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acourtofwhatthefuck · 8 months

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Practice On Me — Part Eight — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Everything is starting to get on top of reader and tensions rise. Azriel takes a trip to Fenlaros and comes away with a headache. Cassian does what Cassian does best. A friendly face swoops in to save the day.

Word count: 8.3k.

Warnings: A little freaky deaky 18+, NSFW, smut, minors dni.

Azriel’s kiss is a burning brand.

It’s fire and ice and earth and rain. It tastes like freshly set snow, and it feels like the refined touch of a steeled warrior.

He kisses you like he aches for you. He pulls his hands away only to remove his gloves and chuck them aside, and then he’s clasping your face once more, skin on skin. He’s always so warm — a part of him you’ve missed.

And a part of him that drives you to kiss him back with barely any hesitation.

This — his mouth on yours — feels like the answer to a riddle you’ve been puzzling out for days, weeks, months, years. You’re gasping for air, and his tongue is sliding between your lips, and his taste overpowers you so thoroughly that you think it could break something inside of you.

There isn’t much furniture left in here. A few scattered tables, a shelf or two hanging off the wall. Not much to work with, and yet it doesn’t matter, because you and Azriel will have each other however you can. You’ve spent a lifetime making do with whatever you’ve got. This is no different.

Azriel’s hands fall down to your hips, and he’s lifting you so abruptly that a yelp leaves you and lands straight on his lips. Your arms loop around his neck, and he’s fastening your legs at his waist and stumbling with you — stumbling towards one of those old tables. A plume of dust erupts around you as he sets you down and slots himself between your legs.

“I fucking miss you.” He groans, grabbing your face. “I miss…us.”

You feel so many things. There’s no chance to sort through them, verbalise them, before his mouth slants over yours again. He’s hungry, needy. Hot and sinful. This Azriel is a far cry from the one who coyly confessed to his inexperience. This Azriel writes poetry onto your lips and paints masterpieces on your tongue. He kisses like eternal happiness depends on it. He kisses as though he’s been an artful lover for centuries.

He’s been practicing, the thought pops into your head.

Not with me, the realisation follows.

And that feels like being thrown stark-naked into the snow. It’s not a nice feeling — to realise that Azriel may be treating you to skill refined elsewhere. Not when you think about kissing him more than you’d like to admit to yourself. Does it make you a gods-damned hypocrite after what you did with Cassian? Perhaps.

But none of this — not one bit of it — is reasonable, or rational, or logical.

All you know is that your stomach lurches suddenly, violently, at the thought of where else Azriel’s lips might have been. And that’s all it takes for you to shove him away.

He stares at you, wide-eyed. Perplexed.

“I needed you.” You pant, the words tumbling from you in a flurry of charged emotion. You’re not sure you planned to say it. “On Solstice — I needed you.”

Azriel’s face changes in the blink of an eye. The hunger is gone, replaced by…something else. “Y/N—”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there. You promised me.”

“I know I did. And I’m sorry—”

“Did you even think of me?” It’s awkward, but you try to scramble back on the table. You just…need that distance right now. “Did you not wonder how I might be doing, how my day might be playing out in that hellish house, before you jumped into bed with Kaeda?”

“We didn’t—”

“Did you think of me?”

“Y/N, of course I thought of you.” He tries to clamp down on your legs, but you’re moving further away, damn near falling off the table in your efforts. “But you — you said you would come and find me. I waited for you—I—”

You’re really not sure if it’s a strangled sob or a choked laugh that fights its way up your throat. Perhaps it’s both. The sound of it is jarring, and it echoes around the armoury and reminds you of where you find yourself right now. The situation you’re in. How different things might be had Kaeda not come onto the scene.

“You waited for me?” You repeat, righting yourself. “And—what? Did you get bored? How do you think it felt, Azriel, when I came to find you — the only person I wanted to fucking be around in that moment — and you were busy with Kaeda on top of you? As if I needed my heart breaking any more that night.”

You hate it — hate it so viscerally that the words won’t stop coming. That you’re bringing your heart into this and allowing it to be stomped on again. Your eyes are watering, and you turn quickly before Az can see.

For a moment, he says and does absolutely nothing. And then he takes a step closer to you.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. Believe me, I am.” He says. There’s another step. Another. He’s hovering at your back and you know he’s wondering whether he should reach out and touch you. “But, Y/N…you encouraged me to pursue things with Kaeda. Am I to apologise for that?”

You blink at his words so abruptly that your tears spill down your cheeks.

Now you’re laughing.

It’s a humourless laugh — a hysterical one. It breaks from you in a series of fractured, incredulous noises. At least the emotion boils your blood so thoroughly that it warms you from the inside.

“Apologise?” You round on Azriel, balling your fists at your sides. “No. You don’t need to fucking apologise. But you also don’t need me to practice on anymore, do you?”

He clamps down on his jaw, a telltale muscle moving. “I didn’t kiss you for that—”

“You kissed me because you miss me. Because I am…I’m just a security blanket, aren’t I? I’m what’s familiar, and you’re used to being around me, and having distance between us has fooled you into thinking that you want to kiss me.”

“No—”

“But you’ll kiss me…and make me feel good..and then the novelty will fucking wear off, and you’ll be running straight back to Kaeda because she is who you’ve wanted all along. Not me. Never me.”

“Cauldron, Y/N, will you just let me speak?!”

No.

You will not.

You can’t.

You can’t do this. You can’t break in front of him. You refuse to.

You want to sound strong, and sure, and unbothered, but you open your mouth, and the words are watery and broken. Weak.

“No.” You swallow a lump down. “No, I won’t. Just…just go, Az. I need some time.”

“We’ve spent the last week apart. That’s plenty of fucking time—”

“Go! Go back to Kaeda. Stop…stop pretending like this could play out any other way. It can’t. It won’t.”

“I’m not leaving on an unresolved fight. You and I don’t do that.”

You are far too beaten down to discuss this any longer. You shrug, and the gesture is an effort in itself. “I’m not sure I know what either of us do or don’t do anymore. Things have changed. Go.”

“Y/N—”

“Go!”

Finally, it seems to dawn on him — the realisation that you’re serious. You won’t be discussing this tonight. You’re not strong enough for that yet.

He falters a moment longer, so clearly not wanting to walk away. The two of you have never been like this. You can fight like the best of friends do, but you’ve always made the effort to resolve things, to not part on a bad word.

But things are different, now. You know it. Az knows it.

“…Fine.” He rasps after a long stint of silence. “I’ll go.”

You nod. If he’s expecting you to suddenly change your mind, he’ll be gravely disappointed.

His eyes sweep you once more, and then he’s turning. Dragging his feet to the door like a kicked animal.

“Az?” You call quietly, and he stops.

The hope in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder almost breaks your resolve. Almost, but not quite. “Yes?”

“Send Cassian next time.”

He doesn’t deign to reply.

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Azriel is not well-versed in the world of dinner parties and propriety.

He has a few decent shirts he reserves for special occasions — like when Rhys’s mother cooks a nice meal, and he and the others dress up out of respect.

Y/N would laugh herself hoarse if she could see him right now.

A thought that stings almost as much as the intense, burning gaze of Tathaln Baralas, Lord of Fenlaros.

He’s a mammoth, domineering presence at the head of the dinner table, seeming to command every bite that each person takes of their food, every sip of their wine. It’s silent unless he speaks. It’s tense because he makes it tense.

He watches Azriel as though he’s going to finish his food and then take a bite out of the shadowsinger himself. Az’s shadows are taut around him, not wanting to make a spectacle of their brilliance. The dinner so far has felt like one big, held breath.

But finally, Tathaln clears his throat, and Kaeda and her brothers sit up straight. Az does the same.

