#wanted to work with harsher shadows and lighting for this one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsrose · 25 days ago

Note

i’d absolutely love to see your take on a jackson era *SPOILER* (not dead obviously) joel who meets a new comer who’s harsher and more close off than him and only wants to use him for sex and he ends up falling first??🙏🏼🫶🏻 i adore your writing and also can’t wait for more TIP, G&R, and FD 🫶🏻🫶🏻

ok this prompt seriously did something for me and i went feral - enjoy (warnings smut/feelings - both equally as dangerous) thank you so much for your request ! i need the inspo sometimes so feel free to message me in my inbox with more requests xx

also update tangled in paradise hppefully out in the next DAY

all my work (though this needs updating)

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

The lukewarm air clung to your skin as you sat at the bar in the Tipsy Bison, a glass in hand, the bitter burn of the whiskey still fresh on your tongue. It was a disgusting kind of heat, the kind that stuck to you and made you wish for a shower—or another drink. It was late, later than you usually stayed out, and the bar was sparsely populated, just a few regulars nursing their usuals in the dim light.

You flagged down the bartender, your fingers drumming lightly against the counter. "Another," you said, meeting their eye. They nodded, reaching for the bottle.

Your gaze drifted as you waited, lazily scanning the room. That’s when you saw him.

A man sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of whiskey, his posture heavy. He looked older, maybe early fifties, his face etched with lines that spoke of a hard life, not just years. His dark hair was streaked with silver, the strands curling slightly at the ends, and a thick, scruffy beard framed a scowl that seemed permanently etched into his features. His eyes were sharp, though, hidden beneath furrowed brows as he stared at the bottle behind the bar like it held all the answers.

Your brow arched in curiosity. You didn’t recognize him exactly, but he looked familiar—someone you’d seen in passing. Without overthinking it, you slid off your stool and moved down the bar, settling yourself in the seat next to his. He didn’t look at you, didn’t even acknowledge your presence. But that didn’t stop you from giving him a once-over, shamelessly.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice low and gruff, still not turning to meet your gaze.

You chuckled, leaning back slightly. “Do I know you?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Doubt it,” he sighed.

“Oh,” you said, letting the word hang in the air. “You’re Tommy’s brother, right?”

He sighed again, the kind of exhale that sounded more like an admission. “That’s me.”

You smirked, lifting the fresh shot the bartender had set down in front of you. “Hotter than your brother, though,” you said before downing it in one smooth motion, the whiskey burning all the way down.

That got his attention. His head turned, and he finally looked at you—dark eyes narrowing slightly, lips parting as if to say something but stopping short. He looked genuinely taken aback, like no one had ever said something like that to him before. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?” he asked, his tone more stunned than angry.

You shrugged, giving him an unabashed once-over again. “I’m just sayin’. You’re good-looking,” you repeated, meeting his gaze directly.

He scoffed, a rough sound that came from deep in his chest. “Look, lady,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m way past relationships, so I suggest you just walk away.”

“Who said anything about relationships?” you replied, your tone light and teasing.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

The room was bathed in the dim glow of a bedside lamp, shadows dancing against the walls as the dresser rattled softly with the force of his movements. Joel had you pinned there, caged in by his arms, his chest pressed against your back as if daring you to pull away��not that you wanted to. His breath was hot against your ear, low grunts and growls spilling out as he moved with deliberate, unrelenting intensity.

Your clothes were still on, mostly. His jeans were tugged down just enough, your own pulled halfway down your thighs, bunched awkwardly as you clutched the edge of the dresser, trying to anchor yourself against the tidal wave building inside you.

“Joel,” you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder as your grip tightened on the wood. “I’m—God, I’m gonna—”

“Fuckin’ take it,” he growled, his voice thick and ragged, one hand gripping your hip so tightly you were sure it’d leave marks. “You’re right there. C’mon.”

The sensation overwhelmed you, and with a strangled cry, your body broke apart. “Joel!” you screamed, your nails raking against his forearm as you bucked beneath him, the dresser creaking in protest.

Joel groaned deeply, pulling out just in time, his breath heavy and labored. He finished on his hand with a grunt, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder as he let out a long sigh, the tension draining from his body.

You both stood there for a moment, chests heaving, the room filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of clothing as he stepped back, adjusting himself.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice still rough as he wiped his hand clean with a nearby rag, tossing it aside like it meant nothing, “You all right?”

You leaned against the dresser, still catching your breath, your legs shaking slightly as you straightened up and fixed your clothes. “I think so,” you said with a wry chuckle, running a hand through your hair. “Well… that escalated.”

Joel just shrugged, his eyes sweeping over you before he grabbed his belt, threading it back through the loops with practiced ease. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly, his tone casual, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. “Guess we’re doin’ this now.”

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

It had been a few months now, and the routine had settled into something both comfortable and volatile. It was almost always the same—you’d show up at Joel’s door late at night, the moon high and the town quiet. He’d answer in a wrinkled shirt and tousled hair, his face carved with irritation that didn’t quite mask the way his gaze swept over your form.

“Seriously?” he’d mutter as you stepped past him, already kicking off your boots and shimmying out of your jeans in the doorway.

“You’re too horny for your own good,” he’d grumble, his brow furrowing in that way that somehow made him look even more rugged.

“No rest for the wicked,” you’d shoot back with a sly grin, already dashing upstairs, leaving him standing there shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

Joel always followed, though. No matter how much he sighed or rolled his eyes, he’d climb the stairs after you, his heavy footfalls a sound you’d grown to expect. By the time he found you, sprawled out and ready, he was already hard, already resigned to the fact that you weren’t going to leave him in peace.

It wasn’t soft, not with Joel. It was rough hands, bitten-off curses, and bruising grips that left reminders on your skin. You’d both cum, panting and wrecked, and then you’d slip out of his bed and pull your clothes back on like it was nothing.

At first, you’d knock when you came over, but after too many nights of him stumbling half-asleep to the door, he’d shoved a key into your hand. “Sick of you bangin’ on my door at all hours,” he’d grunted, and you’d just laughed, pocketing it without a second thought.

It worked for you—this arrangement. Whenever the day had been too hard, when your fingers weren’t cutting it and the frustration bubbled over, Joel was there. He was steady, dependable in his own gruff way. But there were rules, even if they weren’t spoken out loud. You never kissed. It just wasn’t part of the deal.

Instead, you’d press your lips to his collarbone, to the patch of skin where his pulse thrummed, tasting salt and sweat. He didn’t complain, but he didn’t ask for more, either. Maybe that’s why it worked—you didn’t ask for more, either.

Tonight had been no different. Joel had pulled you apart, his hands gripping your thighs as he thrust into you, his breath hot against your neck as you came for the second time. You were still catching your breath when you rolled off him, reaching for your shirt and pulling it over your head.

“It’s cold,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly as he sat up. “You could just ... spend the night.”

The words were casual, thrown out like they didn’t mean anything. But they did. Joel didn’t offer people to stay. Joel didn’t let people in. And yet, here he was, offering you the kind of closeness he didn’t give anyone else.

“Nah,” you said breezily, oblivious to the weight of what he’d just said. You zipped up your jeans, running a hand through your hair as you glanced at him. “Got patrol early. You know how it is.”

Joel nodded stiffly, his face giving nothing away, though his eyes lingered on you as you grabbed your jacket. “Yeah,” he said, the word rough and clipped. “Sure.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder, giving him a small smile. “Anyway,” you said, already moving toward the door, “see you when I see you.”

He swallowed hard as he watched you leave, the door clicking shut behind you. For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. Joel didn’t have the words to explain it, not even to himself. He didn’t want to need this, didn’t want to need you. But he did.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he hated even more that he wished you’d stayed.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

The kitchen was dim, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound besides your heavy breathing and the occasional low groan from Joel as he worked between your thighs.

You were spread out on the countertop, your patrol gear still half on, boots kicked off somewhere by the door. The ache from hours on horseback had burned away, replaced with a sharper, hotter need that only Joel could satisfy.

You’d barely stumbled in, desperate, and Joel had opened the door with a gruff sigh, already knowing what you wanted before you even spoke. "Needy as hell," he muttered, but his hands had been on you in seconds, pulling you inside, settling you on the counter like it was second nature.

And now? Now, his tongue moved against you with an unrelenting, agonizing precision. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling just enough to make him grunt in response. His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, grounding you in the moment as the coil in your belly tightened with every flick of his tongue.

"Fuck, Joel," you groaned, your voice rough and breathless as he dragged another moan from you. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place like you might dare to squirm away. This wasn’t like usual. Normally, Joel was fast, efficient—out and over. He didn’t linger. But tonight? Tonight, he was taking his damn time, his lips and tongue teasing you, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge until you thought you might lose your mind.

“Yeah, darlin’?” he hummed against your core, his voice low and gravelly, the vibration making you arch off the countertop. He looked up briefly, his dark eyes hooded, lips slick and glistening as he smirked. “What’s that? You need somethin’?”

“Joel,” you gasped, your head falling back as his tongue flicked over your clit again, slow and deliberate. Your chest heaved as your nails dug into his scalp, desperate for something to hold onto. “I—shit—I’ve got a shift in ten minutes.”

“Then you’d better hurry up,” he rasped against you, his breath warm against your sensitive skin. But he didn’t hurry. No, if anything, he slowed down, his tongue tracing deliberate, lazy circles that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

“You’re—” you gasped, biting down on your lip as he sucked gently on your clit, “you’re taking too long.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat, the sound dark and teasing as he kissed along the inside of your thigh, his stubble scratching against the tender skin. “Ain’t my fault you came in here all wound up,” he said, his tone gruff but laced with something softer, something dangerous that he wasn’t saying. “Maybe you should learn some patience.”

“Patience?” you nearly whined, your voice cracking as his tongue returned to your clit, working you over with a precision that made your toes curl. “Oh, fuck, Joel—”

He didn’t respond this time, just groaned softly against you, his grip tightening on your hips as he brought you to the brink. You shattered with a loud cry, your thighs trembling around his head as waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you breathless and boneless on the countertop.

Joel pulled back slowly, his lips glistening as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locked on yours. “There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “That’s better.”

You were still catching your breath, your chest rising and falling as you pulled your pants up. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, though there was no heat in your words.

Joel just smirked, stepping back to let you slide off the counter. “Better get goin’, then,” he said, his voice casual, but his eyes lingered on you like he didn’t want you to leave.

And as you grabbed your boots and headed out the door, Joel stood there in the kitchen, his hands braced on the counter where you’d been moments ago, hating the way he already missed you.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Joel’s birthdays weren’t something he talked about. Hell, you were pretty sure he hated the day entirely. No celebrations, no well wishes—just another date on the calendar he could ignore. But when you knocked on his door that afternoon, a half-smushed cupcake clutched in your hand, you decided you didn’t care much for his rules.

You knocked again, shifting on your feet. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the warmth you’d stolen earlier in the kitchen as you snuck eggs to make the damn thing. It wasn’t pretty, but it was something.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Joel in his usual worn flannel and jeans. His brows lifted slightly when he saw you, the corners of his mouth twitching in what almost passed for a smile. “Hey,” he said, stepping back to let you in. “Come on in.”

You slid past him, your boots clunking softly against the wood floor as he shut the door behind you. His place was as it always was—quiet, a little too clean, with that faint woodsy smell that clung to everything Joel owned. He turned to you, jerking his head toward the couch. “You wanna do it here, or… head upstairs?” His voice was gruff, casual, like it didn’t matter much either way.

You snorted, crossing your arms as you arched a brow at him. “You make me sound like a sex addict, Joel.”

His brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if to say, Aren’t you, though?

You rolled your eyes, pulling the slightly battered cupcake from behind your back. “Actually,” you began, your tone teasing as you held it out to him, “I’m here because it’s someone’s birthday.”

Joel’s expression froze for a moment, his eyes flicking to the cupcake and then back to you. “The hell’s this?” he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place.

“It’s a cupcake,” you said, grinning as you waved it in front of him. “Took some serious effort, too. You know how hard it is to get eggs without pissing everyone off?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he took the cupcake from your hands, his calloused fingers brushing yours for just a moment. “You steal eggs for this?”

"Hey," you teased, "I baked for you. That’s a luxury, you know—not all my conquests get this kind of treatment."

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter. “Conquests?” he repeated, his voice thick with amusement. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Seriously, though,” you said, stepping closer, “Happy birthday, Miller.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. He looked at it for a moment before letting out a low sigh. “Another fuckin’ year older.”

You smirked, walking towards the couch, “Don’t worry,” you said with a wink, “The machinery still works, right?”

Joel barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” you shot back, your grin widening as you plopped down onto his couch, making yourself comfortable. “So,” you started, glancing over at him, “any big plans for your big day?”

Joel followed, lowering himself onto the couch with a groan, his body settling heavily into the worn cushions. “No,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair, his fingers raking through the dark strands streaked with silver. “Not really my thing.”

You tilted your head, watching him for a moment. He looked tired, more so than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper, his shoulders heavier. Birthdays weren’t just something Joel ignored—they were something he carried, quietly, like an old wound he didn’t let anyone see.

“Guess that’s why I’m here,” you said lightly, breaking the silence. “Can’t let you sit around brooding all night, now, can I?”

Joel glanced at you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, though there was a hint of something softer there, too. “You do that a lot? Rescue lonely old men on their birthdays?”

You grinned, leaning back against the cushions. “Only the ones who can still get it up.”

That got another chuckle out of him, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. He shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the cupcake still untouched in his hands.

For a moment, you both sat in silence, the faint hum of the fridge filling the room. It was comfortable, easy, the kind of quiet that felt rare in a world that was always teetering on the edge of chaos.

“So really, no plans?” you asked, edging closer to him on the couch, feigning innocence as you tucked one leg beneath you.

“Nah,” he muttered, his eyes darting away from yours. But he wasn’t fast enough for you to miss the way his jeans were beginning to strain, the fabric tightening over his thighs.

Your gaze dropped to his lap, catching the telltale tension in his jeans as they began to tighten. A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. “Well,” you began, your hand finding its way to his thigh, your fingers brushing just a little too close to where you knew he was already hard. “I think I could give you a birthday present you might actually enjoy, Miller.”

His laugh was low, almost reluctant, but you saw the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips. “And you deny bein’ a sex addict,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Hey,” you shot back, your grin widening as your hand slid just a little higher, your fingers brushing the seam of his jeans. “I’m not the one who’s about to cum in their pants.” You tilted your head, nodding toward the very obvious bulge straining against the zipper.

“It’s a fuckin’ Pavlovian response,” he said, chuckling under his breath, though his voice was strained. “You walk through that door, and my body just knows what’s comin’.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re complaining,” you replied, your voice dropping lower as you slid off the couch, sinking to your knees between his legs.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered, his voice tight as he glanced down at you, his eyes dark and hooded. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“C’mon, birthday boy,” you teased, your fingers trailing up his thigh as you grinned up at him. “I’ll let you cum in my mouth—just this once,” you added with a wink, your nails scraping lightly against the inside of his leg.

Joel huffed out a laugh, though it came out more like a groan as his hips shifted toward you instinctively. “You always let me do that,” he muttered, his tone gruff as his hands moved to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease.

“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice softening as you tugged his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, freeing him. “Consider it my gift to you.”

Joel let out a low curse, his head falling back again as you leaned in, your hand wrapping around him as you pressed a soft, teasing kiss to the tip. He was already throbbing, his body betraying the control he usually clung to so tightly.

As you worked him with your hands and mouth, Joel groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair. His usual gruff demeanor was slipping, replaced with raw, unguarded need, and you couldn’t help but smirk around him.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he muttered, his voice rough as his hips bucked slightly. “You’re too good at this.”

“Maybe,” you teased, pulling back just enough to glance up at him, your eyes meeting his. “But I think you’re enjoying it.”

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he looked down at you, his dark eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Too much.”

His head tipped back against the couch with a groan, his hand tightening in your hair. “Fuck,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and raw. “Just like that, baby. Just like that.”

You didn’t stop, your head moving in a steady rhythm, his quiet curses spurring you on. Your tongue worked him perfectly, coaxing those low, guttural noises from deep in his chest. His hips shifted slightly, a tension in his thighs that told you he was close, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

Pulling back for just a moment, you let a string of saliva trail from his tip to your lips, your breath hitching as you whispered, “Use my mouth.”

Joel’s head snapped forward at your words, his eyes locking onto yours with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as his hand slid from your hair to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Alright. You sure about this?”

You nodded, your lips parting slightly as you gave him a wicked grin. “Positive.”

He didn’t waste any more time. His hand found its way back to your hair, his grip firm but careful as he guided you back to him. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel as you took him again, deeper this time, his hips rolling forward just enough to test your limits.

The sound he made was low and guttural, almost a growl, as he watched you, his free hand gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles went white. “Jesus,” he muttered, his voice breaking as your hands gripped his thighs for balance, your movements eager and unrelenting. “You’re… fuckin’ perfect.”

The tension in the room was electric, every noise, every breath amplifying the heat between you. Joel’s composure was unraveling, his usual stoic demeanor cracking as he gave in to you completely. And for a fleeting moment, as his fingers brushed against your cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture, you wondered if there was something more to the way he looked at you—something deeper.

But before the thought could settle, Joel groaned your name, the sound low and guttural, reverberating through the quiet room. His hips stuttered, his control slipping as he came, his hand tightening in your hair, his breaths ragged and uneven. You didn’t hesitate, swallowing every drop, the heat of him lingering on your tongue as you pulled back, licking your lips with a slow, deliberate motion that made his chest rise and fall even harder.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice still thick with desire as he glanced down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You grinned, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you pushed yourself up. “Wouldn’t want you going soft on me, Miller.”

“Fuck,” Joel groaned, running a hand through his hair as he stood, his other hand reaching for yours. “Let’s go upstairs,” he muttered, his voice rough but full of purpose. His cock brushed against his abdomen with each step, and the sight of him—disheveled, flushed, and fully undone—was enough to make your stomach flip.

You laughed, letting him guide you up the stairs. “I think I’ve corrupted you, Miller,” you teased, your voice laced with playful smugness.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Get on the bed,” he ordered, his tone firm but not harsh, sending a jolt of heat straight through you.

“Yes, sir,” you replied with a laugh, already peeling off your shirt as you stepped into the bedroom. But just as your fingers reached for the waistband of your pants, Joel’s hand caught yours, stopping you mid-motion.

“Slow,” he murmured, his voice low and almost tender, a stark contrast to the usual roughness. His eyes softened as he looked at you, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Slow this time.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Okay,” you said softly, nodding as you let your hands fall to your sides. His gaze lingered on you, searching, as if making sure you understood.

He took his time, his rough palms brushing against your skin as he worked your clothes off piece by piece, his eyes tracing every inch of you like he was memorizing it.

You felt bare—not just physically, but in a way that made your chest tighten. This wasn’t the hurried, primal need you were used to with Joel. This was different, heavier, as if he was letting you see a part of himself he usually kept locked away.

“Lie down,” Joel said, his voice soft but laced with that commanding edge that always made your stomach twist. You obeyed without hesitation, settling onto the bed as he climbed in after you, his weight dipping the mattress. He hovered over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his dark eyes locking onto yours like he could see straight through you.

You bit your lip as you watched him, the room’s dim light catching the silver streaks in his hair. There was something in the way he looked at you tonight—something heavier, more deliberate, that made your pulse race. His hand moved slowly, his fingers brushing against your inner thigh, trailing higher until they found your core.

A sharp inhale escaped your lips, your hips hitching instinctively as his thumb pressed against you, teasing through the fabric. Joel’s eyes darkened, his brows furrowing slightly as if he was studying your reaction.

“You’re wet,” he murmured, his voice low and almost a growl, the words spoken as if they were a simple fact.

“Kinda what happens,” you hummed, your voice trembling as his lips brushed against your neck, leaving a trail of slow, deliberate kisses that made your skin burn.

But Joel didn’t stop. His thumb pressed firmer now, dragging a quiet moan from you as he spoke again, his words rough and laced with something possessive. “You’re wet,” he repeated, his lips grazing your ear, “for me.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine, his voice curling around you like smoke, intoxicating and dangerous. His hand moved against you with a confidence that left no room for doubt, coaxing your body into responding to his every touch.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice catching as his mouth found the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp.

“Say it,” he murmured, his voice low and insistent as his hand slipped beneath your underwear, his fingers sliding through your slick heat. “Tell me you’re wet for me.”

Your head tilted back against the pillow, your breath hitching as your hands gripped his shoulders. “I am,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m wet for you.”

“Damn right you are,” Joel muttered, his lips pressing against your jaw as his fingers moved with agonizing precision. There was no teasing now, no pretense—just Joel, gruff and unrelenting, pulling you apart like he owned you.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you looked up at him. “Fuck, I need your cock,” you said, your words raw and unfiltered.

Joel raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, biting your lip as he guided you, his hands firm yet careful, positioning you on your knees. He knew your favorite by now—doggy, fast and dirty, the kind of sex that didn’t leave room for intimacy, just raw need. But tonight, as he moved behind you, you reached back, stopping him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at you, his hands lingering at your waist.

You turned to face him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s your birthday,” you said softly, your voice lighter now, teasing but warm. “We’ll do it the way you like.”

Joel froze for a moment, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something. He didn’t say anything, but the shift in his expression was unmistakable—a flicker of vulnerability, quickly masked by his usual stoicism.

