flight was silent as they passed over the terrain of the Night Court, the long flight offering the both of them ample time to think.

They landed sometime in the mid-afternoon after having stopped for food along the way, the meal one of silence and heavy atmosphere, not lingering for a second once they finished eating. Upon arriving, the two walked around the Illyrian village, having impromptu meetings with several of the males underneath Cassian’s command. When the sun began setting, their feet led them toward the only tavern in the village, a small, pathetic looking building that reeked of alcohol and vomit.

Rhys adjusted his jacket before he pushed open the door to the tavern, but he barely made it through the threshold before stopping. Azriel ran straight into Rhys’s back as the male in front of him stopped completely, blocking the entrance.

Rhys was frozen in place, his spine ramrod straight. Azriel immediately reached toward his belt, wanting a hand on Truth-Teller to offer some reassurance of whatever could make his High Lord still on sight. Azriel prepared himself and looked over Rhys’s shoulder at whatever caught his eye. His eyes immediately stopped where Rhys’ had - behind the worn down bar top, the wood old but sturdy, stood someone Azriel thought had died long ago.

You shined even brighter in person than you did in his memories, almost as if you casted a light glow over everyone around you, and Azriel’s grip on Truth-Teller faltered as your eyes met his across the room.

Author’s note: eeeek so excited!! Been working on this behind the scenes a bit!!! Dedicating this to my girl @milswrites the ultimate hype woman for this!!!

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #azriel x y/n #i got cursed like eve got bitten

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eupheme · 1 year ago

Text

— looking back

joel miller x f!reader

rated e - 2.2k

tags: jackson-era Joel pov, angst, canon-typical violence/references to death, established relationship, Joel is an ass man, consensual somno elements, posessive!joel, body worship, dirty talk, male masturbation, spitting, touching, come marking

a/n: easing back into writing and started 2 little wips that are sort of "introspective-joel-pov-smut-fics" - here is the first one! 💕

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Or - Joel gets off just from the sight of you

He’s strung as tight as a bow. The lingering adrenaline a notched arrow, leaving him about to snap. Blood seeps into his jeans - splattered across his knees, where he had jerked the knife from the man’s neck.

It had been a mercy killing. A stranger, but they had all seen the bite. He had been the only one to do something about it.

He’s told others that you get used to it. The killing - that after a while, survival wins out.

You get over it.

But you don’t. Instead, it clings to him like a shadow, following him home - down the worn, familiar path. Inside the gates, back to Jackson.

Heavier than it’s been before. An itching beneath his skin. If he was over it, he wouldn’t have to turn himself off. Shutting away a part of himself, only to fight to come back - clawing his way out later.

An aching reminder at how short life could be. That yes, things were different - but he was never really safe.

Not really.

His path brings him to you. A beacon, guiding his way back.

His - your - home coming into view, just as the dawn creeps over the fall, wooden fences. The misty grey brightening into gold and pink with the sun, as he’s unlocking the wooden door, shouldering it open.

A look thrown out the window as he scrubs his hand clean in the kitchen - seeing that the garage light is on. That she’s home, that she’s okay. An automatic check, before his weary feet take him upstairs.

Joel sheds the layers, the jacket thrown over the railing at the top of the stairs. Fingers fumbling with his belt, pulling the worn leather through the loops before his stained jeans crumple on the floor, as he pushes the cracked door open.

The light from the hallway stretches across the wooden floor, creeping into the dark room. Where you still lay sleeping, curled on your side within the blankets and sheets. Missing him in your dreams, that space next to you long empty.

Cold - where your fingers reach out, searching for him.

His path diverts, moving to you instead of the attached bathroom. The edge of the bed sinking under his weight, a soft sound as you stir.

“‘Welcome ‘ome.” You murmur, still half-asleep. A little wiggle as your bent knee hitches higher, the oversized shirt you’re wearing bunching up around your hips.

He reaches out, just the ghosting of his fingers against the soft skin near your knee. The fluttering of heavy lashes as you fight sleep, only to be pulled under again.

Joel’s hand shifts. A warm palm pressing against your thigh. Against soft skin, so different than his own calloused touch.

Home.

It is, isn’t it? As close to he’s had in years. Decades. The old apartment in the QZ had never felt that way, not with the faded floral walls. Those small rooms that still held ghosts.

But here, his own touch lingers. Yours, melding with it. It would never be like before - the picking out of furniture, of paint. But it’s his clothes in the closet. His worn guitar that rests against the couch. His wooden carvings lining the top of the mantle, above the fireplace.

And you - you're scattered throughout. Woven blankets and thick sweaters. Books, covering damn near every surface.

A little bottle of found lotion tucked away in the bathroom. He can smell it now, as he leans over you. A bristly kiss pressed against your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

Amber, vanilla, caramel.

He’s pulled back to the memory, the light shining in your eyes when he handed the beaten bottle over. The minuscule amount you had worked into your knuckles - the soft sigh of contentment.

A bright laugh when he had pulled you close, the murmured “smells good” against your throat, as you had squirmed in his grasp - smiling as you read the fragrance notes out loud.

Something stirs in him, then. The press of his thigh against yours, as he leans over. Eyes dragging down to the bare curve of your ass, his hand tracing cup your thigh to palm your flesh.