“I trust your friends have fared well since your little adventure in my camp.” The Lord addresses Azriel. “I hope the punishment wasn’t too severe. I did many similar things in my youth — though I can’t say I was ever quite so bold as to venture into a rival territory.”

Azriel inclines his head slightly. “I wanted to apologise again — for what happened. Things got out of hand.”

“I’m partly to blame, father, as you know.” Kaeda adds. Azriel damn near jumps out of his seat as her hand lands on his thigh beneath the table. “It was my idea to invite my friends from Windhaven. An oversight, perhaps, on my part. I was eager to show Azriel what Fenlaros has to offer.”

Tathaln seems to think on that as he chews his food. He washes it down with a gulp of wine and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass. The whole thing feels like somewhat of a performance, and nobody speaks a word as it plays out.

This family dynamic is…odd. Not that Azriel has much experience where normal family dynamics are concerned. But there’s a formality with which Kaeda and her brothers — not that the two males have breathed a word this entire meal — address their flesh and blood. Like he is their Lord first, and father second.

And that isn’t unusual for Illyrians — not at all. Offspring are, more often than not, treated like a prospective trophy to be paraded in front of competing families. The fiercer, more ruthless the child is, the prouder the parent will be. It’s a brutal, ugly way of living that never changes, no matter how many generations stack up.

But perhaps Azriel is at fault for having too high an expectation. Perhaps he shouldn’t ever have been fooled by Kaeda’s wings and spirit being left intact, unlike most females around her.

Tathaln is a puppeteer, and Kaeda and her brothers are his dutiful puppets.

“There was no particular harm done.” The Lord eventually says — rather reasonable, for an Illyrian. “I imagine you received a stern talking to. Revoked privileges, perhaps?”

“Lord Devlon saw fit to lecture us, yes.” Azriel concurs with a nod. “But besides that, we weren’t really handed any punishment. It was my friend, Y/N, who bore the brunt of his wrath. She’s been forced into homelessness as a result.”

A sudden, sharp kick lands on Az’s leg from beside him. He glances at Kaeda in his periphery, eyes the fierce expression with which she looks at him. It seems to be communicating, don’t bring this up now.

But Az wants to bring it up. He’s pissed off; more so than he initially thought. At himself, mostly, and at Devlon, at Rhys’s father, maybe even a little at Kaeda — at everyone really.

Tathaln pauses, his fork mid-air. And then he sits back. “Right — the girl that was here. Why has she been made homeless?”

Girl. It’s a sneer of a word in Illyrian mouths. Azriel has to clamp down on his jaw and remind himself that confronting the sexism that runs through their veins is a fruitless task in that moment.

And Kaeda sighs at his side. As if she’d rather be talking in great detail about the roasting of a boar, than about Y/N.

But it answers a question that’s been rattling around in Azriel’s mind all evening — that no, Kaeda had clearly not mentioned Y/N to her father, as she said she would.

“Her father kicked her out on Solstice.” Az explains. “He’s not a good male, to say the least. Y/N was living with myself and my friends, but after the events that unfolded here in Fenlaros, she was sworn off having any contact with us, because Lord Devlon seems to think that she’s the driving force behind any and every bad choice we make. She has nowhere else to go. It’s…worrying.”

“Perhaps she’ll think twice before wandering into rival camps.” Finally, one of Kaeda’s brothers speaks. Arlen, Azriel thinks his name is. Clearly the idiot doesn’t see the irony of his statement.

Or perhaps Kaeda doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that every other female is strictly held under.

“Arlen.” The Lord shoots him a warning glance. He turns back to Azriel. “I would argue that Lord Devlon is full of shit.”

Azriel stops. Blinks. That…that’s not what he was expecting.

“How so, father?” Kaeda’s brow furrows.

“It’s his job to keep the soldiers under his command in line, no?” Tathaln’s dark, feline eyes are assessing Azriel as he speaks — seeming to read his response. “If he finds that a single female is the cause of such disruption, perhaps it is himself he should look at. He can’t be a great leader if he has to resort to such extremes just to keep his soldiers under control, now, can he?”

Az stares back at him. The question is meant for him, but it all seems too…too easy. Reason and logic are simply not a common thing among these people. The words sound almost…false. Forced.

“No.” Azriel agrees. “I suppose not.”

“Do you find him to be an adequate leader?”

“I’ve never known any different.”

Tathaln’s mouth tips up. “That isn’t what I asked.”

No, it isn’t. But this is a fine line Azriel is treading. He positively despises Lord Devlon — thinks him an arrogant brute who uses his title to flout camp laws and customs and turn everything in his favour. Not to mention the fact that he and his cronies are so clearly threatened by Az, Rhys and Cass — an undoubtedly formidable trio. Azriel is sure that if Devlon had his way, the three of them would be slung out by their necks. Or hung by them.

But his personal feelings towards the Lord of Windhaven doesn’t change the fact that openly disrespecting him — and to the lord of another camp — is a huge dishonour. One that could blow up in Azriel’s face if this conversation were to somehow make its way back to Devlon. He has to choose his words carefully.

“He has a method of leadership that I can’t say I’m in agreement with.” Gods, he is the epitome and personification of diplomacy, if he does say so himself. Ten points to the shadowsinger. “I’m not sure that using his power to target vulnerable females was ever part of his job description. I’m sure, as a father to a female of the same age, you can see where I’m coming from.”

Tathaln takes another pensive sip of his wine. He inclines his head. “Indeed, I do. I think it’s terrible leadership. And I think you’re wasted in Windhaven.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.”

“There is no need for modesty, Azriel, the shadowsinger.” As he speaks, the Lord’s eyes inch towards those very shadows. He studies them with a strange expression that looks almost like…hunger. “Do you know why I sent my Kaeda to your camp? I may as well admit, I have an agenda.”

Azriel glances at Kaeda. She’s staring at her plate, shoulders squared. “Oh?”

“I sent her there to scope out the quality of the units that are being trained in the Windhaven Camp. My sons were sent on similar missions to other camps — Camp Theriel, Camp Steelshore, Camp Aruin. The consensus of what was reported back to me regarding each camp was that potential is not being filled. Quite frankly, a mockery is being made of Illyrians by the poor training of these legions. If war was waged tomorrow, half of our race could be wiped out.”

Bold, bold words.

Azriel finds himself stunned silent.

“We are Illyrians, no?” A thick, callused finger traces the rim of Tathaln’s chalice. “We are a warrior race. We have birthed some of the fiercest warriors in Prythian’s history and decimated tens of thousands across battlefields. And yet, it would seem, these days, that our camps are producing fewer warriors, and far more lazy, unambitious brutes who care only about drinking and fighting and fucking. Our reputation could be destroyed yet.”

This is…bizarre, Az thinks.

He also thinks that it’s a little unfair. He’s the last person to ever defend the creatures around him that are supposedly his brethren, but he also thinks that Tathaln’s assessment is wildly exaggerated.

Illyrians drink, yes, and fight, yes, and fuck, yes. But they do so in between harsh, gruelling training. They drink to forget the brutal nature of their life’s work. They fight each other because they’re just as angry as one another, and that needs an outlet. They seek pleasure, because it’s one of the few good things to be found in these parts.

Their training is not for the faint of heart. You train well, or you die. It’s that simple.

And if Tathaln, Lord of Fenlaros, truly has such concerns, Azriel doesn’t understand why the fuck they’re being presented to him, of all people.

“Is this something you’ve raised with the High Lord?” He asks — he isn’t sure he even means to say it.

Kaeda tenses beside him, and Az wonders if, perhaps, he’s overstepped the mark. But Tathaln seems somewhat pleased by the question — seems pleased that Azriel is engaged in the discussion.