He didn’t ask how you knew. Joel might not have been one to talk, but you’d paid attention. You knew he always came quicker during missionary, the way he liked being able to see your face when you fell apart beneath him. You knew how he’d hitch your leg over his hip, how he liked the way it let him sink deeper.

You leaned back onto the bed, your fingers trailing along his forearm as you tugged him toward you. “C’mon, birthday boy,” you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced with something gentler. “Let me give you what you want.”

Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darkening as he climbed onto the bed, settling between your legs. He didn’t speak, but his hands said enough—the way they skimmed over your thighs, up your sides, lingering at your hips as if grounding himself.

He pushed into you slowly, achingly slow, his forehead still pressed to yours as he sank in fully. The stretch burned, but it was the kind of burn you craved, the kind that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. Joel groaned low in his throat, his grip on your thigh tightening as he began to move, his hips rolling into you with deliberate precision.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, and you obeyed, your eyes locking onto his. It was too much—his gaze, the way his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin as he moved inside you. This wasn’t just sex anymore, not tonight.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered, his voice breaking as your nails raked lightly over his back. “You feel so damn good.”

“So do you,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as he hit that spot that made you see stars. “Joel—”

"Yeah, baby," Joel murmured, his voice rough and low as his forehead fell to your shoulder. His thrusts quickened, his hips snapping against yours in a way that made your whole body arch. “I got you,” he breathed, his words sending shivers down your spine.

“Fuck,” you groaned, your voice breaking as he pushed even deeper. “I feel you so deep,” you gasped, your fingers clawing at his back. The weight of him, the heat, the stretch—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Joel’s lips brushed against your neck, the coarse scrape of his beard a contrast to the softness of his mouth. He kissed you there, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the taste of your skin. But then, his kisses began to inch upward, moving with purpose—along the column of your neck, over your jaw, each one sending a ripple of heat through you.

You moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders as his lips lingered just below your chin. His pace quickened, his thrusts deeper, harder, but his kisses softer, more purposeful, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice trembling as his lips hovered dangerously close to yours. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his dark, hooded gaze for a fleeting moment before they slipped shut again as he thrust into you with enough force to steal your breath.

He caught your wrists suddenly, pinning your hands above your head with one large, calloused hand, his grip firm but not harsh. The other hand slid under your thigh, hitching it higher to deepen the angle. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice raw and laced with something you hadn’t heard before—something close to desperation.

“Joel,” you warned, your voice trembling as his lips ghosted over yours, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth.

“Please,” he whispered, the single word heavy, his tone stripped of all its usual gruffness. And before you could respond, his lips met yours in a kiss so fervent, so unrestrained, that it stole every thought from your mind.

It wasn’t soft—it was passionate, consuming, like he’d been holding back for far too long. His mouth claimed yours, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that matched the way his body moved inside you. His tongue swept against yours, his grip on your wrists tightening as if to keep you grounded.

The kiss made everything shift, the weight of it hitting you like a wave. Joel wasn’t just fucking you anymore—he was with you, every touch, every movement speaking to something he couldn’t quite say out loud. His hips snapped harder now, his groans muffled against your lips as he swallowed every sound you made as you both finally came in perfect unison.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as you both struggled to catch it. His dark eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your wrist where he still held it above your head.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice shaky, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on you.

But Joel didn’t say anything, not right away. Instead, he leaned down, capturing your lips in another kiss—softer this time, almost tender. His lips lingered on yours, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, as if that kiss was meant to say what he couldn’t put into words. Whatever this was, it felt heavy, real, and it scared you more than you cared to admit.

You shifted, pulling away slightly to look at him. His face was uncharacteristically open, his usual guarded expression replaced with something raw, vulnerable. It was too much, too close, and you didn’t know what to say.

“Well,” you muttered, your voice breaking the silence as you pushed yourself up, your legs still shaky as you reached for your clothes. “I should probably go.”

Joel frowned, sitting up slightly, his bare chest glistening in the dim light as he watched you. “You’re leaving?” he asked, his voice gruff but tinged with something you didn’t expect—disappointment.

“Yeah,” you stammered, fumbling with your pants as you buttoned them. You avoided his gaze, focusing on the task at hand as you tried to come up with something, anything, to make this feel less... heavy. “I’ve, uh… I’ve got things to do,” you said finally, the excuse weak even to your own ears.

Joel leaned back against the headboard, his breathing still heavy, his eyes fixed on you as you moved around the room. He was silent for a long moment, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing down on you.

“You sure that’s why you’re leavin’?” he asked, his voice low but steady, his question cutting through the air like a knife.

You froze, your hands fumbling as you grabbed your jacket. You didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at him, because the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to figure you out, like he cared—was too much. “Yeah,” you said quickly, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

But Joel wasn’t stupid, and you knew he didn’t believe you. He let out a quiet sigh, his head tilting back against the headboard as he watched you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not built for this, are you?” he murmured, almost to himself.

You flinched, the words hitting closer to home than you wanted to admit. “Don’t make this something it’s not, Joel,” you said sharply, finally turning to face him. “It’s just sex.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he studied you. “If that’s all it is,” he said, his voice rough, “then why are you runnin’?”

You didn’t have an answer for that—not one you were ready to admit, anyway. So instead, you pulled your jacket on, forcing a smile as you stepped toward the door. “See you around, Miller,” you said, your tone deliberately casual, as if the tension between you didn’t exist.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Joel’s words haunted you, replaying over and over in your head: “If that’s all it is, then why are you runnin’?”

It had been days since you’d last seen him, and you’d tried everything to shake him from your system. Your fingers weren’t enough, and humping your pillow only left you frustrated. Hell, you even considered finding someone else to fuck—someone who didn’t look at you the way Joel did, who didn’t make you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you didn’t know how to handle. But no matter what you did, deep down, you knew the truth: you didn’t just want someone. You needed him.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at the clock. It was past 1 a.m. Joel would be pissed—you knew that. But you didn’t care. The thought of another night without him was unbearable, and before you could overthink it, you were already out the door, making your way to his house.

The door creaked softly as you let yourself in, the weight of the key in your pocket feeling heavier than usual. You climbed the stairs quietly, the familiar scent of his house wrapping around you like a blanket. When you reached his room, the sight of him stopped you in your tracks.

Joel was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. The soft glow of moonlight streamed through the window, highlighting the silver in his hair, the lines on his face that seemed softer in sleep. For a moment, you hesitated, your resolve faltering as you watched him. He looked peaceful—something you rarely saw.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you stood at the edge of the bed. He didn’t stir. You tried again, a little louder this time. “Joel.”

He jolted awake with a start, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep as he squinted at you in the dim light. “You scared the shit outta me.” He reached over, flipping on the lamp. The warm light illuminated the room, his brow furrowed as he took you in.

“I could’ve shot you,” he grumbled, running a hand down his face as he sat up.

“Your gun’s downstairs,” you said simply, your tone light, though your heart was racing. You crossed your arms, standing awkwardly by the bed as he stared at you.

Joel’s eyes narrowed, his annoyance evident as he leaned back against the headboard. “The hell are you doin’ here? It’s one in the goddamn mornin’.”

You swallowed hard, your confidence wavering under his gaze. “I… I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression softening just slightly as he watched you. “So you thought wakin’ me up was a good idea?”

You shrugged, your lips twitching into a faint smirk despite yourself. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?”

Joel let out a quiet huff, shaking his head as he looked at you. His expression was unreadable, but it didn’t matter.

You knew this dance—knew how to dissolve the tension in the way you always did. Slowly, you reached for the hem of your shirt, starting to pull it over your head.

This you knew how to do.

“Stop,” he said, his voice low but firm. He sighed, sitting up straighter in bed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Just… stop.”

Your hands froze mid-motion, the fabric falling back into place as you stared at him. “Oh,” you muttered, the word quiet as you smoothed your shirt back down. “Okay.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the floor as he avoided your gaze. “I think… we should stop,” he said finally, his voice rough, like the words were being dragged out of him.

“Stop what?” you asked, your brow furrowing as a sharp sting of disappointment coursed through you.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “What we’ve been doin’. I think it’s time to stop.”

Your chest tightened, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. You masked it with a scoff, trying to brush it off like it didn’t matter. “You got a girlfriend or something now?” you joked, your voice light, but the edge of bitterness still slipped through.

Joel’s head snapped up at that, his dark eyes meeting yours for a moment before he quickly looked away again. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe,” he muttered, his shoulders tensing.

It was a lie—you could see it clear as day. Joel wasn’t a good liar. Not to you.

“What?” you said, your brow furrowing deeper as you stared at him. “Since when?”

He shrugged, the motion stiff and unconvincing. “Couple weeks, maybe,” he said, still not meeting your eyes.

“Bullshit,” you snapped, crossing your arms as you tilted your head at him. “You can’t even look at me.”

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw working as he tried to find the right words. He couldn’t tell you the truth—that it wasn’t about some imaginary girlfriend. That it was about you. That somewhere along the line, he’d started to feel more than he should have, and it was tearing him apart.

“Does it matter?” he said finally, his voice gruff as he forced himself to look at you. “It’s not workin’. We shouldn’t have started this in the first place.”

You flinched at the harshness of his tone, the wall he was building between you suddenly feeling insurmountable. “Not working?” you echoed, your voice quieter now, the hurt bleeding into your words despite your best efforts to hide it. “What the hell does that even mean, Joel?”

“It means this is gonna hurt if it keeps goin’,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make it worse. “For both of us.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. This was Joel—gruff, unyielding, impossible Joel—and he was pulling away from you, shutting you out. And even though you’d told yourself this was just sex, that it didn’t matter, the ache in your chest told a different story.

“Fine,” you said finally, your voice sharp as you pushed yourself off the bed, grabbing your jacket. “If that’s how you feel, then fine.”

Joel didn’t stop you, didn’t say another word as you stormed out. But as the door clicked shut behind you, he let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling into his hands.

He’d lied to you—lied to protect himself, and maybe to protect you, too. But the truth was, Joel didn’t just like you. He’d fallen for you, hard and fast, and it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

One week later

You found yourself at the Tipsy Bison, the familiar hum of muted conversations and the occasional clink of glasses filling the dimly lit bar. It was almost poetic, sitting here again, like the first time you met Joel. Except this time, the tension wasn’t playful—it was heavy, suffocating, and every sip of your drink did little to ease the weight in your chest.

The stool next to you creaked, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Joel sat down beside you, his presence unmistakable. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch before finally breaking it.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, throwing your own line back at you from that first night.

You turned your head to glare at him. “What do you want, Joel?” you asked, raising your glass to your lips and taking a long sip.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the bar as he glanced sideways at you. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes betraying something deeper.

“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice sharp as you set your glass down with a clink. “You made it pretty clear you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, shaking his head, his brows knitting together in frustration. “You know that’s not true.”

You let out a dry laugh, the sound bitter as you swirled the drink in your glass. “Right. So where’s your imaginary girlfriend?” you spat, the words laced with venom as you turned to face him fully.

Joel’s jaw tightened, his hand curling into a loose fist on the bar. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low, warning. He said your name, the sound of it rough and heavy, like it carried the weight of all the things he hadn’t said yet.

“What, Joel?” you snapped, your voice rising slightly, drawing the attention of a couple of nearby patrons. “You think you can just show up here and—what? Smooth everything over? You lied to me.”

His eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned closer. “I didn’t lie,” he said firmly. “I—”

“You did!” you interrupted, your voice trembling now, your emotions spilling over in a way you couldn’t control. “You lied to me, Joel.”

“I lied because we had to stop,” he shot back, his voice rough, his words cutting through the air like a blade.

“Okay, well, you could’ve just said that,” you snapped, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Instead of pulling that bullshit about having some imaginary girlfriend.”

Joel’s shoulders sagged slightly, his jaw tightening as he rubbed a hand over his face. “I know,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, more subdued. “I fucked up.”

“Fuck,” you groaned, the word coming out like a frustrated exhale as you turned away for a moment, your hand gripping your glass tightly. “I thought you liked it.”

“Of course I liked it,” Joel said sharply, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, his expression softened, his voice dipping lower. “You think I didn’t?”

“Then what?” you demanded, your voice raw as you turned back to him, searching his face for an answer that made sense. “Ever since your birthday, you’ve been weird. Was it the kiss? Joel, you chose to kiss me.”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice almost a sigh, his head dipping slightly as his shoulders hunched forward. “I know I did.”

“Then just tell me,” you pleaded, your voice cracking. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s not you,” Joel said quickly, his voice firm as he looked up at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?” you asked, your frustration giving way to something closer to hurt, your voice quieter now.

Joel let out a heavy sigh, his hand gripping the edge of the bar as he leaned forward, his shoulders tense. “I just… I can’t keep doin’ this,” he said finally, his voice low and gruff. “I can’t keep havin’ sex with you and actin’ like it ain’t somethin’ more.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded, like a bomb waiting to go off. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest as you stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said.

“Something more,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself.

Joel nodded, his jaw working as he looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s somethin’ more. Least it is for me.”

The room seemed to tilt, the weight of his admission making it hard to breathe. You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edge of the bar as you tried to steady yourself. “And you didn’t think to tell me that sooner?” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else—something closer to fear.

“I didn’t know how,” Joel admitted, his voice raw, like the words had been dragged out of him. “Hell, I didn’t even wanna admit it to myself. But I can’t keep doin’ this, can’t keep seein’ you and pretendin’ I don’t feel the way I do.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you felt like the ground had shifted beneath you. “I…” you stammered, searching for something to say, but your thoughts were a jumbled mess.

“Hey,” Joel cut in gently, his voice soft but firm. “This isn’t about me tellin’ you how I feel and expectin’ you to feel the same. I’m a big boy—I can handle it if you don’t.” His eyes flicked to yours, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “It’s just that… it’ll be too hard if we keep goin’. Too hard for me.”

“Oh,” you murmured, swallowing hard as you tried to process his words, your fingers curling around the edge of the bar for support.

“Yeah,” he said, his gaze dropping to his hands as he rubbed the back of his neck. The awkwardness in the air was palpable, and yet there was something unbearably vulnerable about the way he sat there, shoulders hunched slightly, like he was bracing for a blow.

You took a shaky breath, willing yourself to find your voice. “I’ve never…” you began, hesitating as his gaze lifted to meet yours. The weight of his attention made it harder to get the words out, but you pushed forward. “I’ve never been in a relationship.”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting in surprise. “Really?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as if he didn’t want to push too hard.

You nodded, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I’ve never been… in love.” The words came out haltingly, the weight of them settling heavily between you. “So I don’t even know what that feels like,” you confessed, your eyes searching his, hoping he’d understand the vulnerability in your words.

Joel’s expression softened, his rough exterior giving way to something warmer, something almost gentle. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and steady, as if grounding you. “That’s okay. There ain’t no timeframe on that sorta thing. No rules sayin’ when it’s supposed to happen.”

You looked at him, the gruff man who so often felt impossible to pin down, who was usually the one keeping things at arm’s length. But here he was, sitting across from you, making space for something you didn’t know how to name. “How does it feel?” you asked suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Vulnerability cracked through your voice, a stark contrast to the version of yourself that usually tore his clothes off, always in control, always calling the shots.

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly as he sat back, his gaze thoughtful. “How does it feel?” he repeated, almost to himself. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly before meeting your eyes again.

“It feels like someone you can’t stop thinkin’ about, no matter how much you try not to. Like every little thing they do sticks with you. The way they laugh, the way they look when they’re not payin’ attention…” He trailed off, his voice dropping lower, almost hesitant, as if revealing too much might make him unravel.

His jaw clenched briefly before he added, “It’s like missin’ someone even when they’re right next to ya.”

You swallowed hard, his words hitting you with a force you weren’t ready for. The realization struck fast and sharp—you felt that way for Joel. You had for a while now, but hearing him put it into words made it real, undeniable. Your throat tightened as you swallowed again, your hands gripping the edge of the bar as if it could steady you.

“It’s different for everyone,” Joel said with a shrug, his voice almost casual now, like he was trying to pull back from the weight of what he’d just shared. He sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on the bar. “You’re not upset, are you? I mean… I still want us to, you know, talk.”

“Talk?” you said, laughing softly despite the tightness in your chest. “Don’t know if we ever did a whole lot of that, Joel.”

He chuckled, the sound rough and low, but his eyes didn’t leave yours, like he was searching for something unspoken in your expression.

“Joel,” you said, your voice quieter now, more hesitant. You took a deep breath, your gaze dropping to the scuffed wood of the bar as you found the courage to speak. “There’s… one person I’ve felt like that for.”

Joel’s posture stiffened slightly, his brows furrowing as he tilted his head, his dark eyes watching you closely. “Oh,” he said, his voice careful, guarded.

You nodded, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the bar’s surface. “I miss him when he’s not there,” you said softly, the words coming out like a confession. “And I feel like he… sees me, you know? Like really sees me, in a way no one else does.”

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his hand flexed against the bar. His gaze flickered, his usual stoic demeanor cracking slightly as he shifted in his seat.

“And…” you whispered, your voice barely audible now, the vulnerability in your words making them stick in your throat. “And I think he feels the same way about me.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had stilled. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, his hand reached out, hesitating for only a moment before brushing lightly against yours where it rested on the bar.

“Is that right?” he murmured finally, his voice rough, his dark eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

You nodded, your heart pounding as your fingers turned, brushing lightly against his. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the weight of everything you were saying—and everything you weren’t—hanging in the air. “It is.”

“But…” you began, your voice faltering, “I think he thinks all I use him for is sex.”

Joel stiffened slightly, his hand pausing against yours as his jaw tightened. He looked away for a moment, his eyes darting to the scuffed wood of the bar as he exhaled slowly. “Do you?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but there was something vulnerable in the way he said it, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Your chest tightened at the question, the weight of it pressing down on you. “No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, I don’t.”

Joel glanced back at you, his brow furrowed, his expression guarded but softening just enough to let you see the cracks in his armor. “Then why…?” he started, but he trailed off, like he couldn’t quite finish the sentence.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it was easier that way. To pretend it was just physical. To not think about… everything else.”

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hand still resting over yours. “Everything else,” he repeated quietly, almost to himself.

You bit your lip, your fingers tightening slightly under his. “But it wasn’t, was it?” you asked softly, your voice trembling. “Not for you. Not for me.”

Joel’s breath hitched slightly, his eyes meeting yours again, and this time there was no hiding the emotion there. “No,” he said simply, his voice rough. “It wasn’t.”

For a moment, the silence between you was deafening, the weight of everything unsaid filling the space. And then Joel’s hand shifted, his fingers lacing through yours as he let out a soft sigh. “I thought… maybe that’s all you wanted,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Didn’t think you wanted more.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I didn’t know I did,” you said honestly, your eyes searching his. “Not until now.”

Joel nodded slowly, his thumb brushing over your hand in a gesture so tender it made your chest ache. “Well,” he said softly, his voice steady but laced with something that sounded like hope, “guess we got some figurin’ out to do, then.”

You bit your lip as you took him in, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. Even now, even with the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air, Joel turned you on in a way that made your stomach flip. Your panties were already damp, a low heat building that you couldn’t ignore, no matter how serious the conversation had been moments ago.

Joel’s eyes caught yours, and he sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I know that look,” he said, his voice low and rough, tinged with something that made your breath hitch. He knew you too well—the way your eyes grew hazy when you were needy, the way you bit your lip like you were barely holding yourself together.

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks heat under his steady gaze. “Can’t help it,” you said softly, almost shyly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as he looked at you. His dark eyes searched your face, his expression unreadable. “You mean it?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “There’s… somethin’ there?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice trembling as you nodded. “There’s something there.”

Joel stared at you for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath. “Fuck,” he said again, the word rough and full of meaning. He reached for your hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Let’s go home.”

A startled laugh escaped your lips, almost a squeal as the weight of the moment dissolved into an electric anticipation. You grabbed his hand, and together you practically ran out of the bar, your steps hurried, his long strides matching yours as you made your way through the quiet streets of Jackson.

The night air was cool, but your skin burned with the heat of what was about to happen. Every brush of his shoulder against yours, every glance he threw your way as you moved together, only stoked the fire. By the time you reached Joel’s front door, both of you were breathless, though not from the walk.

Joel fumbled with his keys for only a second before pushing the door open, and as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“This what you want?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl as he stepped closer.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the way your heart raced. “It’s what I want.”

Joel didn’t wait another second. His hands were on you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was equal parts desperate and tender, the kind that made you feel like you were being seen, completely and utterly. And for the first time, it wasn’t just about the heat or the need—it was about something more, something that neither of you had the words for yet, but both of you could feel.

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shadamyheadcanons · 1 month ago

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i love that you don’t put sonic as a jerk in your headcannons but rather supportive! this is so cool, because sonic really wants all of his friends to be happy and with amy wouldn’t be different, specially since they’ve known each other since they were children and sonic himself said that she is a special/dear person to him so i agree he would be happy if amy and shadow got together. as much as i love sonamy, i also love shadamy (sorry for the long ask it’s just that is not that common seeing sonic being portrayed like this in some ffs)

Thanks for the compliment! This one means a lot because I think I’m actually harsher toward Sonic sometimes than a lot of modern shadamy writers are. I say “modern” because new “Amy goes for Shadow because Sonic is a jerk” stories are actually few and far between. It’s easy to think they’re all over the place because there absolutely are a lot of them, but the ones I run into are usually from, like...2012. If you sort by Date Updated on AO3, it tells a different story, pun intended. I believe there are three main reasons for this:

1. Since half of shadamy fans started shipping them in SA2 two and a half decades ago, a ton of us are in our 30s now, writing more mature stories with more fine-tuned characterization. This is one of the advantages of having an ancient ship.