His already uneven breath hitching, as you sigh. That little smile - his name - murmured out as you rock instinctively into his touch. Still on the edge of consciousness, lulled off into a deep sleep with the cooling of summer.

Waking you up wouldn’t be unusual. Half the time you’re already up after these early-morning patrols. Waiting for him.

How he waits for you, on those few days where it’s you out there, instead of him. His jaw working with irritation until you’re home and back and safe, and he’s stripping your clothes from you himself.

It’s selfish to wake you, on a morning where you sleep so deeply. Even with the stress that’s eating at him, simmering in his veins.

But maybe… maybe he can just-

Joel is leaning, his mouth against your neck. A shift as you stretch, baring your skin to him as your lips curl in a smile. A soft, sleepy hum as you reach for him, fingers curving over the thick muscle of his forearm.

The hand on your ass drifting up - across to the small of your back. Meeting nothing but warm, bared skin beneath your shirt.

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Heavy-lidded eyes open then at the sound of his voice - his words - as you tilt your head. A slow sweep over the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. The spread of his thighs as he kneels behind you. The already half-hard tent of faded boxers.

You had been waiting for him. Anticipating his return, eager for his touch. The cloud of sleep begins to clear as he palms himself, the bed shifting as your hips shift, thighs spreading open for him.

“I can take care of you,” Your voice is scratchy - husky, in the early morning. A hand pressing again on your back as you begin to roll over, holding you in place.

“You already are,” Joel groans, as your hips tilt up, off the bed. Knees pressing into the mattress as he nudges your thighs wider, fitting between them, “Stay just like that, alright?”

The combination feels erotic. His smell on the shirt you wear. The tingling throb between your thighs, the desire in his voice. How much he wants - enough that just the sight of you has him hard, thumbs catching on the waistband of his boxers to free himself.

You relax into the bed, as you watch. The weight of his hand as it moves to squeeze your ass. A pressure as he tugs, opening you up.

“Fuck.”

Joel spits in his palm, before it’s wrapping around his cock. A rough groan as some of that need is eased, with the sharp stroke of his fist.

Just letting himself look. Admire.

A sight that is only his, fingers sinking into soft flesh. The way you trust, how effected you are already - the shallow rock of your hips as the sound of skin-on-skin fills the room.

“You got a pretty little pussy, honey.” He hears himself saying. Watching how you clench at his praise, the little gasp that follows. “Pretty little holes. All for me, right?”

He can feel the weight of your gaze. Darkening, as your hunger grows low in your belly. Darting between his face and the sharp flick of his wrist.

Rarely getting to see him take, like this. Usually he would have been buried in you, by now. There’s the urge to ask, but there’s a power in this - wanting to watch him get off to you. Not having to lift a finger to do so.

“All for you.” You sigh, “Always.”

His jaw grits, teeth clicking together. A bead of precum joins the slick of his spit, that angry fire in his belly transforming.

So different that the little mouse he had taken to bed, all those months ago. Your hands covering your mouth, muffling the moans, until he had pried them away. Pinning them against the pillows, whispering filth in your ear.

Now, he can see the greed in your eyes. The way you glisten, when his own gaze drops. The shift of your thighs as he takes a second to rub himself against the curve of your ass. Dipping down to press against your core.

The tip coming back slick, in a new kind of way - fueling the pressure, building in his belly.

Your moan breaks the early-morning quiet. His name on your lips again - more urgent than before.

The little beg only sends him closer, a rough groan in his throat. His own hand too familiar - used to the quick and precise touch he needs to get off, when he had to.

In the before. In the during - when it was only words that the you of you had exchanged. Heated looks that lingered late into those lonely nights.

Hasn’t felt the urge to, since he’s had you.

He expects you to ask him to fill you, eyes caught on the enticing lift of your hips.

Caught off-guard for the briefest second, a heat flushing over his cheeks, when you shift beneath him instead. Flipping over, onto your back.

Eyes bright, teeth sinking into your lip as you smile.

“Wanna watch.” You admit, and that tension in his shoulders settles in his chest, turning sweet.

His fist tightening around his cock, as your thighs splay over his. Opening yourself up under his gaze, stretching out in front of him.

And fuck, what a sight. There’s a rolling wave deep in his core that he chases with the rock of his hips.

His hand fits perfectly against the curve of your waist, eyes caught on the way your fingers catch on the hem of your shirt.

Pulling it up over your breasts, a path that his eyes follow greedily.

“Christ, darlin’.” The words rumble in his chest.

A rough exhale as your own gaze drops to his fist. The pace that he’s picked up - the peek of the flushed tip when he strokes down to the base.

Already about to burst, like he’s a man half his age. Could say it’s just his own touch, the urge to relieve the weight of his stress.

But he knows it’s more. That warmth in his chest, a tenderness that has only softened the rough stone of his heart since he’s left Boston.

It’s there in the way that he could linger on the slick place between your thighs. But instead he’s watching you watch him. Focusing on the part of your lips, the shine in your eyes.

“‘m close.” Joel breathes, his words low. Rough. “Where do you want it?”