“It is.” The male answers. “And I think he finds himself agreeable to what I’ve had to say. However, I haven’t yet presented my solution — what I believe to be the right course of action.”

Az takes the bait. “Which is what?”

“Eventually,” Tathaln says, “I would do away with the individual camps entirely. I would have one, sole camp to train Illyrian warriors, overseen by the most powerful members of our race. Members with rare, unique powers who can draw on the Illyrian potential and make our people what we were always supposed to be. What we once were, before we became too complacent. Better, even.”

And just like that, it makes sense that Tathaln is sharing such things with Az.

Rare, unique powers. Powers like that of a shadowsinger. So incredibly unique that Azriel has never met another of his kind.

Tathaln has ambition — he covets power. He has a vision that needs backing.

It’s like everything suddenly clicks into place in Azriel’s mind.

He finds himself looking at Kaeda, not her father. Finds himself wondering if she ever had genuine interest in him, or if that interest came entirely from Tathaln. Finally, she lifts her gaze to his, and she wears a strange, pleading look.

“Don’t get me wrong, shadowsinger.” Tathaln says. “This is not a goal that could be achieved overnight. Power takes time to build. I couldn’t take this idea to the High Lord without something to back it up — something to get him on side.”

Azriel shrugs. “But what would you have me do? I’m just a soldier in training—”

“You are a shadowsinger. Do you even realise what an asset that makes you? Perhaps your poor start in life, your mistreatment, has caused you to downplay your potential. But I see it. Your power could be a lethal weapon on a battlefield. And off a battlefield. There is so much you could be doing, and yet Lord Devlon has you landing punches on a sparring dummy and calls it training? You are made for better things than that.”

Praise is…it’s a rare thing, in Azriel’s world. And he doesn’t care about that, because the little praise he does get comes from the people who matter, and that’s all he needs.

But hearing somebody other than his close friends — his family — speak so highly of him, is…new. And he’d be lying if he claimed not to like it.

Still, Tathaln is clearly beating around the proverbial. Azriel almost doesn’t want the discussion to go any further, because his head is already full to the brim with swimming thoughts and close to exploding. But they’ve come this far already; he may as well learn what his role in this bigger agenda would be.

“What is it you want from me, my Lord?” He asks.

A small smile plays on Tathaln’s mouth. His eyes, yet again, are on Azriel’s shadows, rather than Az himself. “As I said, change cannot be made overnight. It would take years — generations, perhaps. I would need enough males — strong males — backing my cause, before the High Lord would even hear of it. But I am a patient male. I know what I want, what is right for Illyria, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Starting with strengthening my camp. Being known as the strongest of all camps. And strengthening my influence, too.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Having your power on my side could be a good thing for me. And I could hone you. I believe this mission starts with you. Abandon Windhaven and take up residence in Fenlaros. Train under my command. Come and see exactly how wasted you are in that place. Come and see what we could build together.”

“You want me to be your pet?” Azriel raises an eyebrow. “Your project?”

“I want to hone your potential and show you what an asset you are. I want Illyrians to be a feared people once more. I want to build the strongest, most powerful army in all of Prythian and make Illyria what it was always supposed to be.”

In the wake of the impassioned speech, silence sweeps in. Azriel is staring at his plate, and he thinks he might be feeling cold all over. There’s a strange tingling at the back of his neck — like a warning sign.

He still doesn’t understand why he’d be integral to such an agenda. He’s a shadowsinger, yes, and that is not to be downplayed, but he’s just Azriel. He’s just an Illyrian who trains to fight, and fights to kill, and to one day be killed. That is simply how it is.

And Windhaven — ugly and cold and harrowing as it is — is his home. His family is there. A cottage that is far too small and cramped to house a group of adults but is always a beacon of light and hope and warmth. A place in which he’s made wonderful memories and felt genuine happiness. He’s happy to tolerate the hellish ways of life around him, because he has beautiful things in front of him.

Beautiful things that wouldn’t follow him to Fenlaros. Yes, he may have broken a rule and breached a camp to attend a party — but doing so under casual circumstances is wildly different to doing so under official ones. As a soldier of Fenlaros — as one of Tathaln’s puppets — he would be expected to adhere to the strict rules and standards that he metes out. Fenlaros would be his territory, and there would be no blurring of those lines.

But could Tathaln really be seeing more potential in Azriel than had ever been noticed before? Could it truly be that Fenlaros has more to offer him? More to be done for him?

“I would be turning my back on everything I know.” Az says, the mere words tasting sour in his mouth. “My loved ones. The family I’ve built. They would be left behind. I’m not under any illusion that you’d allow our two camps to interact if I came here.”

Tathaln dips his chin. “I am not going to sugarcoat that. It would be an adjustment, and a painful one at first. But there is far more for you here, shadowsinger. I simply ask that you consider it. Just as I believe your two brothers would consider it, if I were to present the offer to them.”

“And why haven’t you? Presented it to them? Why me?”

Those dark, calculating eyes swallow him up. “I need a shadowsinger. It starts with you.”

Azriel isn’t even sure what that means, and he doesn’t want to think about it any longer. There’s a lump in his throat. His appetite is well and truly gone. He might even be sick.

He couldn’t possibly leave his family. The thought makes him violently ill.

“As I said, all I ask is for your consideration.” Tathaln watches him. And then his eyes slide to his daughter. “As this meal is clearly over, perhaps Kaeda should show you around Fenlaros. Show you what this place might have to offer. Give the shadowsinger a tour, my sweet.”

Kaeda smiles broadly. “Yes, father.”

Az wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. Too much is going on in his head. He wants to get out of there and go straight back to Windhaven, where it’s familiar and where love waits for him. He doesn’t want to be a component in a greater agenda.

When he met Kaeda, it was simply about…exploring attraction. About experiencing. Not about this.

But he can’t fucking speak. He stands without telling his body to stand.

And for some reason, when Kaeda slides her hand into his, murmurs a soft “come, Azriel”, he doesn’t protest.

Numb and stunned and sick to his stomach he may be. But he follows.

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Azriel isn’t sure if he’s heard a single word that has left Kaeda’s mouth.

She speaks, and yet it’s simply background noise. He can’t hear around the screeching in his head.

He should really just take to the skies and fly home, but perhaps he’s already a puppet — his feet stay on Fenlaros turf. Kaeda guides him around the camp as though the conversation at dinner never happened. She shows him her favourite haunts and introduces him to people whose names he forgets instantly.

It's up on a viewpoint overlooking the camp, just he and Kaeda alone, that he finally releases a slow, weary breath. He folds his arms against the railing and welcomes the cold air biting into his skin. Kaeda stands just a short distance away.

“We call this area the Widow’s Watch.” She says, daring a step closer. “It’s said that centuries ago, at the end of battle, the camp wives would gather up here with firelit torches and await their husbands’ return. If their husband returned, they’d extinguish the torch. Those that were left burning signified who did not return from war.”

Azriel says nothing; isn’t sure he’s capable. He digs his fingers into his arm.

Eventually, Kaeda stops at his side, also bracing her arms on the railing. She looks out over the camp wistfully, as though she can see hordes of wounded soldiers returning home. “I can’t imagine how eerie that sight must have been — the beacons of the dead painting the sky with fire.”

“No,” the agreement leaves the shadowsinger unexpectedly — surprises even him. “Neither can I.”

It’s then that Kaeda angles herself towards him just slightly. He meets her gaze. She’s so very beautiful — the kind of female that artists beg to paint. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her lips full. Her eyes look like shards of glimmering green rock. Never is there a hair out of place. Never a stray lash or smudged rouge. She is, quite simply, a vision.