2. It’s a tired trope. We’ve all read a million of them. Most people don’t like how Sonic acts in them for his sake, but my biggest gripe is that they undersell what Shadow has to offer. He’s not just good for Amy because he’s Not Sonic, he’s good for her because of who he is.

3. Sonic treats Amy much better than he used to. The reason “Sonic is a jerk” fics were so common 10-20 years ago is because he was a jerk, almost exclusively to Amy.

These fics exist because no other character works better than Shadow as an arbiter of justice for something that bothered a lot of Amy fans at the time.

More on this under the cut. Lots more. I got kind of carried away.

It’s easy to forget how bad Sonic was when we have games like Frontiers and comics like IDW and Mega Drive now:

Between new fans who aren’t as familiar with older games, longtime fans who haven’t looked at their history in a while, and fans who love Sonic and just don’t want to see him in a bad light, tons of people sweep his old behavior under the rug without even realizing it.

I don’t think any of that is fair to Amy.

A brief reminder of their dynamic in the past:

1. Constant abandonment. He ran from her in Sonic Adventure...

...Sonic Heroes...

And four times in SA2 alone! More on that later.

2. Standing her up on dates. This mostly happened in Sonix X...

[Episode 42, episode 45]

...but there was also Sonic and the Black Knight, where he didn’t show up, didn’t apologize, never made it up to her, and made no attempt to reschedule.

3. Uh...literally hurting her, for some reason...?

At the end of Sonic Riders, when he didn’t feel like properly handling a hostage situation:

Oh, welcome back, episode 42! Didn’t expect to see you again:

The new version of Sonic Generations altered this cutscene, thank god, but back in 2011, players saw this:

4. And the worst part of this, to me, is that he lets her get her hopes up. It’s not just the almost-dates he skips. Knuckles teases Sonic in Heroes, saying, “Are you playing with that girl’s heart again, Sonic?” It’s intended as a joke, but then he does things like this:

Sonic X, episode 52. You know what roses are, Sonic, you know how she’ll interpret this, and you know you won’t follow through.

I know I’m picking on Sonic X a lot, but it was pretty popular at the time, even among fans who didn’t touch the games or comics. This was how they saw these characters growing up, and it made its way into countless fics.

But even after all these years, no matter which continuity you work with...he still won’t give her a solid “no.”

Not liking someone back is fine. Not being interested in a relationship is fine. But letting her believe she’ll win you over if she chases you long enough isn’t, and that’s what he’s doing to this day.

Fans throw around the same tired old “justifications” over and over for why he is/was like this to Amy, but they don’t hold water. People say he’s mean because he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings for her, but he liked Elise, too, and he was nothing but kind to her.

(Putting this here because although fans don’t like to admit it, Elise was indeed intended to be a love interest. She and Amy are presented on par here, so if you think he likes Amy, then he liked Elise, too. You get exactly the same result regardless of who you choose for this trial.)

The other frequent “justification” is that he ran and lashed out because he was afraid of her, often accompanied by awful Amy hate (“stalker,” “psycho,” etc.). This also doesn’t work because Sonic was always harsh to Amy no matter how gentle she was. Classic Amy is the sweetest, most adorable little munchkin in the world...

...and he still ran away.

^ These are from the same exact comic, by the way: IDW Sonic’s 30th anniversary. Five pages apart. How in the world could anyone not want her around?

Amy had more spunk in Adventure and Adventure 2, but she was just as sweet, and he still treated her like a pest to be swatted. The ending of her story in SA1 is this:

But...why should she have to? He treats everyone else with the same baseline of respect, at least until they give him a reason not to. Why is it just Amy? He wasn’t just mean to her, he was uniquely mean to her. She didn’t act out until Heroes in 2003, when she’d already been ignored for years. Standing on the sidelines wasn’t working, so she tried being more “proactive.” Was it the right way to do things? No...but I honestly can’t hold it against her. It makes sense in context. She was a kid, and kids act out when they’re neglected.

And this is where Sonic Adventure 2 comes in.

SA2 was pivotal for Amy. Nearly everyone tossed her aside; Sonic left her behind four separate times in this game alone. First was right after she broke him out of jail on Prison Island. He ran off the second her back was turned:

Second, he and Tails both walked away from her after Eggman blew up the moon. She easily could’ve gotten arrested here.

Third, Sonic and Tails made a plan to stop Eggman right in front of her, blatantly leaving her out of it as if she wasn’t even there:

...which, if you’ll recall, led to Eggman holding her at gunpoint:

...and when Sonic set out to rescue her, this was his recap:

This does not work as a joke given how they treat her. He pretends she doesn’t exist to her face, then says this behind her back.

And immediately after that, when it was time for them to save the world, they left her alone again.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but I was furious by that point.

But then...something interesting happened.

A photoset or gifset can’t do this scene justice, but I think most shadamy fans have already seen it plenty of times. For the few who haven’t, you can watch it here.

The contrast between Shadow and Sonic is impossible to ignore. By building up this moment the way they did, the writers primed us to notice it.

Sonic runs from Amy’s hugs, while Shadow would like more of them, please and thank you.

Sonic pretends she doesn’t exist, while Shadow’s moved to tears and changes the course of his life because he values what she has to say.

Anytime they’ve interacted since then, he’s been uniquely respectful and gentle with her. It’s what she deserves, and for a long time, this was all we had. He was all we had.

The other half of the equation is that it is very, very easy to picture Shadow taking Sonic and the others to task for their mistreatment of her. As a blunt person who’s not afraid to confront Sonic, Shadow is the most believable candidate to this day. The only person to fully respect her from the start also happens to clash with the person who hurts her most often? Of course those fics exist. It’s a perfect storm.

And it’s no wonder that this attitude persists somewhat even now, because Sonic is still doing this, even if he’s “nicer” about it. That prison escape from SA2? The one he never thanked her for? He still gives all the credit to Tails for that, even up through Frontiers:

Amy. Amy broke you out of prison. Tails broke in, and then she snuck through a maximum-security prison, somehow stole a card key, and saved your life. We’re in the 2020s, but he’s still disrespecting her. And don’t get me started on the TailsTube Secret Santa episode.

It feels like Sega wants us to forget all of this ever happened, and it has some very confusing results. From that same Sonic 30th anniversary comic from above, the one where he and the others abandoned her:

Like...this? This is lying. He’s just lying to her. I can’t tell if they think we all collectively have amnesia or if it’s some weird, mean-spirited joke at her expense. I genuinely don’t know what they’re trying to say.

It’s not enough to pretend it never happened and move on, not to me. Sonic should be held responsible for what he canonically did. Him supposedly being bad with feelings didn’t make it hurt her any less, and he’s older than Amy, so he should’ve been the mature one.

The longer the writers keep this up, the worse Sonic looks, and I don’t think that’s what they’re aiming for. Ignoring the problem is not a solution. Amy might forgive, but I’ll never forget.

I just want to see a canon apology so I can reason out why she put up with it for so long. I want to at least be able to buy her having a crush on him. I can do that when he’s being selfless and heroic. I can’t do that when he treats her like the plague, and pretending he never did doesn’t match the Sonic I legitimately like. I bet a lot of s0namy fans would like to see a resolution like that, too.

Sorry to turn your thoughtful compliment into a rant. I really do appreciate it, and I’m glad you enjoy the stories!

#not a headcanon #shadamy #ask #guinhosletters #long post

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gloomwitchwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, flashback, blood and injury, swearing

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Part Twenty-Two of Ink & Needle

Simon relives the past. Evie goes to Simon for help. Price and 141 come for another visit.

Chapter Twenty-One // Chapter Twenty-Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It’s raining.

Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fracted concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.

This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.

Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.

The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.

Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.

They’re all dead now.

All but Walsh.

Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.

Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.

Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.

It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.

“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.

Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.

Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.

He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.

Three years.

Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.

Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.

And he will.

He fucking will.

Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.

Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.

He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.

Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.

Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.

The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.

This is hot. This is heat.

This is flame.

The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.

“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.

Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.

The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.

Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.

The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.

Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.

What the fuck did Walsh set off?

Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.

A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.

Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.

There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.

Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.

Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.

“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.

He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.

“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.

The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”

Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.

“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.

Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.

Either way, Walsh is a dead man.

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”

Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.

Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.

Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.

“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.

He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.

“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.

Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.

They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.

The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.

Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.

This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.

“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.

Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.

“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.

Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.

Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.

Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.

With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.

Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.

Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.

The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.

Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.

A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.

The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.

At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.

Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.

Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.

It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.

Like—

Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.

And that buzzing.

“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.

Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.

“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.

The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.

Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.

Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.

He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.

But it’s not you. It’s—

“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.

She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.

Something is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”

“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.

Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.

“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”

“Simon,” she starts.

“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”

Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.

Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.

When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.

“What happened?” he asks.

Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.

“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”

Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.

Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”

“What time was she supposed to be home?”

“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”

“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.

Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”

Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”

“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”

Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”

“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”

Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.

The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.

Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.

You are not here. You are—wherever you are.

Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.

And they walked right into their deaths.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.

Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.

This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.

Not at the moment anyway.

This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.

It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.

Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.

“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”

“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”

“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.

Price glances at him. “Simon.”

He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.

“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.

“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”

Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.

Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”

“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”

“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”

“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”

“We don’t know that, Simon.”

Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.

Life does not seem complete without you.

Letting you go is not an option.

“Captain!” calls Johnny.

Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.

Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.

Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”

He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.

“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.

He ignores Price, tearing it open.

There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.

Come and find her. – KW.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@kylies-love-letter @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @lialacleaf @unhinged-reader-36

@miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @creamwhxre @sageyxbabey

@mudisgranapat @ninman82 @lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @theshrikeandcanary

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@sadlonelybagel @aykxz98 @kadeeesworld @xxkay15xx @iloveslasher

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pinkaditty · 10 months ago

Text

Beauty (Twisted Wonderland, Rook Hunt)

tiptoes into blog again but steps on a comically placed whoopee cushion and alerts the entirety of my eagerly awaiting readers

hey hi hi sorry this is 2 let you all know that i am ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i had 2 disappear 2 focus entirely on my studies bc i was due 2 graduate with honors soon and i needed 2 have ALL my work completed lol! anyways, im glad 2 say that soon i will be the proud owner of an early bachelor’s degree in pre-med. this honors thesis better look STUNNING on my fucking resume.

a/n: anyways YES im working on ur asks now that i have more free time yaaaaaaaaay!!! in the meantime enjoy this lol i wrote it entirely on a whim bc i saw the new rook card on twt and was like “hm. okay fine ass.” anyways let it be known i know VERY LITTLE about book 7 and Rook in general (ive seen spoilers but i don’t actively seek them out, plus i don't have the game anymore bc free palestine, fuck disney), so this might be ooc or an unusually placed scenario. please let me know how i can improve!

summary: rook’s back to his old self. he’s not sure of himself, but you have some choice words.

cw: suggestive!!!!!!!! minors DNI!!!!!!!!!, book 7 spoilers i think, gn!reader (specifics of reader’s physical attributes are not mentioned, but Rook uses the masculine French word for "dear"), NOT PROOFREAD!!!!.

MINORS DNI AS PER USUAL THIS IS SUGGESTIVE!! THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING MY BOUNDARY!!!

“Well, I admit… the version of me you see standing before you, cher, was not me at my prime…”

You stare curiously at the man before you. Unmistakably, this was Rook. Same French accent, albeit with a harsher twang, same upturned green eyes, same haunting, knowing smile. It was Rook, without a doubt. But, he was different. He looked different. His uniform wasn’t Pomefiore- it was Savanaclaw. His hair was longer and wilder, choppy bangs and uneven waves falling in his face and along his back. His skin was darker, a light tan present on his usually pristine, pale skin. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and crest of his cheeks, and a smattering of them was found on his shoulders and neck. He didn’t stand quite as tall; rather, he stood with a slight slouch. Bending forward just slightly, piercing green eyes peering at you from beneath the shadow of a wide-brim brown hat. Strangely, like this, he appeared considerably more predatory.

Suddenly, him previously being in Savanaclaw made sense.

However, this spurred a question in you. Not about his decision to change dorms, but about his words.

“What do you mean, not at your ‘prime’?”

You furrow your brows in confusion as you stare back at him, searching for answers. This Rook- with far more obvious muscle definition and hardened expressions- seemed quite at his fully-functioning peak. You step towards him, your eyes raking over his form, lingering at his rough, calloused hands on his hips, at his broad, freckle-covered chest, and at his perfect cupid’s bow, where a stray freckle laid. “Mon trickster,” he speaks, the sharp twang of his accent making you shiver. His lips rise into a knowing grin. Your eyes snap back up to his eyes, glued to you in irony. “It’s rude to stare.”

Your cheeks heat up only for a moment, but you wave him off. “Rook…” You start, giving him one more once over before glancing away again, not wanting to get too caught up in observing his proportions. “I don’t think this isn’t your prime. If anything…” You turn to him again, looking him in the eyes. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before hurriedly spitting out the words before you could regret them. “...I think you’re beautiful.”

You would expect Rook, of all people, to be unfazed by these words. However, he seems a bit taken aback, his eyes widening and his posture straightening, before he leans back forward again, his predatory smirk stretching wider across his face. “Merci, mon chéri, however, I do believe-”

“I mean it.” You quickly interrupt him, stopping him from beginning a self-depricating tirade of how unaccustomed he used to be to the concept of beauty. “I think you’re beautiful like this.” You face him head-on, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. This shouldn’t feel like confessing, but strangely, it does.

Now it’s Rook’s turn to blush. His smile fades, his eyes going from knowing to gentle curiosity. The warm redness of the blush spreads across his tan cheeks, accentuating the darkness of his freckles. Something about that is endearing to you, and for a moment, you are emboldened.

You step closer to him, to which he instinctively steps back, maintaining space while his senses are momentarily thrown off by his reaction to your praise. However, he doesn’t get to do that for long. He stumbles back into a stool, gripping onto its edge as he falls onto it, surprised. He would have known that was there, if not for your closeness and persistence. You move even closer, placing a knee between his thighs on the stool, boosting your height and leaning in to grab his face. He freezes, momentarily shocked by your bold actions, but he soon relaxes, his shoulders falling and his breathing returning to normal. He looks down, his eyes becoming hooded before he looks up at you again, his emerald gaze more alluring than before. He bites his lip before speaking, probably to distract you. Admittedly, it almost works. “Mon trickster…” He speaks again, and you wonder how anyone got used to hearing him speak, when such a harsh twang in a smooth accent contradicted so perfectly. He breathes shakily, a blush returning to his face. You deduced he was definitely trying to lure you in. “You’re being… awfully bold today. May I ask what’s brought this on-”

“Your imperfections are what makes your beauty!” You don’t shout, but you do raise your voice, ensuring his words are drowned out. Being this close to him makes you somewhat nervous, but you stand your ground, pressing your palms a little more into the flesh of his cheeks. He blinks at you confusedly, waiting for you to speak. You open your mouth to speak, but close it just as quickly, letting out a few false starts before sighing. You look away, taking a deep breath, before steeling yourself and facing him once more. Slowly, you let your eyes take in his face, until your gaze reaches his freckles, prominent against his tan skin. You find yourself stroking his freckles with your thumbs, gently tracing the nonsensical patterns in which they appear. You finally find your confidence again, and speak without thinking. “Your freckles and tan don’t tell me that you had bad or sensitive skin- they tell me that you loved the sun.” Your voice is so gentle it surprises yourself, not whispered, but low, and filled with a strange intimacy.

His eyes widen at your words, his lips parted. He breathes shakily, but something about it is genuine this time. His eyes remain fixated on yours, his thick eyebrows downturned in a strange mix of melancholy and yearning. You stroke his face more, and he relaxes, closing his eyes and letting you hold him. You begin to breathe shakily yourself, your body flushing with heat and your fingers beginning to tremble just slightly. You move your right hand from his cheek to his hair, not once lifting your palm. Your fingers gently move through his hair, holding the back of his head, and he leans into your touch, exhaling as your pinky brushes the back of his neck. You lean in as well, following him as he follows your touch. He opens one eye to peer at you curiously, gauging your next action. When you gently pull at his waves, his eye snaps shut again, and he disguises a moan as a throaty exhale. You speak again, led purely by the spur of the moment. “Your uneven bangs and wild hair don’t tell me that you didn’t care for it- it tells me that you took the time to let it grow, and chose not to restrict what was yours.” You say this close to his neck, your lips gently brushing against the shell of his ear. He shivers, gripping the stool harder.

You begin to pull back, keeping your palms to his skin. You move your right hand back to his cheek, where your left hand still rests on his other one. You pause for a moment before drifting both hands downwards, your palms and fingers tickling his jaw and neck. He leans his head back to allow you access, sighing quietly at the feeling. You gently trail your palms and fingers down his neck before finally resting at the base. You then gently drag your hands to his shoulders and squeeze them, looking up at him. His blush still remains, and his lips are still parted, his breathing still shaky. He gazes at you expectantly, as though eagerly awaiting your next bit of praise. You lean towards his face and press your forehead to his, looking down at his shoulders. “Your slouch does not tell me that you had bad posture- it tells me that you were shyer, and didn’t take pride in your appearance.” You begin to trail your palms down his shoulders, your fingers feather-light on his skin in their wake. He shivers at the gentle stimulation, closing his eyes again. His breathing gets heavier and shakier, and you begin to feel heat pool within you once more. You pull your head back, straightening up as your stare at him. Leaning your face close to his, you continue to trail your palms down his arms, your fingers lightly pressing into his muscles, mapping out the structure of his body. Eventually you lift your palms, using only your fingers to trail down his forearm, tracing the insides of his wrists. He hardly flinches, likely expecting this, but still shivers at the sensation. “It also tells me…” You continue, your lips mere inches from his, but not daring to move any closer, staring at his cupid’s bow and blonde lashes. Your fingers reach his hands, and you gently pry them from their grip on the stool, moving them to his lap, palms up. You trace your fingers along his rough, calloused palms and fingers, making shapes and patterns. “...That you took more pride in the things you did with your hands.” You press your palms into his and his eyes flutter open, not surprised to find you mere inches from his face. He exhales, his blush deepening. He blinks at you, knowing you still weren’t finished yet.

“Your imperfections lead me to your beauty. That’s why…” You trail off, lifting one hand from his palm and caressing his cheek once more. “...You’re beautiful.”

You begin to pull back, closing your eyes and quickly moving away, beginning to move your knee from between his thighs on the stool. However, he quickly grabs you, his fingers gripping the back of your uniform as he pulls you in. Your knee follows your movements, pushing into his inner thigh on the stool. He sharply inhales, looking down, before looking back up at you with hooded eyes. His eyes still look expectant, as though he still wants more.

“Mon trickster…” He says lowly, pulling you in further. Your knee presses harder against his inner thigh and your upper body closer towards his. He breathes shakily, moving one hand from the back of your uniform to the front, bunching some of it in his grasp. He tilts his head towards you, and you can feel his breath on your lips as your eyes lock with his. Heat flushes through your body again.

“Are there any other… imperfect beauties… that I possess, that you’d like to point out to me?”

rejoice! entertainment be upon ye!

a/n: okay but seriously, i hope u all enjoyed! i wrote this in like,, a few hours? for reference it is like. 5:45 am where i am as i type this LOLLLL! i was up lateee bc i no longer have schoolwork which meansss every spare second i have that im not working working, ill be doing these. anyways! please please pleeeeaaaasssseee leave a like, comment, and a reblog if u liked it! i love 2 know that u loved my work! ik its been a while but i promise 2 try 2 be more active… i swear!! oh, and leave an ask if u have any ideas about other things i should write!

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland smut #minors dni #rook twst #rook x reader #twst rook #rook hunt #rook twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt twisted wonderland #rook hunt twst #rook hunt x yuu #rook hunt smut #twst #rook hunt x mc

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shrillow · 2 months ago

Text

Winter Flowers - Ch 1

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus; human sacrifice!reader; female!reader

synopsis: the dragon protecting your valley demands a mate to join him in his lair. Certain events compel you to volunteer yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you on the mountain.

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3

"For as long as this bite remains," he whispers, "you shall be mine."

In the mountain that overlooks your valley, lives a dragon.

Its age is unknown to you. For generations, your people exist in the shadow of the creature, while it guards the valley against raiders and armies alike. As children, the elders taught you to regard the dragon as a force of nature, capable of both preservation and great destruction. Grisly warnings are whispered to you in the dead of night, when sneaking out to the north woods proved an irresistible temptation to the youth. Yet, to you, the dragon is never more than an obscure presence in the background of your life.

After all, decades have gone and passed since the last pillagers stepped foot into the valley. A thousand years of peace have allowed wildflowers to unfurl across the gentle hills you wander. The frolic of deer and sound of birdsong fill the valley every spring. And you and your village follow the ebb and flow of its delicate ecosystem. Even now, on the cusp of the harvest, everyone gathers in the grey dawn to reap the bursting golden fields.

All of it, the elders are quick to remind you, is due to the benevolence of the valley’s guardian, and the deal your ancestors struck with it centuries ago.

And in return for this bucolic existence? A human mate every one hundred years.

A small price to pay for you to tend to your father’s sheep alone, without fear of plunder or kidnapping. To meander through the foothills beside the animals, with the village hound in tow, and read about giants under the shade of a tree.