He’ll catch it in his palm if he needs to. If it helps you go back to sleep, after. He hasn’t given up on that wish - to let you drift off for a little longer.

The look you give him, the little smile that turns mischievous, has his stomach twisting into knots. Like butterflies, he thinks.

Your hand drifts down, knuckles brushing over the jerk of his. Soft fingers tracing over hot, swollen flesh. Only to curve over your mound, to spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, again, “There?”

The answering hum is low, desperate.

“Wanna hear you ask me.” Joel pushes - needing to hear you say it, knowing it will push him over the edge.

You squirm beneath him, affected by the edge to his voice, the soft command.

“Want you to come on me.”

“Where, baby?” The word slides from his lips without thought.

The eye contact breaks, your gaze darting away with embarrassment. But after a moment it’s back - the soft heave of your breasts as you suck in a breath, steeling your nerves.

“Want you to come on my pussy, Joel.”

He can’t help the rough groan, ripped from his chest. The shift of his thighs as he pulls back, as that pressure builds. The pleasure surging instead of ebbing, as he tips his cock downward.

The next stroke of his fist pushes him past the threshold. Relief sings in his veins as he spills across your mound. Painting your abdomen with his release, eyes fluttering closed as his hearing goes fuzzy.

Drowning out his long moan, as you push yourself up. He meets you instinctually, arcing over you as his mouth is drawn to yours.

As his spend drips down the crease of your thigh, so warm against soft skin.

It feels like a weight is lifted, like he’s back in his own skin again. Relaxing into the fingers that scratch into his hair, the tongue that sweeps against his.

But it’s only a few moments before he remembers. Coming back to himself, as he fits his hand between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through his release, bringing his slick fingers to circle against your clit.

Because there’s no way you’re going back to sleep after this. Not if he knows you - which he’s now certain that he does.

"Thank you honey." He murmurs, with lips that press against your cheek.

The smallest smile after, as your own part with a moan - as he croons against your skin.

"Now let me take care of you."

thank you for reading! was excited to explore a little idea I had 💕

(tags: @celestianstars)

#gif credit to @loregifs - she is amazing!#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut

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heartfullofleeches · 5 months ago

Text

You may not rest. There are monsters nearby.

Yandere Entity + Doomsday Prepper Reader

Gender Neutral Reader. Light horror elements. Reader has severe paranoia.

It isn't safe up there anymore.

Even now. Sectioned off from the upper levels of your home in a coffin of your own making, you can still hear it. The scrapping. The whispers. Small instances you made the pitiful, careless error of mistaking as the odd creak of your bedroom door. Why hadn't you left when you had the chance? Your fears and doubts hounded you like a plague, yet - in earlier days - you willed yourself to believe the trick of sound was just that. Your sight was the only true you needed. If only you knew it was your very own two eyes that had deceived you from the start.

Precious hours, finances, and the pain of departure stranded you in this place. This was your house - your home. The safe zone you created to protect yourself from the world and everything in it that would ruin you. You were so caught up keeping every danger out, you knew bothered to check for ones that were already there - decades before you took your first breath. An ancient, rotting carcass; old as if not predating the foundation of the worn, but well kept house that felt like a steal at the time of purchase for the bring it was listed. It smells the decay from your flesh as you waste each day away afraid of the unknown and discovered the ideal candidate for its equal.

A mortal who frees the world that birthed it to the degree that you do is not meant for that reality in its eyes. You gave up everything to make their land a safe haven for yourself and now it is too late. Where else is safer for you than the arms of a being who would embrace what others consider a fault?

"Are you still down there, Y/n? Look, there's nothing here. I checked every nook and cranny of this place, but there's nothing to be afraid of besides that wasp's nest on your porch. Come on out, take a shower, and we'll get you something to eat- Sound like a plan?"

The blankets wrapped around your shivering body nearly suffocate you as you press them firmly against your face. Your close friend of several years. You would've believed it was them had they not kicked you out of their apartment after chunks of spoiled meat began appearing on their doorstep. It's trying to trick you again. It's done so before. Loved ones, figures of authority, even characters from shows you watched in the past - It won't stop at nothing until you open that basement door.

"Y/n? H-hey... It's me. We used to sit together and lunch sometimes? Your parents gave me your address, but when I got here I noticed your front door was open.. Are you okay in there? Are you even in there? Open the door so I know you're s- so I know you're alright."

The fatal flaw in its mimicry. That word - it makes the creature upset. In its eyes, you won't be safe until you submit and thus promising your safety while wearing a false face angers it. Its not like the high-school crush act would work on you anyway. You doubt it was a car accident that took their life, but the less you knew the better.

"It consumes. Swarms. Devours. The fears you let puppet your sweet flesh will tear away at your meat and leave nothing in its wake before any disaster takes you from this world. Allow us feast upon your pain. We will pluck it from your bones before there is nothing for it to cling onto. This house is your domain. Embrace it. Embrace us."

There is it. That....thing's real voice. The exhaustion latching onto every word matches the heavy weight of your eyelids as you fight to keep them awake. You know it can't get in, but you can't take the risk of falling asleep. You're tired. So very tired, but you can't rest now.