But Az finds himself wondering if he’s ever known any part of her, or if she’s just following orders.

“I know you must have questions.” She eyes him cautiously.

“So many that my brain can’t keep up.” He takes a small step away. “Have you ever been genuinely interested in me?”

“I have.”

“Your father literally sent you to cozy up to me.”

Her eyes shutter, thick lashes fanning against her skin. “It wasn’t like that, Azriel. I mean — it was, to some degree. You’re right that my father sent me, and that he already had his sights set on you. I work for him. I’m training as his spymaster.” She opens those eyes again — wide. “Yes, he told me to get to know you. But he didn’t say romantically. That was all me. I just…like you.”

Gods, it should feel good, feel like a positive thing, to hear that. To know that the beautiful female he’s been getting to know these past months has genuine interest in him.

But he feels…nothing. No sense of relief. Only the anger that’s still simmering at this entire thing being orchestrated by her father.

“Does it not bother you?” His tone is brusque, sharp, as he stares Kaeda down. “That your father has you do his bidding? You’re a pawn in a game.”

“My father has a vision. It is an honour to serve him, and to be a contributor to that vision eventually coming to fruition. I will not apologise for that.”

“A vision. To create…to create one fucking super camp that he is to oversee? It sounds to me like your father has a hunger for power. Things have worked this way in Illyria for millennia. Why should they be changed now?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Things aren’t working. That’s just the problem.”

“You—”

“Are you proud to be an Illyrian, Azriel?” She steps closer to him; perhaps too close. “I’m not. Not with how things are right now. But I want to be. We are a warrior race. We are supposed to train, and fight, and protect. We’re supposed to be formidable. We’re supposed to be feared. But with the way things are going, fewer and fewer of those things are remaining true. If we don’t change how things are run across these camps and light a fire under our soldiers’ asses, half of our people could be wiped out when the next war comes. The Illyrian race could cease to exist entirely, and our legacy will be left at the mercy of rhyme and tale. We can’t allow that to be the case.”

Azriel studies her.

Her passion is…intense, yes, but also strangely beautiful. There’s a ferocity in her eyes that is so rare among a people who live and breathe misery; whose lot in life is to die.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that he appreciates Tathaln’s scheming, nor Kaeda’s. But they’re not exactly wrong in that ambition is a rare commodity these days. Those who can train for the Illyrian army do so because it’s what is expected of them. Those who aren’t cut out for it make do with everyday jobs around camp. Nobody has pride or passion. Nobody is prepared for war.

So Azriel’s shoulders relax just a little, even though his scepticism remains very much present. “I still don’t understand why I am being scouted for this cause, though. Why not take it to the High Lord? Or why not get Rhysand on side?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “As my father explained, we simply don’t have enough backing to go to the High Lord about this idea — not yet. He knows of my father’s opinion and even agrees that things need to change, but such a complex idea requires careful handling. And conspiring with his son about it would surely not put us in his favour.”

“So…what? I’m the next best thing?”

“After Rhysand, you’re the most powerful, yes. Your influence could aid us greatly. I don’t think you realise how highly coveted you are. Every other camp is aware of the fact that Windhaven has a shadowsinger. And they’re equally aware that your abilities aren’t being put to their full potential under Lord Devlon’s command. Changes will be made whether you accept my father’s offer or not, Azriel. But the changes we’re proposing are the best ones. The right ones.”

“I don’t see what’s right about having to leave my friends — my brothers—”

“Gods, Azriel, just…just take the emotion out of this for five seconds and listen to me.”

Az’s jaw clenches. “I am listening.”

“Then hear me clearly. Change is coming. It’s inevitable. And one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that even if you weren’t to come to Fenlaros, you would still be separated from your friends, or your brothers, or whatever you call them.” She hovers close enough to touch, now, mere inches from him. “One thing I’ve picked up on in Windhaven is that Lord Devlon is very intimidated by the strength of you, Cassian and Rhysand being together. The older you get, the more powerful you’re becoming, and people are growing aware of that. Devlon intends to separate the three of you, and by any means necessary. He can’t risk the threat you pose to him. He’ll tear you apart.”

The information doesn’t surprise Az one bit. He’s sensed a growing panic amongst Devlon and his cronies. They don’t stand a chance against the future High Lord and his two closest friends. And Azriel doesn’t doubt that if physical separation didn’t work, the callous bastards would resort to something far, far worse. Or try, at least.

But still, none of this is making any fucking sense to him. He needs a stiff drink. Or twenty. “How would coming to Fenlaros solve that in any way?”

“Beating Devlon at his own game — separating yourself from your brothers — will lure him into a false sense of security. With you gone, it’ll be one less problem to worry about. He’ll let his guard down. Meanwhile, we’ll be building our influence here and forming a case that can be taken to the High Lord. With his support of our changes, we’ll have the power to do more. And then eventually…eventually, your brothers can join you here. When we have more ground to work on. My father would never begrudge the bond the three of you have. He’d see it as a positive…having three such powerful Illyrians under his command.”

Too much to think about. Way, way too much. Azriel just wants to get out of there. He wants to lie down in a dark room and pretend nothing and no one exists.

But he stares at Kaeda. And he asks, “And what of Y/N? Could she come here, too?”

There’s a very slight hesitance — small, but certainly there. But then she purses her lips, and she shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

He’s not sure she means it. And that…that’s a whole other rabbit hole he’s not sure he can face going down right now. Another situation entirely.

Before he can say anything else, Kaeda closes the gap between them. She cups his face and leans up, close enough that their mouths are almost touching.

“Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” She says. “I really do like you, Azriel. And I really do think we could have something. Think of what we could do here, together. Of what we could be. We could make history. Just…promise me you’ll think about it.”

His lips part with a response he hasn’t even thought of. But there’s no chance to speak it as Kaeda slants her mouth over his and kisses him slowly, softly. Deeply.

Her fingers sink into the strands of his hair, and she breathes a muted hum into his mouth. She tastes like peppermint and sugar, and she kisses as though she hasn’t just laid the weight of the world on Azriel’s shoulders.

And that weight might be why he’s stiff as a board, barely reacting. Or it might be the horrible feeling of dread that this is all wrong. He kissed another female, earlier today — and that kiss had felt like burning, eternal sunshine.

This one feels like…like a ploy.

“Just promise me.” She pulls away just enough to whisper. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

There’s no way he can’t think about it. The seeds have been sown. And perhaps he feels a little slither of guilt for how rigid and cold he currently is, because he doesn’t shoot her plea down like he should.

He sucks in a slow breath and inclines his head.

“Okay.” He says. “I’ll think about it.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The fucking wall is Azriel’s fucking face.

At least, that’s what the fuck you tell yourself as you send a dagger hurtling at it and watch it bury its point into the surface. Another scuff mark to add to the growing smattering, all courtesy of you.

Fuck. Him.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so angry in your life, and Cauldron knows, you’ve had ample reason to. But this anger is…it’s consuming. It’s violent and jagged and nauseating. It’s claws sinking into your heart and your brain and dissecting everything that plagues you in both sleep and consciousness.

And it’s this severe because you care. You care so very much.

You’re sick of caring.

Why would he kiss you, after all that has happened since the last time? To taunt you? To grab your feelings in his fist and twist them? To practice on you?

And to think you almost gave in to that strange, carnal need to have his hands on you again. You cannot — will not — allow yourself to think about which deeper emotion or desire that need is rooted in. Thinking will lead only to realisations that may destroy you yet.

And he’s probably with Kaeda right now, too. Perhaps losing himself in her, forgetting all about you with the aid of her touch—

You scowl and march to the wall, yanking your dagger out. Your anger and your need to just…move, is keeping you warm, at least. Nighttime in the old armoury is about as pitiful as can be imagined, but the relentless cold is actually a strange…relief. It hurts in a satisfying way.