You’ve never known anything else except for the green expanse before you. Your people do not leave the valley, and why would they? When they have everything here. How could you want for anything, after being raised in the gentle cradle of these fields?

But when you stop at the valley’s end marked by the splitting river and a field of lupins, where the sheep do not care to roam further, a disquiet roots inside your heart.

You cannot name the feeling. It’s in a language the elders never taught you.

The wind shifts. The sheep grow restless with the fading light.

“Come away now,” you beckon the sheep, “lest you want to be eaten by wolves.”

While the villagers spend their hours in the fields at this time of year, you’re still out in the pastures. You spend weeks at a time with the flock, until one of your brothers comes up from the village to take over. It’s solitary work. But you’re a solitary person.

You can still feel the heat of the earth when you wake up the next morning. Winter is still a couple months away. The lambs haven’t finished weaning.

One day is no different from the last. You rise to eat and feed the dog. You take your crook and rove through the flock, counting.

“Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . . ”

You arrive at the same number as last time. The sheep must have taken yesterday’s threat to heart.

You take the herd further into the valley, though you’re still a day and half’s walk from the village. Across your northern vision, a line like torn paper cuts into the sky. The mountains loom before the verdant plains like an impenetrable wall. Hills of pine blanket the base of those jagged peaks. You think you can see your village, small wisps of smoke rising in the distance.

When night falls, you settle in a familiar glade, where the earth forms a natural barrier against harsher weather. Tonight, you can sleep under the stars. The sheep huddle close, and the hound prowls the dark. They may fear the wolves but you don’t.

“Wolves no longer venture into the valley.” Your father’s voice carried into the quiet evening. You were fourteen. You knew much of sheering but little of shepherding. Your father hopes to pass these pastures to his sons, but he still teaches you.

“Why?” you remember asking.

“Because we’re here,” he says. At the time, you didn’t think that was much of a reason. A girl who's just come of age isn’t much of a threat. And your father? Though he carried an axe on his belt, you’ve never seen him hurt a fly.

When the morning sun runs her fingers across your cheek, you wake to the smell of blood.

You leap to your feet. You feel around in the grass for your crook and rush to the herd. You call your dog but there’s no answering bark. The sheep have formed a tight and restless circle. They bleat as you pass them, struggling to get away from the stench.

You have to climb over a small rise before you see it.

Ten ewes lie dead at the bottom of the hill.

Their throats were torn open. Their entrails spill on the ground. They were clearly feasted on.

You hear your name in the wind and you look around frantically until you see him, your brother, rushing down the fields on a horse towards you.

You meet him halfway, but before he can open his mouth, you shout, “Something happened to the sheep last night!” You drag him over the hill where he can look down at the bloody scene. Your brother’s face turns white.

He grabs your arm suddenly. “You must return to the village.” You’ve never seen your brother so grave.

“The dragon,” he whispers, “came down from the mountain yesterday.”

Your mouth falls open.

That could only mean one thing.

You turn your attention back to the dead sheep. “This is no coincidence,” you insist, “The elders need to know.”

“Wolves got to these sheep,” your brother says.

Your face twists into a frown. “They were obviously killed by—”

“You don’t know that,” he retorts. He turns away to pace, wiping his face with a shaking hand. You look away. It’s been a long time since you saw your brother this shaken.

“Take the horse,” he instructs you, “and tell no one of this. Not even Father. Okay?” He makes you swear it.

You swallow your protests and make your way through the fields. A shape bounds towards you and you sigh in relief as you recognize your hound. At least he remains unscathed.

As you pull yourself into the saddle, you hear a sound like shattering glass.

The earth trembles. You see black mist rising from the north, like a murmuration of starlings. It writhes in the air until it disappears within the shadow of the mountains.

When you return to your village, you find the south fields empty of villagers. Tools and wagons heavy with unthreshed wheat stand idle.

Droves of villagers are making their way towards the village center. You weave through them, trying to find the rest of your family when someone calls your name.

You spin around just as your sister throws herself at you.

“It was here,” she says breathlessly. She’s shaking. You think she’s about to faint so you grab her. You see in her eyes pure terror. “The elders have called a gathering.”

She tugs you into the stream of people until you shuffle inside the mead hall. Even infants and young children are brought. The elders sit in a circle, their aged faces sallow and grim as they address each other.

“We cannot concede to the beast’s demand,” Elder Jenna’s voice resounds through the hall, “Barely fifty years have passed since we last had to sacrifice one of our daughters.”

Elder Josephine shushes the crowd that murmur their support for Jenna. “The pact did not specify once every century.”

“But the precedent has always been thus, Elder Josephine,” Jenna counters, “Has it not since our forebears settled the land?”

“I’ll admit that our histories do not have record of the dragon demanding a new mate so early,” the older woman concedes. The hall once again echoes with several hundred voices, but when the elder rises from her chair, all are silenced.

“So who here,” Elder Josephine addresses the village, “is willing to forgo the ceremony?”

Everyone stiffens. Neighbors glance at each other, girls your age share haunted looks.

A thousand years of peace.

Not even Jenna speaks up.

In the end, no one wants to bear the burden of breaking such a legacy. Not for principle. Not for a daughter.

As is the custom, lots are drawn.

Mothers, married women, and girls who haven’t had their first blood, are exempt. That leaves ten eligible maidens to draw a stone.

The entire village descends into mourning. The harvest is put on hold, and the usual festive ribbons folks spent weeks making are stripped from doorways and light posts. Until all color is leached from the village.

The families with eligible daughters receive heartfelt condolences, including your parents. But not many, for you are their only eligible daughter among three boys and a married sister. Other families are not so lucky.

Your mother does not share the sentiment.

“Such plans I had for you,” she mutters. “All to be threatened by that beast? The forebears mock me.”

You wince when you feel her jasper ring scrape against the back of your neck while wrangling your hair into a braid.

At last, she finishes and leaves for your sister’s house to help her with the newborn, before undoing your mother’s work.

You rouse your brothers, check in on your father who sleeps much longer these days, and make sure that you have ample amount of wood to burn later tonight.

Then, you slip into the morning mist and disappear.

No one ever hunts in the north woods. No one would dare, so close to the mountain. As children, you and the others would play a game of who could stand the closest to the treeline. Your friend, Tara, is the unseated champion of this little contest. You remember watching her stride to the forest’s edge until branches and foliage seemed to stretch toward her, embracing her. You feared the woods would swallow her hole.

You find her now at the edge of these same woods, collecting flowers.

“They say the climb is the hardest part,” Tara says as you approach. She gathers arnica and yarrow in her basket, before casting her gaze up the mountain, which looms like the wrinkled face of a sleeping giant. In a few weeks, a fresh mantle of snow will cover the peak and glitter under the winter sun. For now, there’s only a light dusting of white.

“I’m not scared,” she says. You give her a look and she flashes you a coy smile. “What? Not everyone can claim they bedded down with a dragon.”

“Only you would joke about something like this,” you say, elbowing her side. Any other time, you would have laughed. But everyone knows that the chosen never return to the valley. The reason is self-explanatory.

You read somewhere that being chosen as a dragon’s mate was seen as a sacred honor. You don’t know exactly when that sentiment changed.

You stare into the depths of the forest. As a child, you could never get as close to them as Tara.

“What do you think is on the other side of the mountain?” you ask.

“I don’t know . . . Death and destruction?” she suggests. Wormwood and nettle join her collection. “Cannibals and thieves? I haven’t really thought about it.”

You think about the dead ewes in the field. Description of that morbid scene is at the tip of your tongue.

But when you glance at your friend, the words once again fail you. Why do they fail you? Tara deserves to know what kind of monster really lurks in that mountain.

Compliancy makes cowards of us all.

“The book Jenna gave me,” you say instead, “it talked about something called an ocean. Water, as far as the eye can see.”

Tara laughs. "Now that's something I'd like to see. What other fantasies have you got in that head of yours?"

That night, you dream that the forest drags Tara into its darkness. You dream of running after her, only for the trees to weave into an impenetrable wall, preventing you inside.

The ceremony is a simple affair, without speeches or spectacles. You, Tara, and eight other girls each pull a stone from a hemp sack. You roll your stone in your hand, cool and river-soaked smooth.

Nine black stones. One white stone.

The entire village is in attendance. For most, this is the first ceremony they’ve witnessed. The elders watch you girls closely. Jenna’s hands are tightly clasped around her pendant, her expression a storm cloud. Elder Josephine’s gaze is relaxed in quiet assessment.

Your mother looks as if she’ll crack someone’s bones any minute. Your father and brothers appear ill. Tara’s family is on their knees in prayer.

When Elder Jenna asks you to reveal your stones, you close your eyes and unfold your fingers.

Several girls cry out. You hear a tidal of murmurs ripple throughout the village. Your mother’s gasp is what causes you to open your eyes.

A black stone.

You let yourself breathe and turn to Tara with a half-smile—

You drop your stone. The world narrows to a pin prick.

Nestled in Tara’s palm, a white stone.

“Now that all that fuss is over,” says your mother, “it’s time we announce your engagement.”

You look up sharply.

“That boy Andrew has asked to marry you. I said yes.”

You recognize his name. His family owns the largest fields in the valley. You grew up together. He’d taught you how to thresh wheat, had sucked the blood from your finger when you’d cut yourself on a stalk.

“I can’t marry him.”

“His father is the wealthiest landowner in the valley. His are the fields from which we eat. And yet, you can’t marry his son?” Her voice hisses with mockery. “Pray tell, daughter.”

A dozen reasons bubble in your throat, but they would be reeds to her fiery tongue. And so, you shrink into your chair, avoiding the smug curl of your mother’s lips.

“You will wed him next spring, and you will be grateful that a boy like him has chosen someone like you.”

You sprint to Tara’s home before the sun’s golden fingers touch the valley’s floor.

You barge through the door and announce, “We must leave this place.” You stride toward Tara’s room. “Before you depart for the mountain, and I for the marriage bed.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that Tara isn’t inside, though her herbs lay scattered across the table. Puzzled, you make your way around the hut to find your friend hunched over and heaving behind the cottage.

You rush to her side. “Tara!” You hold back her long hair while she coughs up the remaining contents of her stomach. When she quiets, you guide her back into the house, sitting her down close to the firepit, before retreating to the kitchen to make up some rudimentary concoction Tara once taught you for upset stomachs.

“Remind me, is it goldenseal or bloodroot for the stomach?” you ask her.

“Nothing I have is going to remedy this ailment,” Tara says ruefully, “I’m with child.”

You spin around. “Why didn’t you say anything before the ceremony?”

“I didn’t know.”

“We must tell the elders,” you insist, “We can draw lots again—”

“You know the other girls and their families would riot if we did that,” she says. “And they’ll think I planned this.”

“The dragon demands a maiden,” you remind her, “It would kill you and the baby!” You watch tears form in your friend’s eyes. You take her hand and brush her tears away with your scarf. “If you won’t tell the elders, then we must leave the valley.”

Tara’s eyes widened. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere that dragon or my mother can’t reach us,” you say, “She’s marrying me off come spring. If we leave now, we'll be out of the mountains before the first snow.”

But Tara is shaking her head. “No.”

Your grip on her hand tightens. “What?”

“I want my child to be raised here.” She looks at you pleadingly. “You know the world beyond this place is dangerous. Our village has not seen violence in a thousand years.” Tara’s hand curls into a fist above her stomach. “Maybe . . . maybe the dragon will let me stay? Maybe I can at least give birth before I have to join it . . . ”

It was a far flung hope. In your village’s collective memory, no concessions have been made since the forging of that archaic agreement between the dragon and your ancestors. You know nothing of a dragon’s mating cycles, but you doubt the creature would accept the arrival of its mate to be delayed. Nor would sending someone up with a message be feasible, so close to winter.

“Please, Tara,” you beg, “leave this valley with me. It can’t be any worse than becoming the dragon’s mate.”

Where was your friend who braved the edge of the north woods? Where was your friend who said she wasn’t afraid of the dragon?

You wait for her to emerge from the forest unscathed.

But you are met with only Tara’s silence.

You are not yet five summers old when Elder Jenna takes you to the old chapel and reads to you the meagre books that have survived since the time of your forebears. From their own memoirs, she recounts vast oceans and deserts; monstrous creatures and fae guides; legendary kings and prodigal magicians.

“The elders believe that these are only folklores our forebears collected during their travels,” Jenna tells you while you lay your young head in her lap while she reads. “But I think these stories are real.”

“All of them?” you’d asked.

She shares a smile with you. Her garnet pendant glimmers in the candlelight. “There’s a world out there, bright one. We’ve let ourselves forget about it.”

Now, years later, you follow the sheep in a daze. The fall sun beats down on the back of your neck as you sit with the faded pages from these journals. Whatever comfort they once provided you has ebbed away and eroded the surface of something far more sinister than any fable. An unspeakable truth. Now an unavoidable certainty.

The same sheep graze in the same spots. The same lilies and gentians are trampled beneath your familiar feet. You and a hundred generations of shepherds have worn a path through the same meadows and grassy plains. Even after your father entrusted the sheep to your care, you never strayed from it.

Could you call any place home besides this valley? Could any other lovely fields or alpine views feel half as comforting as the ones before you?

Can you starve in all this beauty, hungry child?

Anyone who becomes the dragon’s mate is gone forever. Anyone who leaves the valley never returns.

You think of Tara, whose fear is not leaving but rather, never being able to go back.

You remember how you were too scared to approach the north woods, how you always lost in those games. You were henceforth known as the craven one, the one in need of the comfort of books and familiar things.

But that isn’t why you were never able to compete with Tara and the rest.

You were afraid that if given the choice, you would choose to never return.

In the morning, your mother drags you out of bed by your hair.

“You volunteered?!” she screams, “After all I have done for you? Selfish girl!” She throws you into the main room in front of your father and brothers. Disoriented from sleep, you struggle to rise, but your mother simply kicks you back. You stumble into the fireplace and pain engulfs your arm. You scramble away but the damage is already done.

Your father makes himself scarce. Your brothers cower in the corner as your mother approaches you. There is nothing but malice in her eyes. “If you want to be the dragon’s whore, then so be it.”

It’s the last thing your mother ever says to you.

You and Tara sit on top of the remains of a crumbling stone wall, cloud-watching.

She’s the first to break the silence.

“I thought we’d grow old here.”

You squeeze her fingers with your good hand. “We shared a childhood,” you say, “the forebears granted us that at least.”

Tara looks at you with shining eyes. “I hate this. We should have run away.”

You shake your head. “This is where you belong. I shouldn’t have tried to take that from you.”

“But what about you?” Tara entreats.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your gaze inevitably turns to the mountain. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Your brother returns from the pastures.

“You were right.” He’s standing with his shoulders hunched, there’s a paranoid look in his eyes. “I want to give you something.”

You follow him to one of the outposts, where spare tools and food are stored. Gingerly, he reaches inside to pull out his hunting spear.

“They always told us that the dragon promised to never harm one of our own,” he recalls. After a moment, he hands the weapon to you. “It lied.”

You stare at the spear. It’s a simple thing, with a steel tip fastened to the end of an ash wood shaft. It was your mother’s weapon, crafted with her own hands, before gifting it to your brother.

You toss it back to him. “What do you expect me to do with it?”

“Whatever you have to,” he says, “Whatever it takes to come back home.”

You’re silent. Clouds chase after the sun’s slow descent behind the hills. Neighbors return to their huts, to rise again before the wheat rots on the stem.

And above it all, a dragon waits.

You take the spear from your brother.

The night before you are to leave, Elder Josephine asks you to visit the chapel.

It’s a crumbling, teetering thing on the outskirts of the village. It’s not used for prayer or holding ceremonies. The only things inside are the relics of your forebears, the first men and women who settled the valley.

You find the elder standing before a row of chests at the back of the building. Her brooch flashes a brilliant red in the candlelight, fractals of color spill across the stone walls like blood splatterings

“Before tomorrow, I must ask you,” she utters gravely, “are you truly willing to become the dragon’s mate, to forsake the valley, climb the mountain, and never return?”

You think of Tara and the child in her belly. You think of dead sheep and spring weddings.

Your breath is steady when you say, “I do.”

A moment passes, before, “Then approach, daughter of the valley.”

Your sister tightens the straps of your cloak, checks the buckles of your back, and combs away the strands of hair that refuse to conform to the braid.

“They say the climb is the hardest part,” she says.

“I know.”

Behind her, you watch your niece pick at the grass while the dog curls its protective body around her. The sun has barely made it over the eastern rise.

Your sister surveys her work. She glances at your bandaged arm but quickly looks away. Nine years your senior, you weren’t very close to your sister. But you share the same mother, and so too, the same wounds.

“Wolves and bears don’t trespass into the dragon’s territory, so you shouldn’t worry about attracting them. The food should last the entire journey, but I know you like to indulge.” Her mouth is pinched into a smile. “So don’t blame me if you run out.”

Her eyes glisten dangerously. You open your arms and your sister collapses into them.

“Thank you,” you say.

You hold her until your clothes soak up the last of her tears. A quiet part of you is grateful that you can carry her with you in this small way.

A crowd waits for you. But your father and brothers are the only ones you search for among the somber faces. Their hugs are the hardest to let go from. Your mother is predictably absent. You wipe their tears and tell your brothers to look after your father.

Tara is the last one in the parade of villagers you pass on your way to the north forest. She smells like morning rainfall and fresh laundry when you hug her. The scent pierces your lungs, and you think that if you let go, you’ll be lost forever.

“Come back to us when you make it out,” she murmurs into your ear.

You hide your smile into her shoulder. Only Tara would make such an impossible demand.

“I will,” you say, because only you would make such an impossible promise.

Like so many years ago, you find yourself standing before the north forest, and closer than you’ve ever been before.

Just as you step into the trees, you root around the damp earth until you come across something long and heavy.

You allow yourself a moment to admire the spear, turning it around in your hands. Then, you begin to walk until your unremarkable little village disappears behind a dense green shroud.

For days, you trudge through a thick layer of underbrush, using the spear as a walking stick. Nights in the forest are the darkest you’ve ever known. You’re used to the boundless canopy of stars stretching from one end of the valley to the other and beyond. Oftentimes, with Tara, you would sleep out in the fields on summer evenings and spin tales from constellations.

When you peer at the sky now, you only see shadows upon shadows, concealing the stars from you.

The sun struggles to pierce the thick woods in the mornings, forcing you to continue your journey largely by feel. You don’t have to worry about direction, you just follow where the ground tilts up.

Your aching feet are at least a distraction from your raw and itching arm. Every morning you wrap it in fresh linens, washing and drying your old wraps when you make camp. You dab a bit of the salve Tara made for you on the worst of your burn, but the blisters are slow to heal.

You hope the dragon doesn’t mind his mate pre-roasted.

By the end of the week, a chill accompanies the air. You notice a clearing up ahead of you, where a bit of rock juts out. You clamor your way to the outcropping and soak in the view before you.

Your valley has always been beautiful. Beyond the wheat fields, miles of wildflowers bloom in a shocking array of colors every spring. The sheep come down from the south hills and flood the terrain. But up here, your valley looks so small, tucked away in the folds of a vast mountain range. Your village is a blemish against the greenery. The outposts scattered across the grazing fields mere freckles.

You glance behind you, taking in the rest of your journey.

A jagged, unfriendly cliff face stares back at you in challenge.

You tighten your bandages, and begin to climb.

Tara and your sister were right. The climb might kill you before the dragon does.

You nurse your bleeding hands, try to warm them against your bowl of food. You’re starving, but you only eat enough to keep the hunger pains at bay.

The harvest would be over by now. Almost two weeks since you hugged your best friend. Since your sister fixed the hole in your cloak for the climb. Since your father doused your burned arm in water and bandaged it. At least here, this solitude is familiar.

You avoid thinking of Tara and your family too often. You reserve your mind only for the dragon.

One thing about this climb that you appreciate: you can see the stars again.

Are you looking at the stars, Tara?

That night you dream of fire. You dream that Tara births a creature with wings and horns. You dream of your mother’s rage, burning red in her eyes. You dream of a spear, resting in the blood-stained snow.

There’s more things you don’t know about the dragon than you do.

The spring of your sister’s wedding, you asked Elder Josephine: “Why does the dragon need a mate?”

You work with her on your sister’s veil. Famed for her needlework, Elder Josephine has sewn the veils of all the girls in the valley. Showing some talent for the craft, you’re placed under her tutelage.

“That is the price for its protection,” she answers, eyes never leaving her careful embroidery.

You contemplate her answer, before suggesting, “Do you think the dragon is lonely?”

For the longest time she doesn’t answer.

Eventually, she turns to you and says, “The last girl who was chosen asked the same thing.” She pats the brooch over her heart. “Perhaps the creature feels something akin to loneliness. But who’s to say? This is something not even the forebears knew.”

You and Elder Josephine continue to embroider lilies and heathers into your sister’s veil. You do not speak of the dragon again.

While you and the elder are admiring the finished product of your hard work, Elder Josephine says to you, “For your veil, sweet child, daffodils.”

You never have the chance to ask her why.

Years later, and your only veil is the frost that clings to you in the early mornings as you ascend higher and higher into the clouds. The air is thin and bitter cold.

You find . . . winter flowers, sprouting in rebellion against the frost.

No spring wedding for you. No daffodils or handsome groom. Only the climb.

You’re lost.

Cavernous rock faces rise up on all sides, caging you in an icy labyrinth. You don’t know where you took a wrong turn, you’ve been wandering for days.