There's a monster nearby.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere oc #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere imagines #yandere drawing #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #doomsday darling #yandere drabble #yandere horror

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pandapetals · 1 month ago

Text

Nightmares

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - angst, nightmares, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

After dating for a while, you try to convince Logan to stay in your bed despite his nightmares.

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

Things between you and Logan had moved quickly after that long year of pining, flirting, and stolen glances that led to the inevitable confession. It had taken time, but once the feelings were out in the open, things fell into place—almost effortlessly. Logan was a gentleman, old-fashioned in the way he held the door for you or offered his hand whenever you stepped out of the car.

While you appreciated all those gestures, what you longed for most was something simpler. You wanted to wake up within arm’s reach of him, to feel his warmth next to you when the early morning light crept through the window.

But that seemed impossible.

Everyone at the mansion knew Logan didn’t sleep much, and when he did, it often ended in nightmares—violent, heart-wrenching ones that sent his body into a battle of its own while his mind relived horrors buried deep within him. It had been that way for decades, and the others had grown used to the occasional sound of his muttering, the low groans that echoed through the mansion in the dead of night.

You weren’t used to it. You wanted to help. From the moment the two of you began dating, you had been determined to ease his pain. Yet, every time you mentioned it, Logan would brush it off, insisting that it was something he’d learned to live with. "It’s part of me, sweetheart," he would say, his voice low and gruff as if the weight of it all was too much to burden anyone else with. "Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it."

So, he kept his distance. Even as you grew closer emotionally, he kept you away at night, a silent barrier between the two of you. He feared hurting you—he feared himself.

One night, after yet another evening of him retreating to his own room, you had had enough.

"Logan," you said firmly, your voice a mixture of frustration and affection. "I’m telling you, I’ll be fine."

He was standing near the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense, the muscles in his arms coiled like he was ready for battle. He shook his head, not meeting your eyes. "You don’t understand," he muttered, his voice thick with that familiar rasp. "I could hurt you. When the nightmares come... I have no control. I can’t... I won’t risk it."

Your gaze dropped to his hands, those calloused hands you knew so well—hands that had held you gently, protectively. You also knew what lay beneath the surface. His claws retracted now, but always there, waiting. The thought of him losing control scared him more than anything.

"I don’t trust myself," Logan whispered, his voice barely audible now as if he was confessing a sin. "I’m sorry."

He turned to leave, but you weren’t ready to let him go—not this time. With a quick movement, you slipped out of bed, catching his arm before he could leave your room. "Logan," you said, your voice softer but firm, pleading. "Please. Just try for me. If it’s too much, I’ll sleep on the floor or... or whatever it takes. But just... be here."

He looked down at you, his expression torn, those stormy eyes filled with an internal battle you couldn’t even begin to understand. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, with a resigned sigh, he nodded—barely, but it was enough.

The first night he stayed with you, you had sensed it even before he woke. The way his breathing quickened, his muscles tensed beneath the blankets—small signs that told you the nightmare was taking over. You didn’t hesitate. Slipping out of bed silently, you moved to the chair by the window, watching him carefully from a safe distance. You weren’t afraid—you trusted him—but you knew Logan would never forgive himself if he hurt you.

Moments later, his body jerked violently, a low growl escaping his throat as his claws extended with a harsh snikt. He woke with a start, sitting up and panting, his chest heaving as he tried to get his bearings. His eyes scanned the room until they found you sitting there, calm and patient, waiting for him.

"You... you moved," he said, his voice hoarse, the pain of the nightmare still lingering in his tone.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Just giving you space," you said gently. "I’m here, Logan. I’m not going anywhere."

He stared at you for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing as he realized you weren’t afraid. You hadn’t run. You were still here, waiting. It was then that he knew he didn’t have to explain—he never had to explain. While he rarely shared the details of what haunted him, on nights like these, when he felt safe enough, he would start to talk, his voice low and raw, as if the words hurt to speak aloud.

He told you about the wars, about the blood and death, and the faces that still haunted him. About the men he had killed, sometimes not even remembering their names. You listened, always listening, never asking more than he was willing to give. When he grew quiet, you would move back to the bed, curling up beside him, grounding him with your presence.

As time passed, Logan began to relax more around you, his nights spent in your bed becoming more frequent. The nightmares didn’t stop, but he learned to trust that you were there, that he wasn’t alone in the fight.

You made your room a safe place for him—a sanctuary of sorts. The dim light of the bedside lamp, the soft hum of a fan in the corner, and the familiar scent of vanilla from the candles you liked to burn. Everything in the room was designed to soothe, to ground him.

Before bed, you created a routine—something simple but effective. You’d brew a cup of chamomile tea, and he’d drink it with that reluctant smirk of his, pretending he didn’t need it but secretly enjoying the quiet ritual. Afterward, you’d settle into bed together, and your favorite part came next.

"Alright," you’d say softly, pulling out a book from your nightstand. "What are we in the mood for tonight? Something classic?"

Logan would nod, his body already relaxing into the pillows. It became part of the routine, you reading aloud to him, your voice a soothing balm against the chaos that sometimes lingered in his mind. You’d start with a chapter or two, your voice soft and melodic, and by the time you’d finished, Logan’s breathing would have slowed, his head resting against your shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.