How fucking dare he, your mind chants, not for the first time, as you stalk back to your spot. How dare he treat you as though you’re nothing? You brace yourself and send the dagger hurtling towards the wall once again—

The door is suddenly bursting open, and the weapon only just misses Cassian’s face on its journey as he strides in, arms full of items you don’t care to look at.

He stops abruptly. Blinks. “Did you just throw a dagger at me?”

“No.” You immediately scowl, stalking over to retrieve it yet again. “Fuck you.”

“Ouch. Fuck you right back. I brought blankets and food.”

“Shove them up your ass.”

“I’d really rather not.” He kicks the door shut behind him and strides over to the pile of your scant belongings, dropping his items and freeing his arms. He turns back to you with raised eyebrows. “Is there a particular reason you’re acting like a little storm cloud, or is it just a way to pass the time?”

Finally, you sheath your blade — partly because you’re not sure you trust yourself with it right now. You face your friend, fully aware that you’re out of line and fully resentful of the fact.

“I had an argument with Az.” You admit, not even certain you mean to.

Cassian’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that explains why he nearly bit my head off earlier, too. What did you fight about?”

Do you tell him? Do you confess all your complicated, messed up feelings — the bizarre circumstances that brought them about — when you haven’t even sorted through them yourself? No. You can’t. It’s a bit too soon for that.

“It was…nothing.” You stalk over to your things. “Just nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing—”

“Thank you for bringing me these.” You toe a thick blanket with your boot.

Yet again, Cassian’s eyebrows go up. “Are you hinting at me to leave?”

“Just because I have to face the night in this hovel, doesn’t mean you should be subjected to the same fate. I wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“Well, fucking expect it, because I’m staying—”

“Cass—”

“Come here.” He opens his arms. “Right now.”

You stare at him. And in that instant, with him seeing you — seeing everything you are, everything you’re feeling, what you need — your anger simmers, and it threatens to turn into tears.

“You clearly need a hug.” He points out softly. “And I’ve missed you this past week. So come here.”

In an instant, you crumble. You’re stepping forward and damn near falling into Cassian’s arms. He catches you, just like he always catches you.

His arms band around you, warmer and more secure than any blanket. He pulls you tightly against him, and you allow your arms to snake around his waist. It’s only then that you realise how much you need the firmness of his body to hold you up. He’s like a huge, supporting wall that stops you sinking to your knees.

“I’m so sad.” You whisper, nestling your face into his chest. His scent and his warmth permeate his clothes, and they combine and wash over you in a soothing combination.

“I know.” His broad hand cups the back of your head. “Everything is a huge mess right now. But we’re going to get through it — together.”

You hate that you can’t believe him; not right now. Everything is too up in the air, too uncertain. A dark mass has followed you around this camp for the entirety of your life, and it’s closer than ever to closing in and snuffing out who you are.

“How can you be so sure?” You ask. “I don’t think I have the strength to fight anymore, Cass.”

He pulls back to study you. To cup your face and look into your eyes. “Yes.” He says firmly. “You do. You always have and you always will. There is nothing — nothing — you can’t face. I truly believe that, Y/N.”

Staring back at him feels just like…like the night in the cottage, when you lost yourself in him. Him being there for you, speaking the words that are so hard to believe and yet so what you need to hear. The same urge arises in you to give over to those feelings. Do something for yourself for once.

You think Cassian might read that thought on your face. Perhaps you wear it shamelessly.

He studies you closely — studies you hard. And his throat bobs as his eyes flit down to your lips.

“Y/N.” He says. “Let me make you feel good.”

You swallow, also. And you don’t need to think about it. “Yes.” You nod. “Yes.”

In a flash, he’s closing the gap between you, his mouth finding yours. The hot and heavy weight of his lips is a relief. One that makes you release a soft sigh.

You don’t let yourself think about the fact that you were kissing Azriel in this very building only earlier. Nor about the fact that it could have gone much further than that. Cassian gives you himself, and you take, your hands bunching in his jacket as you haul him against you.

His hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to him. And as his mouth stains yours with his urgent need, he’s backing you up, walking you back and back until you collide with that very table that Az kissed you on earlier. Cassian picks you up in an easy sweep and places you on the tabletop. He parts your legs and slots himself in between, his mouth never once leaving yours, never once faltering.

Until he parts from you and says, “Lie back.”

With his hand guiding you down, you do just that. You sprawl out on that table, anticipation coiling in your stomach. It warms you from the inside, makes your skin too hot and your clothes too heavy.

Cassian doesn’t mess around with teasing or taunting. He drags his hands over your breasts, your stomach, and down to the laces at your breeches. You don’t care about the cold air. You lift your hips and wish only for him to undo those laces faster. You want your skin bare, and his touch marking it.

“I didn’t get to taste you last time.” Your friend pants, pressing a kiss to your abdomen. “Will you let me now?”

Goosebumps erupt over you skin. You grip onto the edges of the table and breathe, desperately. “Yes. Please.”

So boldly, he yanks your breeches and undergarments down in one go. His fingers find the very centre of you, already soaked, already ready for him. What he finds there makes him groan.

“Here? You’ll let me taste you here?”

“Please.” You pant again. “Just…please, Cass. I need this.”

“I know.” A kiss lands on your skin. “I know.”

His hands drag down your legs at the same time he sinks to his knees. You bow your head forward — just to watch the predatory grace with which he aligns his face with your sex. He licks his lips like you’ve presented him with his most carnal desire.

He inhales slowly — breathes in your scent. A growl rips from his throat.

And then he dives right in.

His tongue licks a stripe up your centre, from your entrance, up to your clit. Your hips buck at the contact, one hand moving to bunch within his hair. As his tongue swirls over your clit, pleasure barrels through you that ends in a cry.

“Your taste is fucking divine.” Cass groans, and his hands pry your legs further apart. He wastes no time in lapping at your juices, damn near fucking drinking you down. He drinks and drinks like a male parched. “Gods, Y/N.”

“More.” You gasp, thrusting your hips towards him. You grind your cunt against his face, and you can’t stop your body jerking, your head lolling back. “Gods, Cass, more.”

“More?” His teeth graze against the sensitive nub. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your mouth. Fingers. You.”

A delicious, sinful chuckle, so incredibly deep and lilting, breaks from Cass and vibrates against you. He lands a harsh suck on your clit. “I love how filthy you are.”

And he shows you how much he loves it, as one finger suddenly gathers up your wetness and teases your entrance. You moan, plead, beg him to slip it into you. He does so at the same time that he fastens his lips to your clit and strokes at it with his tongue.

You feel him smile against you. Your responses seem to provide him with almost as much pleasure as your touch would.

“Just like that.” He growls the words onto you, sliding his finger out and back in — adds a second one. “Take what you need. Fuck my fingers.”

You need this pleasure. This release. He has no idea how much you need it. Nobody does. You need to feel like somebody else, feel like you’re somewhere else. You need to feel something other than…blinding pain.

And so you take what you fucking need, undulating your hips and moving yourself on his fingers, against his tongue. Cassian follows your lead, keeps up with your pace. As your moans pick up, so do the thrusts of his hand.

“Going to come for me?” His hand moves faster. “Come around my fingers?”

“Yes.” You throw your head back. “Fuck—Cass.”

“Come.” He growls. “Want to feel you.”

It’s as if your body is fully under his command, because the words have your climax bursting through your body and chasing you from every negative feeling that’s been plaguing you. It feels beautifully catastrophic, fucking mind-altering. It feels like an out of body experience.