You assume the dragon’s den would be obvious. But the mountain is huge, and you’ve stumbled into all sorts of caverns and caves, with no dragon in sight.

Harvest has surely passed, yet you’ve failed to find the dragon’s lair. Would it punish you? Would it punish the village?

You forgo camp to scour the mountain passages. Deep crags cast long, gloomy shadows as dusk creeps toward night. You’ve lit a torch just to watch where your feet tread.

You follow a narrow crevice and nearly plummet to your death when you emerge before a sheer drop. You land on your backside in your attempt to scramble to a safer distance from the ledge.

And then you see it, cast in brilliant orange and violet hues, the largest expanse of water you’ve ever seen.

It sparkles like a field of diamonds, melting into the fuzzy horizon. But then you see strange shapes in the distance. Unnatural structures reaching into the sky, and flickering lights dotting them, growing in number as the night assumes its domain. Until you can’t see anything at all.

A low growl resounds behind you.

Ocean forgotten, you slowly look up to find yellow eyes staring back.

A wolf. Flesh-tearing and huntress-cunning.

It lunges.

You’re fourteen, in the pastures with your father. The summer heat makes it nearly impossible to sleep.

The flock don’t share your suffering, for they lie restfully, spread out in small packs across the field.

You think every living thing in this valley will be getting a good night’s rest except for you, until you hear a whine pierce the night air before it’s abruptly cut off.

You sit up. The sheep are already startled awake. Your father has not.

You hear one of the sheep squeal—the sound of animal terror is unmistakable.

You reach for your father’s axe and head down into the valley.

On the edge of the forest, you find it: a wolf is feasting on a carcass. It looks up at you between the tall grass, its muzzle bloody and dripping.

It has no fear of you.

You are shocked at the speed at which it sprints toward you. You’re knocked to the ground. It presses its massive body on top of you and opens its jaws, aiming for your throat.

You raise your axe and the wolf’s jaws snap around the shaft. Your arm reverberates with the impact. The sound of teeth biting into wood rattles your skull. As it tears the weapon from your grip, you find a rock with your other hand and strike it into the beast’s face with all your strength.

It howls. The weight of its body disappears and you stagger to your feet, groping the ground frantically for the axe.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the wolf circle you. Blood trails from an empty eye socket.

From its remaining eyes, there’s only hunger.

It lunges at you one last time. It’s slower. You can anticipate its speed.

You pull back your axe and swing.

A wolf lies dead with your spear through its chest.

You crawl on your knees, searching for the torch you dropped. The light has withered to a mere flame. But just as you reach for it, a shadow descends upon you.

Without thinking, you thrust the torch outward, only for it to be caught mid-swing.

A clawed hand and scarlet eyes emerge from the darkness.

“Impressive,” a voice says, before the fire burns out completely.

A snap of fingers brings the hearth to life.

You blink tears from your eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden light.

A male face stares at you from across the fire. Humanoid. The rest of him is less so. Down his neck and across his shoulders grow black, twisting scale ridges, like armor. Two spindly horns sprout from his head, and a spiked, segmented tail stretches out behind him into the shadows.

And perhaps the strangest detail of his monstrous physique: tendrils of red lines like blood trails creeping towards a concave dip in his sternum. They end a few inches away from the cavity, as if in ambush.

He catches you staring at him and he smiles. “Admiring the scenery?”

You swallow. “Were you watching me the whole time?”

“I was,” he admits. His voice carries an unnatural rumbling sound.

“Why?”

The dragon shrugs. “I was curious. And it would be a rare opportunity for me to save a damsel in distress.”

You scoff. “Not a damsel.”

“No?” His red eyes glow. “They sent you up here to fend for yourself.” His tail brushes against the cavern’s floor. A few coins go scattering.

“You were the one who asked for a mate,” you remind him.

His smile twitches. “I did, didn’t I? Well—” He props his arm up and leans his head against a clawed hand. “—allow me to take full responsibility.”

You glance around the cave. Your spear leans against the wall between you two. In small alcoves, candlelight flickers, lighting up the mountains of gold and priceless treasures. Indeed, the dragon is in no need of riches. You wonder how he acquired all this . . . where he acquired it.

The cavern seems to be part of a larger tunnel system. You notice corridors and crevices leading away from the chamber, paths of gold disappearing into the dark.

The sound of the dragon’s breathing is amplified in the vast cave.

“So what now?” you ask.

“Hmm?” He arches a brow. He assesses you with a predatory intelligence. You feel like an insect under his gaze.

“How does this work?” you clarify, “Do we just . . . you know.”

Understanding hits him and he releases a deep-chested laugh. It startles you. The tip of his tail flicks out, like a horse swatting away flies.

“Do you expect me to pounce on you any minute?” he chuckles. “Don’t flatter yourself, kitten.”

You glower at him. “Then what am I here for?”

“Relax,” he drawls, “There’ll be time for that later. For now, maybe I just want a night of good conversation.”

“You must not have many conversations if you consider this the good kind.”

He scoffs. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

You look away. For a moment, you forgot that you were in the company of a monster. The one from your elders’ stories. Protector of the valley. Dragon in the mountain. You think of the ones who came before you, the one’s who’ll come after.

How many times has he had the same conversation? Do you sit in the same spot as the others, sharing warmth from the same fire?

“I know that look,” says the dragon. Though he speaks to you, he’s looking into the fire. He releases a long sigh before rising from the ground.

Your heart lurches, and you spring to your feet as well.

“Spooked?” He grins at you, but it's colder than the others. You’re sure he can hear the desperate beating of your heart. You can barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You suppress the urge to flinch when he reaches for you.

“I’ll make this quick then.”

His claws catch the light as they swipe across your shoulder. You cry out more in surprise than pain. You stare at the cut he made; it’s no more than a flesh wound.

Your eyes turn back to him, and watch as he licks his claw, tasting your blood.

Your breath catches.

When he swallows, a light ripples across the red lines on his chest. He groans as if in discomfort, but the glow fades as quickly as it appeared.

“There,” he murmurs.

“What?” You stare down at yourself. You realize you’re shaking.

A rustling sound. You look up to see the dragon slink into the darkness, disappearing further into the cave.

“Wait!” you shout after him, “The elders said—they told us—!”

“That I was going to ravish you?” Rippling shadows are your only warning before he’s right in front of you. Heat emits from his body, encompassing you like a warm blanket, better than any fire. “Did your elders say that I would take you to my bed and have my wicked way with you?” He chuckles. His hand trails down your face. Amazed, you feel his claws recede into his skin, leaving only very human fingers to follow the line of your jaw.

You inhale sharply as he grabs your chin and roughly tilts your head up. His eyes shine, as brilliant as a blood moon.

“Or maybe,” he whispers, “You’re one of those.” He leans forward until his cheek brushes yours. “Maybe you want to be ravished by a dragon.”

You feel light-headed. You fear that if you speak you’ll melt into a puddle, or worse, that he’ll laugh at your stuttering attempt at words.

“My forebears promised you a mate,” you manage to say with a steady voice, “Does taking my blood fulfill this promise?”

He considers you for a long moment. You feel his tail brush your leg and you shudder.

“It’s enough,” he says simply.

You don’t know what that means. “So, we’re mated?”

He laughs again, there’s genuine amusement in it. “No, we’re not.”

You frown at him. What game was he playing? You were prepared to face down a predator. You were prepared, even, for cruelty. You thought you knew what the dragon wanted but now you’re not sure.

The dragon certainly didn’t appear . . . in need of a mate. You know what the rams were like when the ewes were in heat, how the male dogs would rut frantically on anything that moved if no females were around to relieve him.

The dragon is nothing like the wild, heat-drunk animal you were expecting. At least, not right now.

“You know,” he begins, voice absent of the sultry tones from before, “the others would have run away by now.”

The admission confuses you.

“Do you really want to know what it means to be a dragon’s mate?” he asks.

“If you promise to let me go after,” you say, “ . . . then yes.”

He regards you with suspicion. An unnatural light emanates from his eyes, reminding you of his power. You would be a fool to raise a weapon against him.

“I’ll need to take more than just your blood,” he tells you at last.

“Do what you must.” You don’t sound confident, but the dragon mercifully doesn’t mention it.

His hands come around your body, one at the small of your back, the other behind your neck. His tail curls around your leg. You suddenly find yourself held secure in his embrace.

The dragon dips his head into the crook of your neck, you feel his breath there, and you understand.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he bites down. His teeth puncture the skin, flooding your throat with a hot, yet numbing pain.

He groans into it. His muscles tense around you, as if expecting that you will resist.

You're struck with the thought that you might be the first person he’s bitten like this.

You quickly perish the notion. Surely he’s claimed a mate before?

His teeth slowly retract from you. Instinctually, his tongue laps at your wound until you can’t feel any pain at all. When you touch the mark, your fingers come away clean.

His focus is solely on you. His gaze is strangely open—vulnerable in a way a predator’s shouldn’t be.

Surely you can’t be the first.

“For as long as this bite remains,” he whispers, “you shall be mine.”

His tail wraps around your body . . . petting you. You start to think it has a mind of its own, but when one of the spines catches on your burned arm, you hiss.

He releases you immediately. His eyes dart all across your body until it lands on your soiled bandages. You’ve forgotten about the injury until now.

“What’s this?” He slowly peels back the wrappings to reveal the welts and blisters that mar your skin. They shine in the fire light, ugly and angry from days of poor care.

“It’s recent,” he states, voice sharpening. There’s a threat of violence to his words.

“It was an accident.” The lie is out your mouth before you can think.

You feel his gaze upon your arm, burning like any fire. You can’t decipher his expression. All you know is that he’s displeased—very displeased.

Then, without a word, he retracts one of his claws and drags it across his other palm. Blood pebbles to the surface.

“What are you—?”

The dragon raises his hand and lets droplets of blood run down your arm. You try to jerk away but he holds you fast.

Your skin starts to tingle, but just as you think he’s harmed you, the blisters start to fade. Your flesh begins to smooth over, replacing the dead and discolored skin.

“It’ll leave a scar,” he says when he’s done.

“. . . Thank you.” You raise your arm to the light. Indeed, the skin is raised and knotted, but the burn looks to be years, rather than days, old. It's incredible.

He’s still frowning when your attention drifts back to him.

“You’re a poor liar,” he says, making you stiffen up once again. His hand ghosts across the mating bite. “Do not attempt it again.”

You hold your breath and nod.

“You should get some rest.” The dragon snaps his fingers and more fires appear down a corridor. “My rut will be upon me in a few days. You’ll have plenty of chances to change your mind before then.”

You ignore that last sentence, choosing instead to ask, “What should I call you?” The silence that follows makes you frown.

“Call me whatever you want,” he answers, “but don’t expect me to respond.”

You see the signs of the rut over the next week.

It’s subtle at first. Until it’s not.

Irritability over the smallest things. Restlessness that has you worried he’s going to cause some damage. He runs his hands across his face and neck as if trying to soothe himself. There’s now a constant flush to his skin, radiating a mild feverish heat.

You expect him to give into his urges immediately. Instead, you watch him isolate himself further in the caves.

You don’t understand. Are you not a proper mate for him?

He hides himself from you. When you enter the main chamber, he makes himself scarce. He doesn’t let you touch him.

He hunts. A lot.

He returns every few hours with a new kill. Deer. Boar. Moose. Even bears.

“No sheep?” You watch him closely.

He gives you a strange look. “Too fatty for my liking.”

From the increasingly large stores of food, it becomes apparent that the dragon will be incapable of hunting when his rut truly hits.

Every once in a while, the mating bite burns. It’s hottest when you’re trying to sleep. Over in the next cave, you hear the dragon pace.

Frustrated and bored, you get up and make your way to his chamber.

“Ataraxys,” you say.

He stops his pacing and turns to you, face scrunched in bewilderment. “What?”

“Mandrikor,” you offer, “maybe Rhadamanth?”

He scoffs. “These names couldn’t get more ridiculous if you tried.”

“How about Onychinus?”

“I spoke too soon.” He sighs.

You share a beat of silence. In one corner of the room is a bed—or rather a nest. Blankets, pillows, and furs are tossed haphazardly into a gigantic pile. Along the walls are shelves carved into the stone, full of books.

You study the dragon. His condition only seems to be worsening, yet he hasn’t come for you. You stopped wondering that he’ll order you to lie with him and instead assumed that he’ll just hunt you down and take you where he finds you.

Neither scenario happens.

You never expected him to be gentle like the boys from your village, timid and sweet as they were. He’s a dragon after all, with all the natural instincts to mate like one. You prepared yourself as much as you can, you even tried to be . . . enticing.

You find his abstinence to be a wholly different kind of beast.

Tonight, however, he seems more pliant to your company. When you reach for him, he doesn’t pull away. The dim candlelight carves his face into hard, unyielding edges. Even as his eyes soften when you touch him.

You’re about to spin out another list of names when he says, “You can still change your mind. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

His tone is unbothered, but his mark burns hotter than ever.

“What about this?” You brush away your hair to expose your neck.

He looks away. “It’s just a bite. It’ll fade with time.”

So much for dragons mating for life.

“You need a mate,” you remind him, “isn’t that what you always ask for?”

You swallow your hurt when he frees himself from your touch. “I don’t need you,” he growls, “I never have.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your anger surprises both of you. “I watch you. You prowl around frustrated and in pain. For hours you avoid me and the mark burns.”

The dragon flinches when you mention the bite.

“Am I so unappealing?” you press him, “Is that why you deny yourself?”

He closes his eyes as if in agony. He likely is. “You need to leave before you regret this,” he pants, “before you can’t stop me.”

You weigh your options. The dragon is holding onto the remaining threads of self-control, and yet, you are not afraid.

“If you’re still giving me a choice, then I have time to change my mind.” You reach for him. “Right now, I want to be here with you.”

It’s probably the pre-rut that makes him acquiesce. Regardless, he accepts your touch and does not pull away from it again.

An almost unbearable heat envelops you. You try to turn over and find that you can’t.

The dragon lies above you, trapping you beneath his massive hybrid body. Neither of you are wearing clothes.

His cock is red and weeping between you two. Like the rest of him, black ridges run along his length. You wonder if they’re just as sensitive.

The dragon’s face is pressed against your throat, mouthing at your mating bite. Tiny moans escape his throat as he gently rocks against you, spreading your legs even wider.

He still hasn’t taken you.

“Dragon,” you moan. You run a hand through his hair, silver and thick like a wolf’s pelt. Your fingers brush the base of his horns and you hear him gasp and feel his hips snap against you.

When his eyes meet yours, however, there is only pain.

“This will not be pleasant for you,” he rasps, “once we begin, I will not be able to stop.”

You study his flushed body, his ragged breaths, and solemn eyes. You try to find the violent, rabid creature the elders warned you about, but all you’re met with is a question.

One last chance to back out.

You close the distance between you two, and whisper, “Then don’t.”

Ch 2

Can also be read on ao3!

#sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #fanfic #dragon sylus #ao3 #love and deepspace #l&ds fic #eventual smut #qin che #sylus fic

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azrielmasterlist · 1 month ago

Text

His Shadows & Their Starlight

Storyline:-(Ver.2.0) Azriel is sitting next to Elain as you sit by the fireplace reading. You've been staying with Azriel, Cassian, and Rhysand for the past two months in Velaris. You're a mortal but Rhysand says you have different abilities that no mortal should be able to have. For example, winnowing or teleporting. Azriel is in love with Elain Archeron even though Elain already has a mate.

Word count:- 1.7k

Warnings:- Insecurity, Lonliness, Jealousy, Angst.

Series:- Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Chapter 4: The Shadow's Embrace

Isla's POV

The weight of Velaris pressed against me, invisible yet suffocating.

It wasn’t the city itself—Velaris was beautiful, a sanctuary carved out of light and dreams. It was the expectations, the constant reminder that I was living in a world far beyond my own. Powers I didn’t understand coursed through me, untamed and unpredictable. Most days, I felt like a child stumbling through the dark, reaching for something solid but finding only shadows.

And yet, it was the shadows that seemed to understand me the most.

Azriel’s shadows had become a constant presence in my life. They moved around me like silent sentinels, their dark tendrils curling in ways that felt almost… affectionate. They offered a solace I didn’t think I deserved, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t as alone as I felt.

But Azriel himself—he was another story.

I found him in the training yard one morning, his back to me as he worked through a series of precise movements with his blades. His wings flared slightly with each strike, the muscles in his back rippling under the soft light of dawn.

For a moment, I simply watched him, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“Are you going to stand there all morning?” His voice was low, tinged with the faintest hint of amusement.

I flushed, stepping into the open. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Azriel lowered his blades, turning to face me. His expression was unreadable, as always, but his shadows stirred at the edges of his form, shifting like they were pleased to see me.

“You’re up early,” he said, his tone neutral.

I shrugged, wrapping my arms around myself. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without a word, he gestured for me to join him.

Training with Azriel was… intense. He didn’t coddle me, didn’t treat me like the fragile mortal everyone else seemed to see. He pushed me, challenging me to face my fears and my limits.

But today, I wasn’t up for it.

Halfway through our session, I dropped to the ground, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. “I can’t,” I said, my voice cracking.

Azriel stood over me, his brow furrowed. “You’re stronger than this, Isla.”

“Am I?” The words came out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t care. “Because I don’t feel strong. I feel lost. Like I don’t belong here. Like I’m drowning.”

For a moment, Azriel said nothing. Then, slowly, he crouched down in front of me, his shadows curling around us like a protective cocoon.

“You’re not drowning,” he said softly. “You’re learning how to swim.”

The words hit me harder than I expected, and before I could stop myself, tears filled my eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered.

Azriel didn’t respond, but his shadows moved closer, brushing against my skin like a gentle caress. I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. It was like being held, like being wrapped in a warmth I hadn’t realized I needed.

For the first time in weeks, I felt safe.

But when I opened my eyes, Azriel was gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way his shadows had comforted me, the way they seemed to know exactly what I needed.

It wasn’t just the shadows, though. It was Azriel himself. He was distant, yes, but there was a depth to him that I couldn’t ignore. A quiet strength that drew me in, even when he tried to push me away.

I found him in the library later, sitting alone at a table with a book in his hands. His shadows were restless, shifting and curling around him like they couldn’t decide whether to settle or flee.

“Am I interrupting?” I asked, hesitating at the edge of the room.

Azriel looked up, his expression guarded. “No.”

I took a deep breath, crossing the room to sit across from him. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?”

“For earlier,” I said, meeting his gaze. “For being there when I needed someone.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” I insisted. “You didn’t have to stay, but you did. And your shadows…” I trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.

Azriel’s gaze snapped back to mine, something flickering in his eyes. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not their place.”

His words stung, but I refused to back down. “Maybe it’s not their place, but they did it anyway. And I’m grateful for it.”

Azriel shook his head, standing abruptly. His shadows swirled around him, agitated. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, standing as well. “Help me understand.”

He turned away, his wings tensing. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you make me feel things I’m not supposed to feel!”

The words burst out of him, raw and unguarded. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his confession hanging between us.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“Neither did I,” I said softly.

Azriel’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Before I could respond, he was gone, his shadows trailing behind him like a dark tide.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

In the days that followed, I found myself avoiding him, unsure of how to face the emotions his words had stirred within me. But his shadows—they didn’t seem to understand the concept of distance.

They were always there, always reaching for me in moments of quiet. They were my comfort, my solace, even when their master couldn’t be.

Slowly, I began to realize that they weren’t just shadows.

They were Azriel’s heart, laid bare in a way he couldn’t bring himself to show.

I didn’t know what it meant, this connection we shared. But I knew one thing for certain: I wasn’t ready to let it go.

Taglist:-

@donnadiddadog @wintersquirrel @rcarbo1 @onebadassunicorn-blog

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catboydreamer · 2 months ago

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“you need to let him go” Scaramouche x reader

author notes: prerelationship, deals with themes of an abusive relationship between reader and current partner, can be read as platonic or as showing developing feelings but it’s up to you:) it’s purely self indulgent so ye:)

he watches from afar, giving you space and time. even as he watches the light fall from your eyes. even as he sees your shoulders straighten when he’s around. how small you try to make yourself.

and yet, the opposing man tries to say he loves you dearly.

Scaramouche always narrows his eyes, not believing it for a minute. and yet, you’ve told him to not interfere. he sees no reason for it but listens regardless.

but… things become dangerous.

Scaramouche was still awake at one am. of course he was. a book lay on his lap as he lazily read through the text, mostly trying to pass time. he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t thinking of you.

there’s a soft knock on the door. it’s followed by a much harsher knock. Scaramouche jumps up, grumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

when he swings open the door, he doesn’t expect to see you. then, he sees a larger shadow out there. he pushes you into the house and walks out. he knew exactly who it was.

“you know what? you aren’t welcome here. I don’t give two shits if they want you here or not, I’m not allowing it. I’ll drop them off when this is all over.”

“you can’t fucking talk to me like that. I didn’t do shit to you?!”

“I’m not a blind man. I can see what you’ve done to them. So get. out. “

with that, Scaramouche turns on his heel and slams his door shut. it vibrates throughout the house.

you’re drenched in water from the rain. you insisted on walking all the way here and he followed you.

immediately, he grabs your arm and drags you to the bathroom.