Some nights, he’d drift off peacefully before you even closed the book, the tension in his face softening as sleep claimed him. You’d smile to yourself, gently placing the book on the nightstand, and press a kiss to the top of his head before turning off the light.

One night, after you finished reading, Logan murmured sleepily, his voice rough but content, "Don’t know how you do it, darlin’."

"Do what?" you asked, brushing your fingers through his hair.

He shifted, tightening his hold on you. "Make me feel...safe."

You smiled in the darkness, your heart swelling at his words. "Because you are safe, Logan. With me, you always will be."

In the quiet that followed, with the moonlight streaming softly through the window, Logan finally let himself believe it.

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haddonfieldwhore · 2 months ago

Text

seasons - michael myers

michael myers x gn!reader

summary: living in the myers house throughout the year

note: this is something out of my comfort zone, but i was inspired by the incredible @visceravalentines and a work she did in a vignette style <3

warnings: smut, mentions of death & blood

word count: 1.6k

winter

the myers house is always cold. no radiator or wool blankets can fight off the draft that rushes in through the gap where the windows don’t close flush with the frame. the wind whistles past the glass that’s coated in a layer of frost; the front walk ices over and the garden fills with snow. the floors creak louder in the winter months. michael rarely eats, but when it gets really cold, you can get him to drink a cup of black coffee, your legs over his lap on the couch as you try to defend yourself from the cold air with a layer of blankets. he is always warm.

you yearn for a shred of his body heat on the nights he doesn’t come up to bed, finding yourself alone more often than not. on nights he does actually come upstairs to sleep, he swallows his pride and lets your snuggle into his chest. anything to stop the teeth chattering.

•

it’s by far the coldest night of the year. no amount of clothing or blankets can warm the chill that runs through you. it’s in your bones and it doesn’t want to let go. michael hears the squeak of the faucet on the claw foot tub upstairs from the kitchen as he searches for you. his footsteps echo up the stairs, and the bathroom door creaks open as you sink into the water. you look up at him expectantly, arms wrapped around yourself in the bath. he unzips his stained coveralls and steps out of his boots. once his clothes are gone, he walks over and sinks into tub behind you. the soapy water overflows the edge of the porcelain, spilling onto the tile floor, but you don’t care. you lean back into him, and look to the side to see him drop his mask on the floor stop his clothes. you don’t turn to look at his face, instead closing your eyes and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. he is warm. and for the first time in months, you are too.

spring

the porch of the once clean white house sinks about half in inch each april, when the rain seeps into the not yet green grass. the wood is rotten underneath. the left hand railing wobbles on its post if you put any weight on it. flowers no longer grow in the soil of the garden; there is too much death in the earth. water creeps through cracks in the dated foundation, pooling on the floor of the basement and staining the concrete.

his boots track mud into the house, the rug on the front step might as well be for decoration only. you’ve asked him to wipe his feet before coming inside, but he either forgets after listening the first time, or simply doesn’t care.

the wind blows the branches of the trees against the side of the bedroom window, casting claw like shadows across the pale yellowed wallpaper.

you sit up with a start as your heart pounds against your ribcage, likes its screaming to get out. your eyes adjust as the unsettling shadow creeps in through the night. it’s frightening, but it’s familiar.

besides, the man sleeping next to you is far more frightening than anything that dare try to snatch you in the night. you lay closer to him and let his deep snores drown out the rattling of the trees. your monster will keep the other monsters away.

•

the roof leaks in the kitchen. decades of water have faded the colour of the tiles where the floor dips and the water collects. sometimes you step in the puddle in the middle of the night, dampening your socks, when you stumble through the house in the dark to grab a glass of water. the fridge light is burnt out. you forget to change it for days.

spring is the season of new life, but instead the myers house is haunted by death. decay. the wallpaper peels. the ceiling leaks.

but it’s home.

summer

heat surrounds the old house, and all its inhabitants feel it. the pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen counter is sweating, a drop of condensation rolling down the side to gather around the base of it. two glasses sit next to the jug; one used. one untouched. despite the heat outside, there remains a permanent chill inside the house. it’s there year round. unrelenting.

haddonfield isn’t usually this hot, and the heat wave has you considering venturing into the cellar. michael spends a lot of his time down there, but you dare not follow him. as are all things with michael, the unspoken rule is that is his space. his alone. sometimes he is down there for days, his side of the bed empty when you go to sleep and the same when you wake up.

the window box air conditioner rattles against the cracked wood frame. a few mosquitoes lay bleached and lifeless atop it. the sheer curtains do little to block the sunlight from slipping through. tiny dust particles float through the air in the beams.

the sun sets late, and you’re nearly asleep on the couch as you’re finally able to breath the air around you, the house no longer suffocated by the summer heat. your eyes feel heavy, but you fight to stay awake as you hear heavy footsteps up the basement steps. the third step from the top creaks. he doesn’t sit with you. he just watches you from the kitchen doorway. you know he’s there. he knows you know.