You know, somewhere in your mind, that you’re being loud, but you don’t give a single damn. You welcome your orgasm and allow it to consume you. You allow your loud, gasping noises to echo around the building.

But perhaps it’s the loud volume of those noises that prevents both you and Cass from hearing the door open behind you. Perhaps it’s the heat of your passion that makes you immune to the sudden gust of cold air.

Whatever it is, neither of you notice a third presence until a voice bellows behind you.

“Cauldron fucking boil me, my eyes!”

Both you and Cass rise with a start, you scrambling to cover yourself. A horrified expression stares back at you both.

“Roza.” You both say at the same time. Both blink in shock, too.

Rhysand’s mother covers her eyes with her hand and turns her back to you.

“Please correct yourselves before you traumatise me any more.” She says. “Can’t turn my back on you idiots for five gods-damn minutes.”

azriel tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd

1K notes · View notes

avocado-writing · 9 months

Text

Roland Blum x Reader

notes: nobody asked for this but I wrote it anyway. big shout out to my mate M who helped me brainstorm this and came up with some of the *chefs kiss* lines. might do a part 2 idk rating: E, minors dni

words: 2.4k

cw: utter filth. smut; excessive discussion of oral sex; pegging; you’re both switches lmfao taglist: @clarina04 @havaheart @angiestopit @cryptid-flannelhell @shadowluna25

Roland Blum fucking hates you.

He hates how you think you know everything even though you’re just a kid. Yeah, sure, he was the exact same way when he was your age, but he also acknowledges that he’s a hypocrite and doesn’t care. He hates the tight little outfits you wear, because he’s a slut for a well-tailored suit and you know you look exceptionally fuckable in them. He hates how he couldn’t stop imagining bending you over his desk and drenching his cock in your tight little pussy, wondering what his name would sound like from your mouth as you choke it out through orgasms. He hates that you’ve rejected his every advance so far.

Most of all he hates how you’re good at this job. It’s infuriating. If you were shit, like so many of the others he’s seen come and go through these doors, it might be different. But you’re not. You’re a fucking shark, out for blood. Just like him.

He hates you.

If there’s one thing that’s worse than you it’s your shitty little boyfriend.

He’s constantly around, trying to earn your approval - and he does need to earn it because it doesn’t take much research to find out he’s a fucking serial cheater. He has this habit of falling dick first into leggy blondes he finds at bars which you don’t much approve of. And you fucking let him keep getting away with it! You don’t even seem to like the guy that much. Roland can see the thinly veiled disinterest on your face every time your boyfriend tries to surprise you with your favourite coffee or a bunch of flowers. You accept them, and the kiss he offers, and then look relieved when he’s gone.

You need a good fuck. You need it. He can tell, and he’s sure your boyfriend isn’t getting the job done. Nobody sexually satisfied is as bitchy as you are. Except, maybe, for him. But his exception doesn’t prove the rule. He teases you about it mercilessly and loudly, and your conversations always end the same way.

“Maybe if someone was taking care of your vagina, it wouldn’t have sand in it.”

“I fucking hate you, Roland.”

“Yeah, I know.”

But you work well together, that can’t be denied. Case after case you take on, and case after case you win. It’s nice that you can put your mutual loathing aside to be professional for long enough to help your clients out.

He knows where you’re meant to be meeting your boyfriend that night. That fancy bar in the penthouse of that hotel. Seems fucking stupid to him, bars should be on ground level, but what does he know. While you’re in the bathroom he gets himself something strong which goes down well with the pill he takes; he sits in the corner where he won’t be seen and watches you.

You’re sitting on a tall stool, drumming your fingers on the counter. At first you look hopeful. Then you look at your watch. Over and over again. He can see the excitement leave you and you deflate like a balloon animal left in some kid’s room as time ticks by. Eventually your phone rings, and though he can’t work out every word, you have a very short conversation with the person on the other end, finishing the call by jabbing your screen so hard he’s surprised the glass doesn’t shatter.

You head into the elevator. He follows you. You’re the only two in there as the doors slide shut and it begins its descent. He leans on the wall and looks at you, levelly. You don’t even seem surprised that he’s there, you just look sort of tired.

“So,” he says, and you look like you’re bracing yourself for him to mock you like he usually would, but he gets straight to the point, “you gonna let me fuck you?”

You look at him, properly look at him. You seem to sum him up for the first time since you started at the firm, let your eyes trail up and down his body, taking him in.

“Roland, you have until the alcohol wears off.”

You barely get the last word out, actually, because he hears your consent and fucking lunges for you. His mouth is hot and rough on yours, beard scraping your chin and cheeks, and he grins into it when he hears you moan. Moaning from a kiss? You are desperate.

He slams his fist on the emergency brake button and the elevator screeches to a halt. You pull back to look at him, confused and appalled. He likes it.

“What?” he asks, pressing his thigh between yours, up into your needy cunt, “You said I have until the alcohol wears off, I’m not wasting a single fucking second with you.”

You seem oddly charmed by that idea, but it’s only a quick flash of sentiment over your face before he finds your clit and begins to fuck into it with the width of his thigh. You begin to twist and writhe in pleasure against him, wanting to ride him yourself, but him not allowing you the freedom to do it. He grins as he watches you melt.

“Knew you needed someone to take care of your little cunt.”

“I fucking hate you,” you snap, but he can tell your heart isn’t in it. Not this time anyway. He pulls off his suit blazer and, with a flick of the wrist that is too certain to have not been practised before, he manages to throw it over the camera in the upper corner of the elevator, letting it hang off it as if it were a coat rack. Seemingly happy that you have a few minutes, you let him kiss his way down your body and end up on his knees in front of you. He sees the hungry way you look down at him and wants to see it on your face all the fucking time.

He makes light work of your tight little skirt, raising his eyebrows when he gets to your thong. You shove him with your foot.

“What?”

“Someone thought she was gonna get lucky tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking am aren’t I?”

He can’t argue with that. Well, he could, but for once he doesn’t. Instead he rips it off your body with his bare hand and shoves it into his trouser pocket. You yelp but any complaints you have are quickly doused when he begins to fuck you with his mouth. He is fucking ravenous for you, pressing his fingers up inside your greedy cunt and latching onto your clit viciously. You haul a leg over his shoulder and pull him in harder against you, your heel knocking against his spine. He digs his hands into the meat of your ass and hopes his fingernails leave little crescents.

You come once on his fingers, heavy and slick, and look both exhausted and disappointed when he pulls his hand away. He sucks his fingers dry and nods to the elevator control panel.

“Thing’s about to start working again. I’d get dressed if I were you.”

On cue the elevator begins to whir as someone somewhere deactivates the brake. As it starts to swoop downwards and finish its journey you scrabble to get your skirt back on while Roland grins at the show.

He takes his suit jacket and walks out the door with confidence when they open, striding past the assembled staff with utter nonchalance.

“Get that fucking thing fixed, almost ruined my evening,” he shouts at them, but anyone looking for too long can see his beard is soaked in you. You do your best to mimic his confidence, walking out as if the elevator room doesn’t reek of sex.

He heads to the street, doesn’t say anything, but offers the cab driver two hundred dollars to ignore what’s happening in the back seat. You bark out your address and fall into his lap.

Roland fingers you while you’re driven to your apartment. You’re one orgasm deep and high off it, and he makes you come again in the back of a dark taxi while easy listening plays over the radio. When the journey is over you grab his tie and pull him the two flights up to your home. He likes it a lot, being led like a dog, but there will be time to explore that another day.

Because there will be another day.

Roland takes immense joy in fucking you on the mattress he can only imagine your boyfriend has disappointed you on hundreds of times. He has stamina, you’ll give him that, and he ends up coming inside you three times over the following hours. By the end of it you’re lying on either side of the bed, sweaty and exhausted, just listening to the sound of your combined breathing.