“shower. now.”

he slams the door behind him and marches to his bedroom. his hands tremble over giving you his own clothes to wear. he’s unsure if the pants will fit properly but he knows there’s a drawstring so at the very least you can tighten it.

his palms are sweaty as he makes his way back to the bathroom. he knocks on the door before yelling, “I GOT YOUR CLOTHES.”

he puts a hand over his face as he opens the door. it’s super steamy in the bathroom already. as he collects your wet clothes off the floor he grumbles, “tch. don’t burn your skin off.”

he runs your clothes through the washer and dryer for you

by the time all is done, you are emerging from the bathroom. he still works at his previous task of putting the kettle on.

some warm tea will help relax you a bit, surely.

you slowly walk into the kitchen, cautiously.

Scaramouche doesn’t even turn around, simply speaks, “you’re welcome here. there’s no use in being shy.”

you sigh as you sit at the table. a shell of your previous self. the one he grew to know so easily.

“I’m sorry for coming by so late,” your voice comes out low.

you hate the person you are right now. but you’re starting to resent himmore.

Scaramouche shot you a glare just as the tea kettle started wheezing. he quickly pours the water into an empty cup and pops a tea bag in. he stirs it together. carrying it over to you felt easy and simple .

your hands go to cup the tea, enjoying the warmth radiating off of the cup.

“I guess I’ll start with why I’m here,” you pause to take in a deep breath, “he asked me to go with him to go live with his mother. the war over there finally subsided and apparently it’s time to go home. I told him no, and he screamed at me. endlessly for a minute. I locked myself in my bathroom for at least fifteen minutes as he taunted me on the other side. by the time I gathered my courage to get out I already knew I was going to come see you. I don’t know why but I felt out of everyone you would get it the most. you could say… I felt safest telling you.”

you were trembling by the time you finished speaking. unbeknownst to you, tears streamed down your face.

Scaramouche stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed. he moved from his spot and kneels in front of you so you could see him face to face.

“you need to leave that bastard. now. and pray to god I never get my hands on that motherfucker.”

you felt stone cold. you knew what needed to be done but only fear ran through you.

“what if he tries to tell our friends I was the abuser?”

“if they listen to that scumbag they don’t deserve you anyways,” scaramouche spits out angrily.

he takes your hand into his, “seriously. he is going to hurt you, and I cannot let that happen. do you understand?”

you nod but gulp roughly. “I’m scared.”

A hint of a smile appears on his face. “I know. I can come with you if it’ll make you feel safer.”

you nod vigorously.

Scaramouche lets out a tiny laugh and stands up. he runs a hand through your hair before offering a hand to you. “Ready to get this shit over with?”

the both of you go over to your soon to be ex’s house.

Scaramouche waits outside of his car, ready to be there if it gets out of hand. he expects that it will.

here’s how it goes:

you break the news to your boyfriend that you are done with him.

he starts crying and pleading. you refuse to be empathetic. this angers him and he gets aggressive.

you back away from him.

he threatens to harm himself, if there’s no you then nothing matters.

you finally have the strength to roll your eyes and walk out the door.

he follows you out, ready to grab onto you and pull you back until his eyes scan the driveway and see Scaramouche standing there, leaning against his car.

“you dare to touch her and you’ll be on the ground so fucking fast.”

your ex scoffs, he was clearly bigger than Scaramouche so he didn’t believe it.

big mistake. Scaramouche was across the lawn within three seconds, an iron grip on his wrist.

“I said. don’t. touch. her.”

Scaramouche released him and he scurried into the house.

Scaramouche turns to you, who looks at him in awe.

in a gentle tone you didn’t know he possessed he asks you, “you okay?”

you nod. “I just want to go home now, please.”

you aren’t even upset about losing all your items all of it is replaceable.

Scaramouche drives you back to his house but not without sneaking glances at you to make sure you are truly okay.

he will slowly breath life back into you.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #kunikuzushi #scara #scaramouche #scaramouche comfort #scaramouche x reader

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iolypse · 22 days ago

Text

hi hi is anyone interested in potentially beta-ing for a drv3 chapter 5 fic? it's a hanahaki au in which kokichi kidnaps shuichi instead of kaito, and it makes all the difference

snippet of the first chapter below

"Hey," Ouma calls, dragging Shuichi from the memory. "I won't ask a third time. Strawberry or lemon?"

Shuichi's thoughts snag on the idea of open cuts and lemon juice. "... Strawberry?"

Ouma clicks his silver tongue. "That's too bad! I actually only have lemon."

The door swings open with such a force that it hits the wall and bounces closed behind Ouma, who skips inside clutching a colorful bag. He unceremoniously drops onto the ground, sitting criss-cross, and spills the bag's contents all over the floor. Wrapped pieces of candy scatter across the tiles— one with a cute pink design bumps Shuichi's foot. A lie. Of course it was a lie, but why lie about that?

Ouma promptly begins to sort the candy into piles; grape, strawberry, and lemon, judging by the colors. Shuichi takes him in while he works.

He's sectioning them in groups of five like pills, though his hands shake almost imperceptibly— he only notices because Ouma misses one and only gathers four, and the brief furrowing of his brow makes Shuichi certain it's a mistake. The sides of his pinkies— both pinkies, Shuichi notes, what has he been writing so much of that he has to switch hands when one begins to cramp?— are stained with ink, and his nails are practically bitten down to their beds. The bags weighing at his eyes are dark and heavy. Ouma is pale, paler than he normally is, and it's not the poor lighting of the bathroom diluting him, either. Shuichi can't help but think he looks sickly.

"Poisoning these was so annoying, you know," Ouma drawls, not looking up from his task. His voice holds a harsher rasp than usual, like he's hiding blades in his throat. "I had to unwrap and then rewrap every single piece! Do you know how time-consuming that was? It took forever. You better be grateful. I'd make you get down on your knees and lick my shoes if I weren't feeling so generous right now."

Shuichi takes the piece at his foot. The packaging crinkles as he rolls it between his fingers. As far as he can tell, it was never opened— there's no signs that the wrapper was resealed, and he can't find any holes Ouma might've poked with a syringe, either. Satisfied, he peels open the taffy and pops it into his mouth. Strawberry, as promised. Artificial.

"So, Saihara-chan!" Before Ouma are three piles, and Shuichi can't help but notice that the grape pile has half of either of the other piles. He sweeps the grape pile towards himself with an arm, then rolls the strawberry and lemon piles to Shuichi. "What's it like being my prisoner? Five stars? Eleven out of ten? Tell me! I wanna know!"

Shuichi blinks. "Uh. Two stars, I guess?" He tugs at his bangs. Conversing with Ouma is always a challenge— he's volatile, and when his eyes begin to fill with tears, Shuichi is quick to add, "I mean— I'm not exactly here willingly, Ouma-kun. You, ah, you did kidnap me. But you haven't hurt me, so it's not too bad? Maybe three stars?" He winces. Nice save.

"Oh?" Ouma tilts his head, tears gone in a blink. The action casts a shadow across his face, and the narrowing of his eyes, the constricting of his pupils, tells Shuichi he means business. "Does Saihara-chan want me to hurt him? Would that make the experience better?"

"No! Ah, no, that's— not what I meant. I'd really prefer if you didn't, actually." He swallows, heart jackrabbiting in his chest, and it's almost painful. "Thank you for the candy." Shuichi tries his chances with one of the lemon pieces and immediately regrets it. Ouma giggles at the puckered expression he makes, happily chewing his own grape taffy. There's a growing pile of empty purple wrappers in his lap.

The following silence is neither comfortable nor suffocating. There's no conversation, just the crinkling of candy packaging and Ouma obnoxiously smacking his lips every time he eats a new piece. Shuichi should be acting right now. Although Ouma's sitting right in front of the door, his back pressed against it, Shuichi's fairly certain he could get up fast enough to dive past him, but what then? He doesn't know what Ouma has done to the rest of the hangar, and he definitely couldn't reach an exit before Ouma sicced the exisals on him— even Momota's training couldn't prepare him for that. Maybe he could fight him for the remote, but Ouma's slippery, and between the assortment of items he holds on his person, Shuichi isn't sure which pocket he's keeping it in.

It's an ultimately useless endeavor. Shuichi resolves to choke down more strawberry taffy in lieu of hatching an escape plan. He'll have to bide his time, wait for more information, an opportunity. He wonders, casting a sideways glance towards the small window casting light into the bathroom, when Momota will visit him again.

#danganronpa #danganronpa fanfiction #danganronpa v3 #killing harmony #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #saiouma #oumasai #hanahaki au

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youssefguedira · 22 days ago

Note

I wish you would write a fic about irreconcilable artistic differences on a movie set between Joe and Nicky.

not really irreconciliable as in not solvable at all but you know i had fun with this

Joe squeezes his eyes shut, covering his face with both hands, and leans forward. His shoulders tremble uncontrollably. He takes a short, sharp breath, and another, and another, but he can’t quite seem to get enough into his lungs. There’s a lump in his throat and a weight in his stomach. He leans forward with a low, wounded sound and–

“Cut,” Nicky says softly. Then, because it takes Joe a second to hear him: “Joe, stop.”

Slowly, Joe raises his head. Wipes at his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. Nicky’s already up, frowning ever so slightly as he looks at the camera.

“What is it this time?” Joe manages. His voice is hoarse; he has to clear his throat once or twice. Nicky doesn’t look up. The clock on the nightstand reads 01.34, but Nicky’s changed it a few times over the course of the shoot. He has no clue what time it really is, only that it’s dark outside.

It’s just the two of them in the room. Nicky had wanted to keep this one small, just him and Joe and the camera. The apartment they’re in is nice, if a little empty, though Joe supposes that’s the point. They’re in the bedroom, Joe sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirtless, sheets bunched up over his lap, a phone lying on the nightstand behind him. One entire wall of the room is taken up by a floor-to-ceiling window which lets the moonlight in, though there’s a few low lights set up behind Nicky to send bars of silver light across the bed, because the natural light hadn’t quite been strong enough for the effect Nicky wanted. It’s otherworldly; it’s beautiful.

Nicky still isn’t looking at him, so Joe says again, “What?” It comes out a little harsher than he means it to, but it gets Nicky’s attention.

Nicky runs one hand through his hair. Joe can’t see him well, not with the light behind him and the shadows in the room. “I don’t know,” Nicky says. “It’s missing something.”

Joe has worked with Nicky enough times before. It’s not that he doesn’t like working with him - they’re friends - but he can’t fucking read him, and so after the sixth take of the same scene he can’t help but take it a little personally.

Joe reaches for the bottle of water hidden just under the bed and takes a long drink, mostly to keep himself from snapping. What time is it? “I can try again, but I can’t do this indefinitely, Nicky.”

“I know, I know,” Nicky says, fidgeting again with the camera, “it’s not you, it’s just–”

“What else could it be?” Joe interrupts. He’s not stupid. This scene doesn’t work if he can’t get it right, which means the entire film doesn’t work if he can’t get it right. More than anything else, this one depends on him. No music, no camera movement, no dialogue, nothing but him and the camera. And he wants to do it right, he loves this project almost as much as Nicky does, but there’s a hollow feeling in his chest and he’s spent the last however-many-hours having a near-complete breakdown over and over again and it’s still not right. And Joe doesn’t know what it is he’s doing wrong.

“I don’t know,” Nicky says quietly. Now he is looking at Joe, and Joe can’t tell if he’s disappointed, or angry, or – or what. He’s perfectly expressionless, as always.

Joe loves this job. And he wants to get this right. But it doesn’t mean it’s not one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, and he’s tired.

“I don’t have much more left in me, Nicky,” he says, and this time he does snap. He wipes at his eyes again, can’t look at Nicky. He’s supposed to be making himself vulnerable, above all in this scene, but suddenly he can’t stand the way Nicky’s looking at him. “Pass me my hoodie.”

“Joe–”

“I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.” He kicks the sheets off and gets tangled trying to do it, grabs his hoodie when Nicky offers it, pulls it over his head in one fluid motion and gets out of there as soon as he can. Thankfully, there’s only Andy and Nile in the other room, Andy lying back on the couch with her feet up and Nile perched on the arm of it. They both look up at Joe as he enters, both look like they’re about to ask, and Joe can’t stand it, can’t be in here a second longer, can’t–

“We are done for the day, I think,” Nicky says behind him, startling Joe. He hadn’t realised Nicky was there.

Andy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. It’s already the second day of trying to shoot this scene: they’re running the risk of falling behind schedule.

“We’ll find something else to do tomorrow,” Nicky says. “I’ll look over everything tonight. We will try this again on Monday.”

Andy and Nile look at each other. Nile shrugs.

“Get some rest, Joe,” Nicky says.

Joe shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t say a word.

–--------------------------------

He doesn’t get called in the next day at all, and he doesn’t interrogate it too closely. Takes the day off, pretty much, because they’ve only really got one scene left to film, and there’s not much more he can do for that. Nicky had wanted to leave it to the last, and Joe had agreed, at the time.

At about nine pm, someone knocks on his hotel room door, which is unusual on a day where they don’t have a night shoot to do. When he opens it, Nicky is on the other side. Joe lets him in without a word.

“I wanted to apologise,” Nicky says, standing in the middle of the room and looking as uncomfortable as Joe’s ever seen him. “For last night. I was pushing you too hard, and I should not have done.”

Joe closes the door behind him. Nicky fidgets with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Sit down,” Joe says.

Nicky does, settling himself on the edge of Joe’s bed, not quite looking him in the eye. Joe joins him, after a moment.

“At the risk of sounding cliche,” Nicky says, “it’s not you, it’s me.”

Joe laughs, mostly because the phrase sounds so strange coming from Nicky and also because out of everything he’d thought Nicky might say, he hadn’t expected that.

Nicky smiles slightly, too. Then he gets up and heads for the minibar. “Mind if I have a drink?”

Joe shakes his head. Nicky gets out a little bottle of wine, glances at the label, and takes a swig straight from the bottle without bothering to get a glass.

“I can’t seem to get it right,” Nicky says. “You know I wrote almost fifteen different versions of that scene?”

The scene in the script itself is barely a page long. “No,” Joe says.

Nicky nods. Rubs a hand over his face. “I wanted it to feel real. I thought if I could get it right, it would… help, somehow. I don’t know.”

It’s the exact same reason Joe said yes before he even read the script, when the whole thing was just an idea in Nicky’s head, when they were talking about it over drinks at Andy’s and Joe was in love with the idea almost immediately. He knew exactly why Nicky was writing it; he knows, now, exactly why it needs to be right. But at the same time – “I don’t know if that’s possible, Nicky.”

Nicky sighs. “I know.” He crosses back over to sit beside Joe again, takes another drink from the bottle. “But there is something missing, and I cannot seem to find it. And so it does not feel real. And I know this is not easy for you.”

“It’s not,” Joe says plainly.

“But you know,” Nicky continues, “I could not have trusted anyone with this but you. If you had not said yes, I would not have done this.”

That, Joe didn’t know: he knows he’d been Nicky’s first choice, but he’d assumed that’s because they know each other well enough already. But it makes sense: the reason Nicky wrote the script is the same thing they’d bonded over.

Even still, it’s a lot. “I don’t know if I can do it the way you want,” Joe says.

Nicky looks up at him from where he’s been running his fingers over the label on the bottle absentmindedly. “If you want to stop, I can–”

“No,” Joe says quickly. “But I don’t think it’s ever going to be exactly the way you felt.”

Nicky looks away. “It is a lot to ask,” he says. “I know this.”

Joe doesn’t think; just reaches over and takes Nicky’s hand. “I know,” he says. “Trust me.”

Nicky takes a deep breath. Then he nods. "Okay."

#neon answers #materassassino #neon writes #the old guard #kaysanova #DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY (me): not at ALL a realistic portrayal of anything actually but this is about the vibes #this was originally gonna be a 2 person scene where both of them were actors #but a i dont know shit abt acting ive never done it. i HAVE however been a director all of one time which didnt really relate to this but #its more than 0 experience. anyway i was thinking about the level of trust in that relationship #i.e. joe trusting nicky to let himself be entirely vulnerable on camera like that and trusting that nicky knows what hes looking for #and in this case nicky trusting joe to take care of a story that is heavily based on his own experience #this isnt long because i drafted it at 1am then wrote the rest while ignoring my essay but . nicky cant quite let it go and joe cant manage #to let himself break down completely on camera like that. presumably after this they get it in one take #joe wins several awards and the film does super well. or it doesnt thats not the point #its abt making something to deal with personal experience #the film in question being about rebuilding yourself after moving to a different country with no ties left to where you came from #+ the scene here being a post-phone call/rejection of phone call meltdown in which the loneliness gets to be a bit much #in my head nicky never went through this Specifically but it's more of an externalisation/dramatisation of something that did happen.#anyway you know early tog metas abt joe being the more overtly emotional one and nicky acting as a balancing force bc joe feels stuff for #both of them. or maybe i made that up. anyway thats what this is #ten points if you can work out my Cinematic Influences #they are patently obvious i think

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cr4yolaas · 6 months ago

Text

the night shift — warmth

day 1 | masterlist | interlude 0.1

now playing: behind the moon shadow by lamp

kageyama watches as she rings up the last group of teenaged boys, the surplus of energy drinks and candies and chips failing to concern him. he thinks of her in her drunken, vulnerable, and giggly state, and her now, shielded and strong-eyed. the difference is evident in her stance, in her posture, in her tone. the group filters out and the jingle of the door marks the end of the night shift.

they follow their usual routine -- wiping down counters, taking note of stock, shutting off the heater -- and they move in tandem as they do so.

except, this time, she waits at the door.

"what are you doing?" he asks. his voice cracks ever so slightly.

she laughs at him, the noise filled with a heavy warmth that he finds unfamiliar. "waiting for you, of course. did you forget i was treating you tonight?"

he wants to tell her that he could never forget. that it never left his mind the entire shift. instead, he mutters, "a little, yeah."

again, she laughs, and it's whole. a far cry from what he perceived of her before, based on the cold shoulder she'd given him months prior.

the lights flicker off behind them, just like last night and every other night. she lifts a hand to her eyes to protect from tonight's harsher winds, with a sheepish admission that she doesn't quite have the funds to get something for either of them. "is it alright if we head to my place, instead? i can make you something," she offers.

he nods faster than he should.

——

it's awkward.

the lamps scattered around the house illuminate the kitchen and the dining table where he sits with his hands folded neatly on his lap and his leg bouncing up and down incessantly. despite all the uncomfortable silence, he feels a warmth that he hadn't experienced in a long, long while. maybe it's the air, he thinks, or the lighting, or the steam rising from her bubbling pot. but he doesn't think of comfort.

she stands over the stove with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her weight shifted to one leg. two packs of ramen reside on the counter beside her, both ripped open with tiny remnants of uncooked noodles. he watches her crack an egg in with one hand, then another egg with another hand. the pot stirs, and the water boils some more before simmering down to rest.

"spicy foods are great for winter, you know. helps to keep warm," she shares, an attempt at loosening the tension. her slippers click against the floor as she nears with the pot in her hands. the burning red hue of the soup and the assortment of vegetables reminds him of a meal from home.

the silence is less tense when they eat. they take turns as they pick up their own portions, her bites mirroring his. she chuckles at the pink spreading across his face from the heat, a mindless comment about his spice tolerance spilling from her lips naturally, and he can't find it in himself to argue with her. kenma's voice rings out in the background, and neither of them pay any mind to it.

a thought lingers in the air — whether or not he'd be in her house if it weren't for that accidental call. they don't want to dwell on it. good food is a good enough distraction.

"do you do anything outside of work?" the question disrupts the silence. he tears his eyes away from the meal and looks to her.

"volleyball. i play volleyball most of the time."

at that, she releases a hum and a nod, and he can't tell what it means. "yachi told me about that," she begins, her statement cut off by her own slurps. "why not go pro?"

he pauses. it's a simple question, but any semblance of an answer falls flat on his tongue.

it takes a moment before he responds. "i want to focus on myself first."

she can hear the bitterness behind it.

it's quiet again. they each take their last bites and the pot sits on the table completely empty, drained of all that it once had. together, they stack the collection of dishes up into a neat pile before she takes them to the sink, the water turning on and serving as white noise. porcelain clinks against metal in random bouts, and the warmth of the meal settles into sleepiness.

"what about you?" kageyama inquires, both an attempt to avoid silence and to keep himself awake.

"i don't have anything else to do outside of work."

her answer is instantaneous, a stark contrast to his, but similarly, it bears a hint of discontent. she bites the skin of her lower lip to redirect herself. "not that i really need anything else. or want anything else, for that matter. at least right now."

there's more to it. they both know that. but he glances at the clock hung atop one of the many lamps and realizes it's far too late to stay any longer. she jokes about how she couldn't care less, and it's natural. it flows.

the door closes behind him. she stands in the center of the living room with something heavy in her chest.

ᡣ𐭩 a lot of this smau is going to be convos between the frolickers gc bc i love them sm and they make everything feel natural

ᡣ𐭩 yams and yachi had the worst shift of their LIFE. an old lady came in and ordered the most complicated drink and when they couldnt get it down she started cursing them out </333

ᡣ𐭩 kageyama has a bad (?) habit of observing yn all the time. i hope it doesnt come off as stalker-ish i just think he’s a very analytical / people-watching person 😭

ᡣ𐭩 yn made shin ramen 😄😄

ᡣ𐭩 kags has an okay spice tolerance. he won’t throw up and die from spice but he will get super red and sweaty

ᡣ𐭩 i actually have no idea if i said this before but since new grounds and the convenience store are on the same street, yn and yachi tend to meet up during their breaks to talk and hang out !! they love gossiping about anything and everything hence why yn knew about kageyama’s vb stuff

ᡣ𐭩 similar to yn with kuroo and kenma, the frolickers gc is kag’s support system. he tries not to doubt their concern. he’s also just very avoidant so they try not to pry too much 😭😭

ᡣ𐭩 i hope this chapter was cutesy and nostalgic and warm and everything else that reminds you of home !! thats the vibe i was going for ^_^

taglist: @causenessus @strawberryuri @iiwaijime @savemebrazilhinata @tiramizuloz @conrad4life13 @wyrcan @zazathezaer @nperoconelcositoarriba @cupidsblonde @winniethepooh-lover

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miasmal-sweetness · 9 months ago

Text

Eye Level

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

My brain is currently refusing to cooperate and work on any other writing until I spit out my dumb little one-shot with my favorite trope (size differences) with one of my favorite demons. So here ya go. Hopefully I’ll be back to writing out my planned Cloud fics afterwards.