•

his teeth sting against your sunburnt skin as he bites into your shoulder, his mask pulled up to expose his mouth. rarely do his lips meet yours. his teeth are far more familiar. you welcome them. he knows when you can’t take anymore, and relents, satisfied with the mess he’s made of you; disheveled beneath him. the room is silent now that the bedframe has finished thumping against the wall. you can faintly hear a frog croaking somewhere outside, likely under the porch in the overgrown grass. your legs like jelly, michael pulls you into his side by your arm. it’s the closest thing to affection he can show you. you wrap your arms around him and hope he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t. it’s the closest to happy he’s felt in a long time.

fall

something changes in the air in haddonfield as soon as the first leaf falls. they know something awakens soon. something in him. people walk faster on the sidewalk in front of the house. they keep their heads down. they cross the street.

the house smells of pumpkin as you curl up in bed, a candle on your nightstand. the flame casts a soft glow throughout the room, the same orange as the leaves that flutter to the ground outside. the bed is empty next to you. you see him less in the fall, as he spends more time in the cellar.

you don’t know what he does down there. sometimes you wonder if he truly does nothing.

you don’t ask. he wouldn’t tell anyway. truthfully. you don’t care. if he is there, he is safe. the town is safe from him. you don’t have to worry.

•

you hear his name in whispers and in the wind all throughout the town. as october 31st approaches, people don’t stay out as late. there’s less people on the streets and in the stores. but they’ll still all be out on halloween. there is a line between the fear and the reward, and they dance along it.

it’s october 30th. you haven’t seen michael in 3 days. you hear his footsteps and the third from the top stair creaking when he comes up to get the food you’ve left out for him, so you know he is still here. for now he is still here.

you hear more footsteps that night, as he ascends the second flight of stairs and his heavy boots shuffle into the bedroom. the door hinges squeak, and you turn your head. the wind whips the tree branch against the window again. but he’s here. you’re safe.

michael kicks his boots off as the bed dips next to you and he lays down. something is different. his scarred hand reaches out for you, and you set your book down, blowing out the candle with a puff of air. before you know it he’s pulled you on top of him. he’s still in control,you’d be a fool to believe otherwise. he guides the rise and fall of your hips as his nails leave crescent shaped bruises in your flesh. you’ll cherish them until they fade.

he thrusts into you like it’s the last time, and you wonder silently if this might be a goodbye.

you fall asleep in his arms. he’s gone when you wake up.

•

he’s gone for four days, but to you it feels like four years. the marks he left on your body have faded; you wish they hadn’t, checking for them each time you get dressed. the only glimpse of him you see is on the news, and by the second day you wonder if he is dead. no one seems to know.

this year was worse than last year. more bodies - more blood. the house is colder without him, and it feels like it’s swallowing you like a sinkhole. you consider going to the cellar, though you know he isn’t there. the third step from the top creaks as your foot lands on it and you change your mind. you don’t consider it again.

he returns on the fifth day, bruised and covered in dark blood. your wonder how much, if any, of it is his. he washes it off before you can find out.

like nothing happened, he is next to you in bed again. like nothing happened, he lets you cling to his body, but he holds you a little tighter than usual. he missed you too.

you hum contently. you’re home. but it’s not the house. it’s him. and it always has been.

#Michael Myers #michael myers 2018 #michael myers imagine #michael myers x reader #michael myers fic #halloween #halloween 1978 #halloween 2018 #horror #horror movies

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ronearoundblindly · 5 months ago

Text

Yield

Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

a vague sequel to Warning Signs (not required to read before this)

Summary: Steve takes your mind off a recent tragedy for the team.

Fluff, hurt/comfort with emphasis on the comfort, references to death and trauma but not explicit, SEVERAL sweet kisses 😍. Adjusted (from its languishing, dusty doc) for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' Celebration using the elements: hand kink--although this work is for all-ages--and "ew gross, that's not what I thought would happen today"--except I fudged that a bit. You're welcome even though, yet again, no one asked for this! WC ~2.3k

It’s a dreamless sleep, the kind that feels like you blinked but hours passed. Awareness comes long before awakeness.

Your head aches. You feel as shriveled and puckered as you were laying in the bath tub, soaked but thirsty, letting water steadily drip between your paralyzed, parted lips for so long yesterday. Your eyelids are sandpaper, but they’ve not opened yet.

Minutes tick by—perhaps another hour—and you attempt to remember what’s happening or happened.

Two people died. Gone. Brought back in the belly of the same plane you arrived home in, they are now lost, lost somewhere dark like this, lost like you are for so long as you can stand to keep your sore eyes closed.

Well…you are home but not home all at once.

You’re in a bed, that’s clear, but the pillow isn’t your own. The scent is off. Heavy. Musky. Not unpleasant. Somehow still familiar.

You tick through snapshots of sullen faces trying to remember.

Over you lies a soft, thick blanket. Again not yours. Again pleasing. It has heft. It comforts without constraint.

The hardest sensation to figure out is your hands.

They are…sticky and weighted. You’ve sweat and clammed up upon yourself. Your hands are not clasped in each other. Why the feeling then?

It’s cold—or cool, rather—but not beneath the blanket. The contrast to the battlefield’s heat yesterday is stark though no less repressive. The external pressures of fighting have turned inward, pushing your emotions to the brink. Your won the fight, and after, you lost the war with yourself.

You remember losing that war alone, so what are you holding?

Finally, you look.