“Why do you wax?” is the question he chooses to break the silence with. You look confused, and he points to your pussy.

“Oh. Personal preference I guess.”

“No, try again.”

“What—”

“I can tell when you’re lying. About this, anyway. Tell me why.”

You clench your jaw, but admit: “My boyfriend doesn’t like me hairy.”

Roland lets out a short, loud laugh that’s reminiscent of a bark.

“What, he afraid to get a pube in his mouth?”

“Roland!” you snap, and hit him with a pillow far harder than it has any right to feel.

“I’m just saying he’s a pussy. Wait, no, let’s not use that word, I fucking love pussy - he’s a coward. Grow it out if you want to grow it out, fuck him. If my face isn’t stuck to your cunt like Velcro then it’s no fun.”

You purse your lips but don’t say anything else.

The next time he fucks you, hair is beginning to grow there again. You’ve not really spoken about that night, and a couple of weeks have already passed. There’s been too much work to think about sex, anyway. Well, to act on it, at least. Well to act on it with each other - he’s not above admitting he kept your thong and likes to have the fabric over his mouth and nose while he jerks off into the toilet. You must know but you’ve not asked for it back, which he finds just wonderful.

The two of you are working late, main office lights off, lit by lamps, utterly exhausted. You’re in business mode, swapping ideas back and forth, butting heads a little but generally agreeing with what the other is saying. Excitement builds in the room and bubbles over to something else, and suddenly you’re in his lap stripping him off, and then he’s hefting you onto the desk and pulling down your skirt. He grins when he sees the slightly more natural state of your pussy and you roll your eyes at him.

“Don’t say a fucking word.”

“Oh, but I really want to.”

You silence him with a ferocious kiss and he begins to slide inside, too horny to bother getting out of his clothes properly; which is saying something because he loves being out of his clothes. He sheathes himself in you and you throw yourself back against the legal papers, not caring about how they scatter.

“So, your boyfriend pissed you off again?” he begins to thrust, pushing his girthy cock even deeper inside your creamy pussy.

“You wanna ask this while you’re inside me?”

He shrugs. He’s still hard as rock, so doesn’t seem to mind the discussion, so you humour him as he begins to work your clit with his thumb.

“Eh, a little. He’s always pissed me off to some level.”

“Why are you with him? You seem to fucking hate him.”

“We’ve been together - aah! - since we were in high school. Our families are friends. It’s just – oh, fuck – expected now.”

“Ahh, expectation, the truest form of love.”

You seem to mull that over, sincere, but you’re taken out of the moment when he slings one of your legs up over his shoulder and fucks into you so deeply you think he’s about to split you in half.

It becomes a more regular thing after that. Your little boyfriend is still around, but he’s none the wiser that you’re spending every other night fucking one of your coworkers. And the two of you are amazing at fucking. Roland believes you could sell tickets to a show to watch the two of you going at each other, feral and needy. And you’re kinky, too! One night you wrap his belt around his neck and squeeze it so hard his vision blurs and he comes more than he has since he was a teenager. On another, you fold him in two on your bed and take your time stretching his ass open before you peg him with the biggest dildo he’s ever seen. A prostate orgasm can really make you appreciate the world a little better.

You see each other a lot outside of work now, too. Usually he feels like the little dates you go on are extended foreplay, where you can run your foot up and down his leg and press your toes into his dick, but sometimes he has to admit he just likes going out with you. You’re a quick wit, whip-smart, and fucking filthy. You’re wasted on going out with that pathetic asshole, you really are.

And one night the two of you are working late, again. You’ve both ordered Chinese takeout from down the street, and have found yourselves distracted. Not with sex, not with arguing, but with trying to fling battered chicken balls into each others’ mouths across the length of the office. You’re in literal tears as Roland tries to wheel his chair into the chicken’s oncoming trajectory only to lose his balance and tumble out of it, landing miserably on his ass.

You can’t breathe. You grip the edge of the desk for support, tears streaming down your cheeks, the long line of your beautiful throat exposed as you throw your head back laughing, and Roland finds himself fucking enamoured with you. He wants to hear your laugh all day, every day, forever, actually. He wants to go home tonight knowing his is the only cock you have inside you. Fuck it if that’s possessive, he’ll promise the same thing if it means you’ll be only his.

He’s fucked.

He’s so fucked.

Roland Blum hates you.

Except he doesn’t really. He just has to tell himself that, or he’ll realise he’s fucking fallen in love.

#roland blum x reader #michael sheen x reader

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stevieharringtonwifeguy · 9 months

Text

hey, yall like t4t lesbian steddie? how about transfem eddie beefing coming out to her girlfriend Real Hard?

also on ao3 here

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Eddie has never been able to control her mouth. Honestly sometimes she wonders if she has some kind of medical condition that makes her incapable of saying normal things at the appropriate time.

And this is a real problem when trying to figure out how to tell her girlfriend that she might kinda wanna be a girl too maybe. Because instead of sitting the love of her life down and calmly explaining that she’s been doing some thinking and might want to experiment with her gender more, Eddie just holds it all in until she projectile vomits the information at the worst possible time.

They’re snuggled in bed, hazy in post-coital bliss, Stevie burying her face in Eddie’s neck and nuzzling in with her nose like a kitten looking for milk. It’s adorable. Eddie half expects her to start making biscuits on her stomach.

And so when Stevie sighs contentedly, hums a little, “My boy,” with so much love in her voice Eddie kind of wants to cry, she’s not ready for the wave of wrongness that crashes over her, smashing the cozy, contented vibe in the room like it’s an actual tidal wave ripping the trailer to shreds.

So she does what she always does. Fucks it up.

“No I’m not,” she says, voice choked with panic.

Stevie stiffens against her. “What?” she asks.

“I’m not your boy,” Eddie says. “It’s not- I-”

Stevie draws away from her, and Eddie already misses the warmth. She keeps her eyes screwed shut, doesn’t want to see Stevie’s reaction to the information that her boyfriend is actually her girlfriend. And yeah, the logical part of her brain knows that it absolutely is not an issue. Stevie’s a lot of things (beautiful, wonderful, perfect, a teensy bit of a bitch but just enough to keep things interesting-), but she’s not a hypocrite, so the trans thing is obviously fine. And Stevie was well known for making her way through most of the female population of Hawkins High before she came out, so the girl thing is also obviously a non-issue.

But. That mean little voice in the back of Eddie’s head. The one that listened carefully to every bad thing anyone ever said about her- freak, monster, trash- and quietly stored them away just to take them out again when she’s alone at night. That voice is real loud right now.

It tells her she’s imagining things, that she’s just looking for another way to be different. That Stevie will just think she’s trying to copy her, and worse than that, she’s copying her badly. It whispers that sure, Stevie liked her as a guy, thought she was attractive then, but she’s probably going to be so ugly as a girl that any attraction Stevie’s managed to muster for her weird lanky man-body is gonna just shrivel up and die. And she doesn’t even really like girly things, which she knows because she dressed up as Frank N Furter that one time they all went to see Rocky Horror, and the makeup had felt gross on her skin and the corset had been too tight and the heels had hurt- and if she’s not gonna commit to femininity what’s even the point of trying to tell people she’s a girl?

Eddie is so lost in her own head that it takes her a second to realise that Stevie has gotten out of bed. Eddie sits up, watching in confusion as her girlfriend flits around the room in search of her clothes.

“Stevie?” Eddie asks, her voice small. “Wh- what are you doing?”

Stevie sighs, shakes her head a little. “What does it look like I’m doing, Eddie?” Her voice sounds watery, and she won’t look Eddie in the eyes, using her voluminous hair as a shield as she pulls up her jeans with shaking hands.