Eye Level

Summary: Alastor x reader. 4.1k. You're short. You know it, everyone at the hotel knows it. You've assumed that it's some sort of divine punishment for whatever sins you committed while alive, but it's really not so bad, as long as no one hides your step-stool. Today, you've found a new problem with it, though, when you try to get a little closer to your favorite 7-foot-tall demon.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dead dove do not eat, size difference (reader reaches Alastor’s hips), smut, reader is gender-neutral with reference to having a vagina, reader wears a dress and bloomers, Alastor being sadistic, reader being a masochist, Alastor calls you “good girl” because I’m a sucker for it

The red light of the sky outside is bleeding in to the hotel, burning your eyes and causing an ache in your head. You want to shut it out, but Niffty is busy cleaning all the windows. Rubbing your right temple, you shift on the couch in an attempt to angle yourself away from the worst of the light as you continue to read your book. The words on the page seem harsher than before against the rough, yellowed pages. In addition to Earth’s actual sunlight, you also find yourself missing the convenience of heading out to the pharmacy to pickup some painkillers that weren’t illicit substances.

“Something the matter, dearest?”

You lift your head at the sound of Alastor’s voice. He’s blocking the light as he stands in front of you, his long shadow easing the pain in your head. You have to crane your neck to look at his smiling face, but you’re used to it at this point.

“Oh, I just have a headache,” you say with a light shrug. “I’m okay. How are you doing?”

“Wonderful as always, darling,” he assures. “Why don’t you join me for a cup of coffee upstairs? I’ve found it works like a charm for a headache.”

You perk up at the thought. It’s a little late in the day to have coffee, but you’re not one to turn down a drink and a snack with Alastor. You take care of most of the cooking for the hotel, since Niffty took over your old job of cleaning, so having something made by another person is a nice treat. Plus, he’s good company—he’s the most polite person you think you’ll ever meet in Hell.

“I’d love to,” you say, sliding off of the couch. You smooth out your dress and tuck your book under your arm; you can finish it another time. Your certain that if you were taller, Alastor would do the gentlemanly thing you see him do with others and link arms with you, but that’s not really possible at your height. Instead, he leads the way by engulfing your little hand with his.

You’re barely focused on the small-talk he makes with you as he guides you up the stairs. His gloves are smooth, and you can feel his claws tickling the skin on your wrist and hand. You know that, as much as Alastor enjoys invading other people’s personal space, he does not enjoy allowing others in to his personal space. Despite this, he has been rather open to your presence; picking you up, holding your hand, ruffling your hair. It feels nice. It makes you feel special—like he’s bestowing an honor on you just by patting you on the head, one that the others don’t get.

You nearly trip over a step, and it snaps you out of your thoughts. Alastor stops you from hitting the ground by extending his arm, letting you put your weight on him for balance.

“Careful, dearest,” he chides, “I’m not always here to catch you.”

Your headache is back, caused by the heat rushing to your face and chest. “Right, thank you,” you mumble, ducking your head. “I-I was just thinking.”

“About what?” You should have seen that coming.

Your eyes dart around as he guides you towards his room. “Uh, j-just—the book you lent me,” you spit out. “I’m almost finished with it. It’s really good.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says, holding open the door for you. “It’s not often I meet another down here that enjoys a good book.”

You smile and step in to his room—immediately, you’re hit by the scent of paper, candles, wood that is well-cared for, and decaying leaves and other plant matter. You know his room changes. You know that what you see is different from what the others see when they enter. You’ve heard them mention the swamp that makes up half of the room, often complete with a decaying deer. Every time he has invited you in, however, it has been nothing other than a lovely room that looks like it belongs in some fancy townhome from the 1920s.

Just another thing that makes you feel special.

“If you have a favorite book, I’d love to read it,” you suggest as you slip out of your shoes.

Alastor’s grin grows even wider than usual. “Really? Well, I’ll have to think about it; I have quite a few in my collection that I favor.” It’s a lie, an excuse to put this off for later. There’s something he doesn’t want you to see. You can sense it, deep down in your gut, but you ignore it. He’s always shielded your eyes from the bad—from the gore of Hell, from those that would try to take advantage of you, even from some of the arguments among the others. This is no different.

Moving on from the topic, Alastor snaps his fingers, and a tray of coffee and small snacks appear on his dining table. He’s added cream and sugar for you; he doesn’t understand your sweet-tooth, but he does indulge it.

“Oh, and a treat for you, little one.”

He snaps his fingers again, and when you next blink your eyes, you find that a dish has appeared on the tray. It’s a slice of cake—the same you remember ogling outside the bakery window the last time you went outside the hotel. The hotel doesn’t offer payment for your services, so your measly pocket change was not enough to get it. He must have noticed your longing for that delicious, soft piece of cake. You don’t even remember the last time you had the luxury of cake. The last time was probably when you were alive, and you have the feeling it was one of those store-bought cakes that are dry and covered in thick, sickeningly sweet icing.

This cake is fancy. This cake is fluffy and standing tall, covered in berries and whipped cream with just the right amount of sweetness. And most of all—it means that Alastor paid that much attention to you on a silly outing that he didn’t need to be a part of.

“Thank you, Alastor!”

You throw out your arms and wrap them around him. It’s a chance as good as any. The closest you have come to hugging him is when he’s picked you up and carried you around like a doll. Surely a gift like this means he would be okay with it—although, the second you touch him, you realize you’re probably reading a little too much in to a slice of cake, and maybe it’s because you forgot to eat lunch.

Your arms wrapped around his legs, your feet in between his. And now you remember just how short you are compared to him. Normally, you’re either staring at the ground or you’re turning your head all the way up to look at his face, which makes it easy to forget that your head reaches an… unfortunate location that you have just unknowingly pushed yourself against.

Your face is burning again. Your head is throbbing. If you weren’t already condemned to Hell, this would probably have gotten you in. Your cheek is right against his groin. You fear looking up at his face for a reaction, but you do it anyway and see that, despite his smile, he looks to be just as shocked as you, if not more. And then it changes. The shock is fading. His eyes are getting darker, and that strange look in his eyes—one that you’ve never seen on him—is directed at you.

You force your body in to action. “I-I’m sorry!” you squawk, stumbling away from him. “Um! I-I just—I was excited; I didn’t mean to—uh, s-sorry, sorry!” You’re clumsily making your way back towards the door, nearly slipping from the lack of friction your socks have on the polished floor.

Alastor takes a step closer to you, and you bristle, picking up the pace. “Ma cher, don’t—”

“Sorry!” you cry one last time, slipping out the door and in to the safety of the hallway. You dash to the end of it and around a corner, where you wait to hear any signs of him following. Nothing. The only thing you hear is your own racing heart and the blood rushing through your body. You feel hot, shaky, and a little sweaty—your feet are sweating through your socks.

Your socks.

You forgot your fucking shoes in his room.

Groaning, you sink down to the floor and peel off your socks, freeing your overheated feet. You replay the event in your mind as you stare emptily at your toes, wiggling them all one by one. You just had to go and try to hug him—you couldn’t just be patient and wait for him to one day, just maybe, initiate it himself. At the very least, you could have been more careful. You think it might have been a nice hug otherwise. You can still feel the crisp fabric of his pants and the warmth he radiates; you can smell the light scent of smoke and cologne on his clothes. The button of his pants had been against your cheek, and you have no control against the intrusive thought of how the bulge in his pants had felt.

Smacking your cheeks with your palms, you shake your head, as though it would toss the thought out. You need to stop being a little creep and get your shoes. You have one pair of shoes, and you are not willing to walk barefoot anywhere in Pentagram City. The longer you leave them there, the more likely you are to abandon them entirely in hopes of never having a confrontation with Alastor. Well… maybe you could ask Charlie to get you a new pair of shoes? You groan at yourself; you’re already trying to get out of it.

You push yourself to your feet and dust off the skirt of your dress. You take quiet, slow steps towards his room. You can do this. Just don’t think about it. Did he like it? No, stop it. Did it excite him, like it excited you? Stop that! You’re wet—maybe from fear, maybe from arousal. Your hands are shaking as you reach for the doorknob. You contemplate whether it would be best to knock or simply crack the door open and grab your shoes without entering. Alastor is polite, though; you know he’d much rather you be decent and knock.

Heart racing, chest heaving with tiny and anxious breaths, you tap your knuckles against the door. It opens almost immediately.

“Yes, dearest? Have you calmed down now?”

You can’t bring yourself to look at his face; instead, you resort to looking at your bare feet. “I—um, I realized I forgot my shoes here,” you mumble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

He laughs at this—it makes you shiver, and you hope he doesn’t notice. “You were in quite the hurry,” he teases. “What scared you so badly, darling?”

You mean to simply snatch your shoes and flee, but the moment you cross the threshold, he’s closed the door behind you. Your heart is pounding, as though it thinks you’re sprinting down a hallway from a monster. But it’s just Alastor! He’s never harmed you, only kept you safe—and yet, you feel like you’re caught in a trap. You can feel the warmth of his body radiating from behind you; he’s close, and for once, you wish he’d be less comfortable with you in his personal space. Despite this, you can’t bring your dumb feet to move. You are caught like a deer in headlights.

“What’s wrong, pet?” He’s never called you that before. It’s new and exciting, even though you internally scold yourself for the warm feeling building up in the depths of your gut. “Why have you gone quiet? You’re not ignoring me, are you?”

His fingers ghost over your hair as he speaks, his hand finally coming to rest on your shoulder. It’s not as though you’re hiding your discomfort well, but that doesn’t stop him. Alastor’s left hand comes from behind you and cups your chin, slowly drawing you back until your spine touches his leg. You shut your eyes. You won’t look at him; it makes you feel at least a little less exposed, even if you know he can see the red in your face all the same.

“I don’t appreciate the silent treatment, dearest,” he warns, giving your cheeks a squeeze. “I guess I’ll have to find a way to snap you out of it.”

You’re lifted off of your feet; the sudden feeling of instability makes you open your eyes, even though you try to resist. Before you can register it, Alastor has dropped you on his bed—a bed that seems rarely used—and is now kneeling before you.

“You’ve been terribly rude, pet,” he chides, resting his hand on your knee. “First you get so close to me, then you run off and leave me wanting? Now you come back and refuse to say a word to me.” He clicks his tongue in disdain; its the feeling of his claws digging in to your skin that truly express his displeasure. You shift in place, but keep your mouth sealed. Your mind is blank, anyhow.

When his claws pierce your skin, you move out of reflex, jerking your leg away from his hand. Alastor’s grip is iron-clad and holds you in place so tightly that you can’t even move it a millimeter. Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and goosebumps are running up and down your arms. Your mind is getting hazy, to the point that your vision blurs as his other hand creeps up the skirt of your dress.

You try to control your breaths, try to look anywhere other than him. He’s relishing the sight of you as his fingers curl around the waistband of your frilly bloomers. He grips your hip harshly—you know it will leave a reminder in the form of a bruise later. His thumb lightly brushes over your clit, and your toes curl in response. It’s like he’s fascinated by the response your body has to it; he’s watching every twitch, shiver, and shake as he toys with you. Finally, a mewl escapes your lips. Something about the noise draws him out of whatever it is that he’s thinking, and he looks you in the eyes.

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman, darling,” he says, relaxing his grip on you. “So… yes or no?”

This is closer to the Alastor you’re familiar and comfortable with. He looks so calm and pleased that it’s like it’s just another day for him, one where he does not have his hand in your underwear and he’s just making you feel special by gracing you with a pat on your head. The familiarity is reassuring, and you’re such a sucker for how special he makes you feel, so surely there’s no harm in this…

“Yes,” you finally eke out.

Alastor’s grin widens; his thumb immediately resumes teasing you. His other hand strokes up and down your thigh, his claws tickling you and leaving red streaks in their wake. You moan again and are met with the reminder of his watchful gaze; unable to take the feeling of scrutiny anymore, you grab the lapel of his coat and tug on it.

You hear him chuckle and crack your eyes open again. He’s released you—for now—to shrug off his coat and set it aside.

“An eye for an eye, pet?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to agree to this suggestion; he pops open the buttons on the back of your dress in one quick motion. Your dress is pulled from your body, leaving you and your bloomers entirely exposed. You instinctively cover your chest with your forearm. This is hardly an eye for an eye—and you know, deep down, that he knows that and enjoys every bit of imbalance between you two. And you do, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.

His hands are on you again, this time running up and down your waist, back, thighs, and chest. He’s parting your legs and moving in between them, leaning down to press his lips to your throat. You whimper, now suffocated by the dizzying smell of tobacco. Alastor gives you a gentle peck, before his teeth graze your delicate skin and earn a moan from you. You instinctively bristle from the delightful pain, and he pushes your legs apart again.

“Relax, sha,” he murmurs against your neck. “Relax. Would I let you get hurt?”

Yes. He absolutely would. You know that, and you stuff it down. Who cares? Who cares if you get a little hurt? If he lets it happen? If he’s the one to do it, if he’s the one watching and enjoying it, that’s all that really matters.

So you relax for him and melt in to his touch, letting him guide you down to the soft bed. You don’t resist when your bloomers come off. You’re completely exposed to him, and he’s simply standing over you, grinning at the sight. The one sacrifice he does make is his gloves, shedding them to feel your skin in its full glory. His hands are much warmer without his gloves on; the feeling of them rubbing your legs is soothing.

“Alastor,” you mewl—for a moment, you realize just how pathetic and weak you sound, but decide that it’s fine to be pathetic and weak for him and slip back in to your haze. For every inch of fog clouding your mind, Alastor seems to gain a new degree of focus. You can’t tell exactly what it is he’s so focused on, so hungry for, but you enjoy it all the same.

“You sound so lovely when you say my name.” His voice sounds so different now—animalistic, growling. Your heart rate spikes again, but you’re not about to back out now, so you enjoy the adrenaline rush as you gaze up at the ceiling. You hear a shift of fabric, feel him moving between your legs as he looms over you. He slips one hand underneath you to feel the small of your back, and you finally realize what he’s about to—

“Ahh!” you hiss, curling your spine as you reflexively try to escape the source of the pain. You’re brought back to the reality of your situation for a brief moment; Alastor is over seven feet tall, you are definitely not, and he is definitely entirely proportionate for his height. It hurts, worse than anything you think you’ve felt before. You feel like you’re splitting open, despite how wet you are and the fact that he’s barely inside of you.

Alastor’s hands hold you in place by your hip and your arm. You can feel his own excitement and agitation from the tightness of his grip—so tight he’s trembling in the slightest—and the hint of sweat on his palms. “Behave, sha,” he orders through his teeth. He’s trying to suppress your squirming as much as possible, but you can still wriggle in his grip, and every movement of your hips sends a wave of pleasure through him. “Relax and behave.”

Your body is slowly adjusting to the pain, and his voice is bringing you back to that lovely, pleasurable haze. You force yourself to stay still and breathe through it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs with a sigh. “Good girl.” You shudder at the words, and he pushes himself further inside of you. You don’t struggle this time; you simply yelp in pain and squeeze your eyes shut to bear it. He releases your arm to grab you by your chin, forcing your head up. You open your eyes, your face contorted in pain; he’s smiling, of course. It’s a feral, sadistic smile, but it’s not quite the same one you’ve seen before he rips apart some idiot trying to wreck the hotel. This one is different, and you hope it’s one he’s reserved only for you. No matter how frightening it is, you’ll still delight in the honor.

You manage to relax a little more, having adjusted to the feeling of being torn in two. Alastor sighs at the feeling and once again pushes further inside of you. Every effort of yours to behave will be rewarded like this—with more pain, blood, and tears that prick your eyes. You had your chance to say no. You still could. But you don’t. You’re special. He wants you. And you want him—you want him to degrade you, too.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, sha?” he coos in a tone of faux concern. Still, you whimper and nod, curling your fingers in to the linens beneath you. “I know, pet, I know. It must hurt terribly.” Another inch inside of you, another swallowed scream.

“P-please,” you beg. You barely even realize the words are spilling out of your mouth. “I can’t—I can’t take it.”

“You can,” he assures, his hand moving down to your throat. No matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. He’ll save that for another time, another day. There’s nothing wrong with denying a bit of pleasure now to make it sweeter later. “You can and you will. I will make you.”

You try to scream when you feel the sensation of a burning, sharp pain pierce further inside of you, but he clamps his hand over your mouth.

“No,” he breathes. “You won’t make a sound unless you’re quiet about it. I am the only one who can hear you. This is just for me.”

You swallow back the scream; it feels like it’s still stuck in your chest, making it ache as it tries to beat its way out through your sternum. It’s too painful to breathe. Every single movement is painful. This is as far as he can go without really hurting you—without you truly breaking apart. You can smell blood. You feel like you can maybe taste it, too. The sight of it only spurs him on, and he pounds in to you without any concern for the pain it will cause you.

You can’t even scream; it’s too sudden. Once the waves of pain truly set in, you let out a weak cry and grab on to his arms in an effort to steady yourself. Spots of all colors are appearing in your vision as the sounds of the room—skin against skin, muffled groans that he’s trying to hold back, your own crying—get further and further away. Your grip on him loosens, and he notices.

“I can’t keep going if you’re sleeping, pet,” Alastor taunts, grabbing you by your chin and squeezing. When your pupils only dilate further, he takes a handful of your hair and pulls, giving your head a shake. That does it; you’re awake enough, for now. “There you are.”

You can’t escape the pain. You just have to live with it. Any time he sees you slipping out of consciousness, you’re awakened with a sharp jolt of pain. And now his movements are too fast, too harsh to even begin to pass out. Tears freely flow down your face at this point, as freely as the blood pooling beneath your thighs.

“A-Alastor,” you sob, one hand reaching up for him. “Please.”

The pathetic sight of you stupidly reaching for him is what sends him over the edge. His claws curl in to your skin, and blood drips on to the linens beneath you. He’s looming over you as you feel warmth replace the feeling of an icy knife in your belly, spilling out of you and on to your legs. His eyes are closed, he’s panting, and his brow is furrowed. You like the sight of it, but you can’t fully enjoy it when he’s still causing you so much pain.

Finally, his eyes open, and he pulls away from you without warning, sending another ripple of pain through you. You’re throbbing. You feel like you’ve been impaled and suffocated. You definitely did not cum. And yet, when the look on his face softens, the pain lessens. He’s back to the gentleman you know and adore.

“Oh dear,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand—a hand covered in your blood. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

As he helps you bathe and feeds you a potion to help heal some of your wounds, you let that haze settle in permanently in a part of your brain. As long as he makes you feel special, as long as he calls you sweetheart and pet and sha, you’ll take whatever pain he throws at you.

#dead dove #dead dove do not eat #dark fic #yandere!alastor x reader #mdni #miasmal writes #size difference

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months ago

Text

Down Among the Dead Men

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: Captivity, creepy whumper, abusive parent, magical whump talk

Kira wore her body like a suit of armor beneath the old-fashioned dress she had been laced into.

She could have made a point, she supposed, by refusing to perform the spell. Refusing to give Lord Wentworth the prettied-up face he was planning to make his son’s wife - but really his own, unless she did what he wanted and remade the marks holding the siren in unending bondage.

The thought sent a chill down her spine, made bile rise in her throat.

She could have gone down the stairs in too-tight shoes, with her dress hanging wrongly off flat narrow hips and wrinkling over the missing bust it had been designed to politely emphasize, yet clinging too tight to wider shoulders. She could have sat hunched over and tipped her head so the light always hit just so along the angular jaw she had unwillingly grown into and its hint of five o’clock shadow.

She could have handed him all the harsher angles of masculinity she loathed and had worked so hard to learn how to undo every morning… but then she would not have gone down the stairs and towards the dining room feeling wholly herself.

She would have felt off-balance, and losing your balance in a fight meant a knife to your throat before you ever raised your sword. She knew that much.

She would not let Guilford Wentworth take away whatever advantage she had, and she certainly would not hand it over herself. Moving through the world in the body she wanted, the body that felt like hers, was the most important way she had protected herself in life. She needed that protection now.

Guilford Wentworth could stare all he wanted. His eyes could get no deeper than skin.

Not yet.

Not ever, she reminded herself, as nausea flipped and twisted, wiping away her hunger. Don’t let ‘yet’ be a word in your mind. Let it be not ever.

Kira Losna straightened her shoulders and spine, lifted her chin, and performed the spell. The intricate gestures that the spell required had been something she’d deciphered all on her own, and unlike nearly every other spell, she’d never had to use the paint to create it. She had always assumed it was because no one else had needed it as badly as she did, or maybe flattered herself with the idea that she was uniquely talented, but now… now, she wondered.