There’s someone else in this foreign bed, one of the faces from the sorrowful slideshow behind your eyes.

Steve Rogers sleeps beside you, recognizable only by his size and his crown of golden hair because his head is bent, his hands encasing yours. He’s pressed himself to the bundle of fists between you.

The numbness has yet to lift. That’s why it all reeks of distance and projected celluloid. Yesterday happened but only in that far away world playing on the back of your skull. All you can process as real is that he’s right there and you are right here, simultaneously.

You try harder.

You try to flood color and sound onto the memories until they come closer.

The mission, the deaths, the flailing sense of loss, the unending bewilderment of “what do I do now?”: they become…undeniably tangible. They happened, and they happened to you. You heard the captain promise to stay with you. You heard him…

He called you ‘sweetheart.’

That’s the first thought that stirs something soft among the sharp recollections. That’s when existence returns.

Rogers came to your room. He wouldn’t leave until you were safe. He took care of you, and he called you ‘sweetheart.’ In your months of working with the Avengers, the captain has never once casually assigned an endearment. He says ‘ma’am’ more often than not and barely has nicknames for the teammates he’s worked with for a decade.

Everyone is Agent, Sir, or Miss. Your last name has always been enough.

You were none of those things last night. You survived a horrid battle, a crippling loss, and a solitude which almost drowned you; it’s silly to admit how he heals your wounds with one simple word.

Sweetheart. A warm cocoa hug to your chest. A gentle embrace. A guidance back toward the light.

Maybe he’ll never say it again. Maybe he meant nothing by it. He only tried to help you. He only wanted you to feel better. Since no one else was around, it’s an easy assumption that Steve simply—

Rogers.

He’s Captain Rogers to you. A coworker. A teammate. That’s all.

It’s difficult to even call him a friend because the man is so professional, so shy.

That shy professional probably saw you naked last night. Whoops.

You shimmy deeper under your covers, tilting your gaze down to the shirt and shorts Rogers dressed you in—his shirt and shorts—but those movements stir the man with your hands.

In a split second, you clamp your eyes shut again and wait in the dark, fighting not to twitch at the dry-sand prickle.

He shifts with a quiet scratching of the sheets, and he sighs, the hot air grazing your knuckles.

One traitorous eye gives a curious peek.

Rogers’s head cranes back to show his sleepy smirk.

“Morning,” he rasps, blinking slowly. He ducks away again to yawn, his face stretching to life, before softly continuing. “How you feeling? Can I getcha anything?”

You tuck your lip under and say nothing. Words have left you.

After allowing the pause, Rogers lets go of your hands, cold flooding your damp skin.

“I’ll get us some water then.”

He doesn’t rumple your blanket. He doesn’t hold eye contact. He just dutifully rolls out of his bed and gets two glasses.

The paralysis is making you quake slightly. What do you say? Will he take you out of the field for this? If not already, will he bench you from how you act next? How will you act next?

He leans a knee onto the still-warm spot he abandoned and tsks.

“Come on. Couple of sips and I’ll leave you alone. Sleep all day if you want, but first—“ He inches the offered water closer.

You rake your eyes up his arm until meeting baby blues.

“Do you mean—“

Rogers’s phone rings. “Shoot, sorry. One second.” He plunks both cups down on his bedside table and answers quickly. “Yeah, Sam, I—no, no run today, I think… Seen her? Um, yeah, she’s…she was—“ glancing back at you over his shoulder, he pulls his hand over his mouth in thought “—I’ll look in…okay, sure thing. Talk later.”

You’re offered another smile and chance at water. “Where were we?”

“So this is where you go to be—“

The failed observation echos in the garage while Captain Rogers kneels by his bike (one of half a dozen). You can’t say ‘alone’ since you’re here, too, so you awkwardly kick your feet over the edge of the steel table he told you to sit on.

Captain America is important enough to be assigned one of the coveted, private garages along one side of the jet hangar, and he assured you, no one bothers him as soon as he closes that door. Where else was he supposed to take you? It’s hot outside, just like yesterday, your room is still trashed, and his room is not exactly neutral territory.

Rogers simply smiles, ticking his head to one side. “Hand me that socket wrench?”

Quick as a rabbit, you hop down, and suddenly, as his fingers drag the cool metal handle from yours, you get it. You forgot all about everything for a split second.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispers, smile still gentle, eyes still brilliant blue.

Your insides swoop more than the mid-air jump from your perch. You tuck your lip in your teeth to stifle the glow threatening to shine out. It feels wrong. You can’t be happy today. You shouldn’t. It’s not right.

Right?

Twice. Twice now he’s slipped. Maybe. Yesterday is mostly a blur. It’s hard to imagine he means to say that. It’s not like the captain to be kind. Well, of course Steve is kind, but in a professional way, a distant way. Instead, this is a tender sort of kind, tenderness like holding onto your hands while you sleep.

He’s watching your every reaction, probably to make sure you don’t fall apart again, probably to make sure you don’t shut down entirely, but you’ve a new focus: him.

“Help me?” Rogers asks, tongue swiping out, nervous. “If you want,” he adds with a shrug.

You shrug, too, but sit on the floor next to him.