Was this wild magic? This shifting of shape, easing angles and encouraging curves?

Wild magic, the siren had called melting the fork in anger. Wild magic had been what he named the sense of heat in her palms that scorched the wall. Wild magic was the sort wielded by the children of gods, like the sirens who guarded oceans, dryads in the sprawling tai forests and the drendu in the rivers, the lumbering trolls in caves, the pahlomar in the thin air of the mountains to the far south… the children of the gods. Not… humans, whose magic has been stolen painstakingly through centuries of learning just the right symbols to pull its threads from the world around them. Wild magic was a power whose roots went deeper than trees and twisted through the currents of rivers, spread with the mycelium of fungi, spanned the huge breadth of the grand oceans and sang to the moon with wolves. Wild magic had been the siren’s birthright. The painted runes on the siren’s skin had twisted and corrupted that power from its natural state and made into a weapon in Guilford Wentworth’s hands.

Kira had never heard of such a thing before - and her heart went cold with horror any time she let herself think too long about how quickly men would leap upon the chance to take their own wild magic, if they knew it could be done. Humans had only what they could take, the inherent magic in them was so slight and faded it could do little more than warm a cup of coffee.

Then again, Kira had changed her body to suit her mind.

No one else had ever been able to do that, either.

Still, she was only human. Whatever strange magic Kira had must be something else. It was only that the siren knew only the one kind and couldn’t see beyond it. There were no humans with wild magic.

Were there?

Through all these thoughts, the servant girl Nadette had laced her up as if utterly unaware of her distraction. Nadette ignored how her hips suddenly curved out beneath her skirts, her bust filled the fabric, and acted as if she never saw the way Kira’s jaw softened. Maybe she had been spelled not to notice them by the siren on Lord Wentworth’s command. Or… maybe she was simply kind enough to see Kira as she was, not as birth had mistakenly formed her.

Instead, Nadette had been chatty, rambling with excitement about a new horse in the stables, a purebred that was all long lines and impressive speed. Bit of a bastard to handle, but the stableboy had him well in hand. “Lord Wentworth likes his horses spirited,” Nadette said brightly, finishing the laces carefully, ensuring Kira could still breathe well and deeply. “He likes them to be fighters.”

“Oh, does he?” Kira heard herself answer, her voice wobbling a little. Her thoughts raced ahead in time, threatening to drag her down.

“Oh, yes.” Nadette hummed, helping to pull the longer-sleeved overdress up, lightly belted at Kira’s narrow waist. It was all so… fussy. But Kira had to admit that it seemed somewhat difficult to stab someone through all these layers of boning and heavy fabric. “His lordship always says that if they don't fight back, then it's hardly worth the breaking of them. It is a harsh way to see them, I know, but his horses do all go on to win the races…”

Some part of Kira wanted to bark out harsh laughter, but she held it inside, staring at herself in the mirror. “That does sound like him,” She replied, her voice trembling with suppressed hysterical humor.

Nadette pulled her hair back and away from her face, caught with a ribbon that tried more or less in vain to contain the weight and wildness of it. Kira could only wish her the best.

Nadette stepped back, giving her a careful look up and down, and then smiled. “I think you’re ready. Should we go downstairs, Miss Losna? I believe the young men are already in the study waiting.”

Kira paused, turning to look at Nadette with her eyebrows slightly raised. “What? Young men?”

“Why, yes. Master Ford, of course-”

“Of course. Yes, I knew him, but who else? That b-... Lord Wentworth is not what I would call young…”

Nadette laughed. “Oh, he would not like to hear you say it so honestly! Indeed, Master Ford brought a friend over.” Nadette gave her an impish, winsome little smile. “Likely hoping to have someone close to take the measure of you, ma’am. One always hopes that one’s friends will get along well enough with their intended.”

The Ford she had met, by turns sullen and beseeching, seemed like he didn’t have a friend in the world. Kira tried to school her face, but wondered what other monsters she would have to meet here. What sort of friend Ford had who could be allowed to know what was being done here. What sort of evil person could be trusted to know she was held here against her will and still dine in style with Guilford Wentworth and his unwilling son?

“Of course,” She said, schooling voice and expression both into stillness. “Let’s go.”

Nadette fell in behind her as she stepped out into the hallway, walking past walls lined in paintings from over the past two centuries. Kira had to admit Guilford Wentworth was a slimy wretch who had an excellent eye for art. It was all beautiful. Landscapes of babbling brooks, mountains jutting harsh against the plain blue sky, children playing in rolling meadows and wheat fields seemed to blend all together with the occasional painting of a god’s child lingering in the shadows of its environment.

One of the dead wives was in a painting, and she paused briefly to look. The wife and the woman beside her had very different expressions as they sat for the painting, watching a young girl on the floor. Eliza, Kira thought - that one was Eliza, the first wife Guilford had taken for himself by magic, smiling with a dreamy, far-away look that seemed not to see the beautifully decorated drawing room around her, or even her own child. Beside her, the other woman. Her expression was darker, sharper, seeing clearly. Atabei, Kira reminded herself. Her name had been Atabei, the first magician to give him the siren.

“Will there-” Kira’s voice caught briefly in her throat, captured wholly by the look of something like the animal in a cage in Atabei’s face, masterfully writ in oil and brushstroke. “Will there be wine, at dinner, Nadette?”

She needed something to stop her hands from shaking. If there was no wine, she might scream, and scream, and never stop screaming.

Atabei’s eyes seemed to follow her as she moved. A chill down her spine and - she must be imagining it - a whisper of a smell like jessamine flowers from the colonies.

She would go mad here, surrounded by the women who had gone mad before her.

If there was no wine-

“I assume so, Miss Losna.” Nadette didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. “Shall I go ahead and pour you some?”

“Please,” Kira whispered, pathetically grateful. Atabei, she thought once again. Atabei, a woman knowing the very make of the bars of her cage but unable to undo the lock. Her future, reflected back at her from two centuries in the past.

Or perhaps she would be the pretty wife, Eliza with her dreamy far-away smile, her mind undone by the stroke of a brush and the siren’s song.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold the wineglass as Nadette poured the deep red liquid into it. Her heart tried to race itself around her chest, and the world threatened ominously to spin.

Kira steadied herself as best she could and drained the cup in a few short gulps. She drank so much so fast she had to wipe drops from the corner of her mouth before they could run and stain her dress, bloodied tears.

“Thank you,” She said, hoarsely, and held the emptied glass out. “Another, please.”

Nadette paused, with the stem of the glass held carefully in her fingertips. Her eyebrows delicately raised in surprise. “Miss Losna…?”

“Please, Nadette.” She swallowed, her mouth already tacky with the overdone fruit-flavor, the wine too sweet, too heavy. But it was wine all the same. “Please.”

“... Yes, Miss Losna. Of course.” Nadette frowned, laying a hand on her arm. “Miss Losna, are you-”

She stopped.

Kira had looked away, unable to bear it if the pretty servant girl judged her for needing the courage wine could give. But now she looked back, and gods help them all… she saw as the contented fog that seemed to always cloud over Nadette’s eyes seemed to clear. “... Miss Losna-... Oh, oh no.” Nadette pulled back, eyes suddenly so wide Kira could see the white ringing them all around. Tears set them to glimmering like marbles with a spike of terror. “Oh-” Her voice was air, and then she grabbed back onto Kira’s arm with both hands, this time so tightly her fingernails pressed divots into Kira’s sleeves and the skin beneath. “Miss Losna, I-... I don’t want to be here-”

Hope bloomed in Kira, as painful and deadly as any blade through the ribs.

“I know,” She soothed, moving to peel back Nadette’s fingers one by one. “I know, it is the siren’s song, the magic. I know. The magic is fading, but it will take you over again soon. If you could just do one thing for me-”

Nadette didn’t quite seem to hear her. “I remember, Miss, I remember… it’s not a sea serpent at all! It’s-”

“I know!” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be, and Kira winced, pitching her voice to just above a whisper again. Warmth was in her cheeks and shoulders, the wine or the possibility of some escape from this beautiful hell. “I know,” She said again. “I know what he is. But listen, you must listen to me while you can hear me clearly, Nadette. Can you hear me clearly?”

Nadette swallowed, blinking back her tears. “I-... yes, Miss, I can hear you.” Her voice was thin and trembling, but her chin raised up, and Kira could have kissed her for that steel courage she showed beneath the fear that must feel all-encompassing.

“Wonderful. Listen to me closely. Go upstairs,” Kira whispered, her eyes flickering away towards the dining room, then back to the servant’s growing horrified comprehension. “Find me a window with no bars, one I can climb out of. Let me know which window it is. Write it down and put it under my pillow. I can fix this, I can free us all, but only with my tools and he has taken those from me and he will force me to remake the magic strong again. If I am not here, if I escape, he cannot do that and it will fade away and you will all be free. Find me a way out. Go, Nadette, please!”

Nadette did not move at first, only stood there. In a face that had gone ashen pale and a little green, two red spots glowed along her cheekbones. How long this break in the spell would last, Kira couldn’t begin to know. There was no time for Nadette’s terror. “You’ll leave? But-”

“Find the window! Go!” Kira grabbed her by the arm and shoved her back towards the stairway, and watched the girl take her skirts up in one hand and run.

Please, whoever may hear me when I pray, let the clarity last long enough.

She shouldn’t have turned her back on the door to the dining room. She felt his eyes on her before he even spoke, the slimy bastard. At least he would not surprise her. She was still struggling to get her breath under control, one hand over her stomach, when she felt the weight of his gaze.

“Miss Losna.” She could see a slick of oil on an ocean surface in his voice, hear it in the lilt of his falsely lordly accent. “Where is Nadette?”

Kira raised her chin and turned around, forcing her voice into a perfect calmness even as her heart raced too fast, left her dizzy for lack of air, her mouth tacky with the aftertaste of that terrible wine. “I sent her back to my room to bring me my book,” She lied, and somehow - thank the gods she believed in and the ones she didn’t - her voice was steady, even, and strong. “As I don’t intend to be much of a conversationalist, and whatever prisoner you kept before me was quite the reader.”

Guilford hummed, seemingly offended, and offered her his arm. Kira stared at it, then swept past him.

One thing to say about the heavy skirts, they absolutely made it easy to hold up your chin and feel as powerful as any queen as a man had to step out of your path to avoid being simply bowled over by their volume. Kira felt every bit of her womanhood, inside and out.

When she stepped into the dining room, Ford - seated facing her and with a glass of something that was very much not wine in his hand - pushed himself to his feet with a scrape of his chair, inclining his chin and leaning slightly forward. It wasn’t a bow, but it wasn’t not a bow either. “Miss Losna. You look lovely tonight.”

His voice was slightly slurred already with drink.

She envied him.

Seated just to the right of the head of the table was-

The siren.

Ah.

Ford’s friend. Just another spell, another bit of magic to hide from the servants what it was that truly gave Guilford Wentworth his power and influence.

The siren was slightly slumped in his seat, insolent hostility in his expression, although some of it faded as he looked up at her. He didn’t stand, or fake a bow. He didn’t even speak. All he did was look at her.

And yet it felt far warmer than Ford’s practiced manners.

“Good evening to you both,” She said, moving quickly so that Wentworth, who had come up behind her, had no reason to touch her to try and get her to move further into the room. She chose a chair and sat, graceless but it was worth it to catch a glimpse of Wentworth’s hand hovering, having expected to push her in and having lost his chance.

She saw something cold in his face. It was there and then gone, replaced by genial good humor, but Kira knew that look very, very well in certain men and women with ideas of what belonged to them. She was a toy not playing by his rules, and that could be a very dangerous kind of toy to be.

So she took a deep breath, until she felt the reassuring stability of the boning in her corset against her ribs - the strong lacing keeping her back upright. “What is being served tonight?” She asked, simply to break the silence.

“Mmmn, roast pork I believe,” Ford responded. His eyes were more than a little glassy, and she wondered when he’d begun drinking. Or if he ever really stopped. He was younger than Kira, he shouldn’t be living in his cups like this.

Except maybe that was his only way of surviving in this house.

Babbage came in, alongside two more servants whose names Kira hadn’t yet learned. All of them wore the same sweet, soft, fogged-over smiles that Eliza had worn in the painting of her. Before them all was settled a small bowl of a vibrant green puree with a spiral of white, lightly steaming. Kira could smell something garden-fresh.

“Spring pea soup,” Babbage announced. “With fresh cream.”

“Lovely,” Wentworth said, in the most genuine tone she’d heard him take yet. Kira, moving on pure thoughtless instinct, picked up her spoon, letting the green just touch the tip of the metal. Ford and Guilford picked their own spoons up as soon as she did and began sipping, Guilford humming happily and Ford clearly trying to sneak as many drinks from his glass as he could between bites of soup.

The siren stared at his bowl as if it might grow three heads and bite him.

She had to admit, once she gave in and lifted the spoon fully to her mouth, that the spring pea soup was indeed delicious.

Clearly, a very good cook indeed had been spelled into serving Guilford in his mansion.

“What do you think, Miss Losna?” Ford spoke formally, but there was a hint of a lazy smile on him. Being in the same room as his father hadn’t quite undone him. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” She said, refusing to look at Wentworth, knowing she’d see only the smug arrogance on him now. “It’s very good. How can you grow these? It is out of season for them.”

“Oh, we keep greenhouses so I may have the best whenever I want it.”

“... Of course. Well, it is delicious. I must have the recipe for when I head back to my home.”

Guilford Wentworth laughed. Ford’s hint of a smile faded and he looked down and away. Kira found herself idly wondering what Ford was like when his father’s gaze wasn’t on him, when he wasn’t in this house, this monument to Guilford Wentworth’s hold on a magic he should never have been able to touch.

“And so you shall,” Guilford announced cheerfully. “Once our business is concluded, of course, hm? And you?” He turned back to the siren. “Take a bite, Areyto.”

Areyto didn’t look at Wentworth at all - he was looking at Kira, openly and without a gentleman’s knowledge to keep his stare less than direct. He shifted uncomfortably even in the simple, loose shirt he was wearing, one hand twisting idly as the fabric on his other sleeve, picking at it with blunt nails she knew could just as quickly be vicious, sharp claws. His hand moved and picked up the spoon, pooled some liquid in it, brought it to his mouth. Kira watched him fight back a heave when he sipped. The spoon dropped back to the plate, splatters of green droplets across the soft pale white.

“Well,” Guilford said, playfully chiding. “That was quite rude, don’t you think?”

Areyto’s gaze darkened. “I do not eat your soups,” He said, something very like a growl underneath the human words. “Your food. You know that.”

Kira cleared her throat, leaning forward. “Lord Wentworth, may I ask-”

Wentworth’s expression had chilled at the siren’s insolence, but it warmed once he looked back at her, not quite leering. “Anything, my dear.”

She shuddered, and fought down her disgust. “I mean only to ask… what does-... he eat? If he doesn’t eat what you do?”

“Him?” Wentworth smiled. “Oh, we keep a pond well-stocked in the labyrinth. I’ve taken to calling it after one of my sons, who unfortunately drowned in it one night. Dreft Pond. It’s the word for three in the language they speak in Lahssa. His lovely wife had been born there, she called him Dreft as a bit of a pet name, I think. He had taken such a risk, night swimming alone… no one to hear you when you drown-”

There was a clang of metal against ceramic.

Kira jumped, and she and Guilford turned to see Ford looking wide-eyed not with fear, but with a fury that seemed to overtake him all at once. “How dare you,” He hissed.

Wentworth’s eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“How dare you make light of what happened to him! How dare you mock my father right here in front of me!” Ford pushed his chair back and shoved himself to his face. “My father was a good swimmer, he knew never to swim alone at night, he knew!”

Guilford was a shark smelling blood. His eyes were gone from Kira in a flash, and entirely on Ford. He was playing at a father’s righteous anger but the smirk on his face gave away how much he enjoyed the excuse. “This is unbecoming. Sit, boy.”

“I am not a boy! I am a grown man, and I will not stand for your slander against one who cannot defend himself now!” Ford stayed standing, hands on the tabletop, glaring daggers at Lord Wentworth with a strength Kira hadn’t known he possessed. “If you want my good manners and my kneeling and my bullshit lies to match yours, then don’t talk about my father like that! He was a good man! He tried so hard to be a good man! And you-... you-”

“I said,” Guilford said, voice low and menacing now, ”Sit down. You will not be so rude before our guest. You will not spread such gossip. I am your father.”

“You’re not! You never were!” Ford’s words were less speech than a wail of anger, drawn out by the drink but fueled by a hatred that Kira couldn’t take her eyes off of. It burned in him like summer wildfires, all out of control, leaving only skeletons and ash behind. He picked up the glass, nearly emptied, he’d been drinking from, and threw it.

Guilford had to jerk his head to the side to avoid it - even drunk, Kira noted with admiration, Ford had wonderful aim - and it hit the wall behind him and shattered, liquid dripping down towards the floor.

“Ford!” Guilford’s voice was a roar, now, shocked out of his arrogant amusement. He stood also. Kira stayed seated, her heart racing, and looked at the siren for help.

He watched the two men, too, but without fear. Only with the expression of someone who had watched something like this before, over and over again, and knows how it will end.

Ford jabbed his finger in the air as if it were a sword. “You are not my father! You are the man who killed my father! He was your son! He, who you ordered to go into the water! Who you commanded your creature to feed on!”

Wentworth blinked. He went still. “What? How did you know-”

Ford laughed, hysterical and humorless. “You may have taken our mother’s memories of her husband, but you didn’t bother to take anything from Nathalie and I, did you? Didn’t even think of us as people who needed to be fooled!”

Wentworth was dumbfounded.

Kira found she enjoyed that very much.

Ford wasn’t done, though. He stalked down the length of the table until he stood only inches from Wentworth, on the other side of the siren’s chair, as if they kept the poor thing between them. “Tell me, are his bones still in the water? Are they? Did you command the siren to eat off all his skin, or was any left for the carrion feeders? Did my sister and I go to visit our father’s grave every time you told us to go and feed the fish? Did you think it was funny to have us do it? Did you laugh to see she and I at the very place where you murdered him?!”

Guilford swallowed, once. Twice. He seemed to be having some difficulty. “You will calm yourself-”

“No, I will not! I saw it all, you bastard.” Ford’s teeth were bared, as if he echoed the siren’s own anger even without the teeth to make the expression much of a threat. The siren, where he sat between them, looked… bored. But Ford’s finger was poking in the air again. “You, you ordered my mother to never remember her great love but you cared so little for my sister and I, you-... how dare you call me your son when you want to use me as you once used him!”

Wentworth stepped closer, and - with the siren still sitting down in his chair between the two men - slapped his son across the face with a crack that echoed through the room, harsh as thunder. Kira half expected it to rattle the windows.

The blow sent Ford sideways onto the tabletop, slamming into it so hard he seemed stunned, plates and wineglasses rattling. Kira’s wine spilled across the white tablecloth with a bloody stain, and Areyto’s soup spilled over the side of the bowl. Ford was breathing harshly as he pushed himself back up. His sleeve was soaking wet now from the spilled water, one side of his face nearly scarlet from the force with which Wentworth had hit him. He took in a breath.

“Oh,” Ford whispered. “I… I apologize. My outburst was… uncalled for.”

“You damn well should,” Wentworth said, voice low. Kira’s heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.

“I… I shall take my leave,” Ford said in a strangled voice after a silence. “En-enjoy your dinner, Miss Losna. I-... I will tell Babbage I will finish in my room-”

“You will do no such thing,” Wentworth snapped. “Leave and starve.”

Ford stood, torn between instinctive obedience and whatever had propelled him to the fit of defiance in the first place. “I-”

“Get out of I shall have Areyto tell you to leave.”

Ford’s eyes went to the siren, who looked back at him impassively. Then he turned on his heel and stumbled from the room, hardly able to walk straight. Barely able to stand. Kira watched him go, and felt a wild, irrational urge to beg him not to leave her alone in here.

Not that he had much of a choice.

Even fewer choices than Kira herself had, really.

Something in Kira’s hint of hope faded as she watched Ford’s back disappear through the dining room doors and heard his shuffling, stumbling feet on the stairs.

“Disgraceful,” Wentworth muttered. “Absolutely disgraceful.” He seemed to come to some inner decision and sat back down, shaking his head as if shaking water from his ears. “He will regret that, later. Now.” He clapped his hands, one bright sound, and the door to the kitchens swung openly immediately and the three servants reappeared, nervously looking from one of them to another. “My son has chosen to leave early,” Wentworth said with false cheer. “Please clean up this mess and bring the next course, Babbage.”

“Of course, sir,” Babbage said, voice low, his eyes traveling over the debris on the table without comment.

Areyto alone looked wholly unmoved.

There was a long pause that drew out heavy as they waited for the dirtied things to be cleared and clean ones to replace them. The next course was set down, a bit of bread with a white cheese spread atop it, slices of tomato and basil on the side and a drizzle of something dark, sweet and sour. Kira’s pounding heart had taken all the room from her stomach.

Just as she thought she might scream just to break the silence, Guilford’s smile was back, as if nothing had ever happened. “Well, Miss Losna, you must tell me how the weather has been lately in your own hometown.”

Kira stared at him, her mind suddenly empty of everything but a confused screeching. “... what? The-... the weather? You want to talk about the weather?”

“The weather,” Guilford said brightly, “Or your upcoming wedding. You choose.”

A beat passed.

Then Kira exhaled, slowly.

“... The weather has been a little too warm this year…”

She had to find a way out of here, and soon.

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