He exudes unending patience, explaining the basics of what he’s working on, mentioning nothing when you clearly zone out. You lose whole minutes to either staring at him or staring at nothing. More flashes of yesterday overtake your vision from time to time, even though your eyes are open.

“Should have taken you to the infirmary,” he mutters as you shake off your latest blip.

You drop the tool dangling in your limp hand, and despite knowing there’s an object falling to the concrete floor, you jump violently at the clattering it makes.

You grip at your temples, shielding your face. “Perhaps you should have.”

A warm, steady hand lands on your knee.

“I can finish up here and take you.” He hurries to do something on the bike, and you’re sure he’s about to send you for a psych eval.

That’s the last thing you want. You have to convince him you are fine, better than fine, strong.

You grab for his wrist to get his attention back, but the move makes him twist a cap too hard and thick brown oil comes steaming out all over both of you. It drips from your forearms down and splashes from the drip pan up, the flow quickly tapering off with a thick glug from the pipe.

“Ew, GROSS,” you blurt without thinking. You resist the urge to shake it off. No need to cover more of the room in your shame. “Sorry, Cap. I—That was—“

“No, no.” He’s just laughing, thank goodness. “My fault. Was gonna change that anyway…in a couple months. You alright?” He waits for a nod. “Let’s get this mess off at the sink, yeah?”

Rogers carefully points to the corner. You maneuver onto your feet and alternate raising and lowering your arms, thick rivulets threatening to paint the floor if you let the oil run too far in one direction.

“Wipe what you can off with the towels first.”

You sort of knock the roll over and nudge it across the counter. A strategic elbow turns up the tap and depresses the soap dispenser.

“‘Steve’ is fine,” he says as he massages lather over your palms, “by the way.”

You’re damn right Steve is fine.

Your breath catches while he continues to work the oil off your skin, avoiding eye contact.

After a minute or so, rubbing around and down your fingers, specifically scrubbing along your nails, he clears his throat.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you—“ Steve concentrates on circling each knuckle “—horrible as that sounds.”

You take control of the hand helping you, applying pressure as you feel a small tremor rattle the fine bones, unable to see the clear truth of his words beneath righteously long lashes.

He lets you wash him for a while, rubbing between his fingers, scrubbing along his nails, lathering over his palms.

His voice is so quiet, a low breeze from the distant, retractable ceiling letting in the world.

“Not supposed to say that,” he rumbles, inches away at most, “diminishing as it is to the dead.” Steve halts you and slides his hands up your forearms. “But that’s the point, yeah?” He looks up finally. “Focus on the living…”

You’re frozen, hanging on every word you’re convinced he can’t be saying.

“Is that a quest—“

Steve’s long lashes descend to narrow his path, supple lips grazing yours for the briefest moment before a curt “no.” He moves in for a proper kiss then, head tilting to take full advantage of your shock. A new shock. A different kind of shock from the one you’ve barely recovered from since…

Twenty-four hours. Horror. Sweetheart. Limbo. Sweetheart. Bliss.

He’s right. The heat of him signals life and passion, desperation and spirit for the best kind of danger: a leap of faith from the heart.

A sweet heart.

It’s at this shocking and romantic turn that you realize, you’d follow him anywhere, just as he’s followed you onto a doomed battlefield, into your chaotic mind, into a cold and lonely shower. You had nothing but doubt; he offered nothing but hope.

Your weight leans into the clutch of devoted sinew and reverent tendons. Steve takes that as a welcome encouragement.

One day it might be him or it might be you, and as difficult and painful as that would be, it helps to focus on who is still here. Both of you. Together. Now.

He’s lavish and indulgent, intense because his wet hands can’t pull you closer. His tenderness and decency saturate every atom of connection between you. Each generous touch conveys something undying and pure.

Your hold on each other slips in the running tap when Steve get a little greedy, his body pinning yours to the rim of the sink.

Immediately, he apologizes, retracting into a shell of chivalry and sympathy.

You swallow to compose yourself, minimal effect achieved.

After a fair few thundering heartbeats pulse past you ears, you manage, “that’s not what I thought would happen today.”

The baby blue irises are the picture of horror. “Bad? No?”

Steve steps back only once before you follow.

“Why me?” you counter softly.

He huffs in his infinite patience with you and rolls his eyes in disappointment with himself. Steve hangs his head, propping his arm on either edge of counter nearest him. A dark, bitter chuckle escapes before he finally confesses.

“Because every other day I feel very little, but with you, I want so much more.”

Is this how you looked to him yesterday? A raw wound begging for help in blinding light? Did he have this fear that he couldn’t offer enough?

It is enough though. It has to be enough to try for what you want, to live even in kindness and duty. He’s taken a step, and so can you.

You smile, close the remaining distance, and whisper one word into Steve’s waiting mouth.

Promise—

Question or statement, it doesn’t matter, or perhaps, you’ll figure it out on any other day. Today it simply means you're both alive.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Hope this turned out okay and that you enjoyed the fluff! If not, don't worry. I've got a smutty lifeguard!Steve one-shot in the works, too!! Tags will be in a reblog since they've been so wonky lately.

#essie’s summer lovin’ 300 follower celebration #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers hurt/comfort #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #summer lovin’ celebration #essie’s 300 follower special

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