Eddie’s heart breaks. She doesn’t think she ever expected this, that Stevie would just leave, even on her darkest nights alone. “But- why?”

Stevie finally looks at her then, her face incredulous even as it’s streaked with tears. “Why? Why would I stay, Eddie, if this- what, was it just- just bullshit?” she says, getting more heated as she speaks, hands flying in that way Eddie usually loves because it means her girl is really getting riled up. Now it feels terrible to see, like the final nail in Eddie’s coffin.

“I can’t believe- fuck- this is the second time I thought- I mean it’s gotta be me at this point, right? Like, fool me once-” Stevie cuts herself off with a sob, before scrubbing her face furiously and looking around the room. “Where the fuck is my jacket???”

“I don’t- what do you mean, second time-”

Stevie scoffs. “I mean, sure, you didn’t actually say the word ‘bullshit’ but that’s- you see how it’s the same right? Like, even if you didn’t- if you didn’t want me anymore, how could you-? You knew about Nancy, Eddie, and you still just-” She scrubs her face again and heads to the door. “You know what, fuck my jacket.”

And Eddie is not the smartest. Her three senior years can attest to this. But she can tell she’s missing something here, because what the hell does Nancy have to do with anything? So Eddie goes over the last couple of minutes, everything Stevie said, everything she said, and- oh. Fuck.

“I forgot the second part of that sentence.”

She literally cannot believe how stupid she is. Stevie’s already out the bedroom door, and Eddie prays to every god who’s never believed in her that she hasn’t left the trailer entirely, because fuck knows if she has Eddie will probably never see her again. At least not for several months, and even then, only with Robin standing off to the side trying to kill her with her mind.

“Stevie!” She calls, running through the trailer at a speed she frankly didn’t think herself capable of. “Stevie, please wait! I didn’t mean to- I forgot the rest of the sentence!”

Stevie stops at the door of the trailer, turns around with an eyebrow raised in the kind of ‘I’m waiting, make it good’ expression she uses whenever the kids try to explain why they were acting like little shits this time. It’s ruined a bit, by the tears still streaming down her face and the tremble in her disapproving frown, but she’s trying.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, that’s not what I was trying to say- I didn’t even realise how it sounded- I love you so much and I’m sorry I made you doubt that for even a second,” Eddie pleads, her own tears running down her face.

Something in Stevie’s posture seems to soften a little, but her hand stays on the doorknob. “What- what else would you be trying to say there, Eddie?”

“I-” Eddie can’t look at her, so she looks at her own feet. “I’m not your boy, I’m your- I don’t really know. Girl? Something? Uh. If you still want me to be.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Eddie doesn’t look away from her feet.

But then, strong, warm arms wrap around her. A hand gently pushes her head into a neck. A pair of lips press into the top of her head.

“Oh E- baby,” Stevie says, softly. “I love you so much, no matter what. Of course you can be my girl, if you want.”

Eddie nods into Stevie’s neck, holding her so tight she’d be a little worried about hurting her if she wasn’t well aware Stevie was way stronger than she’d ever be. “Yes please,” she says, voice small.

Stevie presses another kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, pulls back to hold her face gently in her hands. “Love you so much, baby. And it’s with love that I have to ask- what the hell is wrong with you.” Eddie snorts, and Stevie smiles like that’s what she was aiming for. “That was the worst coming-out I’ve ever seen. And I’m including the way I came out to Dustin.”

Eddie fully laughs then, and Stevie smiles too. That really had been awful. Dustin had found Stevie’s collection of feminine clothes and underwear and had taken it upon himself to lecture her on how weird it was to keep ‘souvenirs’, until eventually Stevie had been so mortified by the picture he was painting that she had to come out just to get him to shut up. He’d since made up for it by being her staunchest defender (Eddie and Robin notwithstanding), but the whole thing was still painful enough that whenever he was being annoying Stevie could now get him to shut up with just a particularly pointed look.

“I know, it was- I got all up in my head,” Eddie says. She places her hand over Stevie’s, gently turns her head to place an apologetic kiss on her wrist, right against her pulse point. “I really am sorry. I love you.”

“I know. Now, at least. Although I hope you realise I’m gonna be using this against you for like, the rest of our lives. Good luck trying to get me to turn off the ABBA, considering you very briefly broke my heart.”

Eddie groans, just like Stevie wanted her too, but honestly ‘the rest of our lives’ sounds pretty good to her.

#steddie #transfem steve harrington #t4t steddie #transfem eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #my fics

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cecilysass · 2 months

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Shine On (11/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 11: The Snow

Farrs Corner, Virginia February 23, 2015 7:45 am

Jackson can’t seem to sit still. He’s pacing all around the kitchen in meandering circles. Scully has managed to piece together from his brief, cryptic answers to her questions that he now knows his thoughts aren’t completely private. The news apparently hasn’t been well received.

Scully sits at the table, her chin in her hand, watching him seriously. There’s something else going on here, too—something more—and she hasn’t pinned it down yet. For one, Mulder disappeared upstairs in a cloud of anxiety, something big clearly on his mind.

“Was Mulder … worried about something?” she attempts.

Jackson just lifts his shoulders in a jerky shrug. “Probably.” He doesn’t add more details.

“Are you all right?” Scully says after another pause.

He’s moving again, walking back and forth. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay. Just really freaked out.”

“Now—”

“Don’t say it,” Jackson cuts her off, pointing at her suddenly. “I know, I know. Now I know what it feels like to have my thoughts spied on. I’m a hypocrite for being upset about it, right?”

Scully says nothing right away, but fixes him with what she hopes is an open and honest gaze. “Is that what I am thinking, Jackson?”

“No,” he says, finally still. “You’re not.”

She nods slowly. “Right. Now. Did Mulder happen to make coffee?”

“Yeah,” Jackson says, turning slowly to regard the coffee maker. “And … I made scrambled eggs.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” Jackson walks to the stove and lifts the lid off the pan. “They’re still warm. You want some?”

“Yes, I do.” Scully stands up to get out plates. “Let’s eat. Should we make toast?”

Just as they are loading bread in the ancient toaster oven, Mulder’s footsteps on the stairs cause them both to look up. Jackson takes a wary step back.

“You’re going for a run, Mulder?” Scully can’t hide her skepticism as she walks across the floor to speak to him. He’s dressed for exercise—sweatpants, a long-sleeve tee, his running shoes—but his grim expression tells another story.

“Yeah,” he says. He eyes Jackson for a moment, looking as if he wants to say something, then turns and walks to the house’s front window, the one that faces the porch. He peers out cautiously. “Sort of.”

“What’s going on?” she asks sharply, lowering her voice.

“He’s been keeping something from us,” Mulder says quietly, his eyes darting behind her to Jackson in the kitchen. They both know that keeping his voice down is pointless, but he does it anyway. “Something … important. I need to check around outside again.”

“I should come with you.”

“No,” he says quickly. “Stay here, Scully. I think I upset him, and I think you should … just stay here with him.”

Scully nods slowly, feeling a thrum of anxiety. For the umpteenth time since yesterday, she attempts to mute her feelings.

“Try not to worry,” Mulder says, flashing her a small smile. “Hopefully this isn't a big deal. Go have breakfast.”

“Be careful,” Scully whispers urgently. “Take the stiletto.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

For a moment he looks like he might kiss her cheek—he seems to bend down just a little—but he doesn’t, biting his lower lip instead.

“I’ll save you some coffee,” she says uncomfortably, a nod to a routine they had for years in what feels like another lifetime.

“Sure you will,” he says. “I won’t hold my breath. I know your caffeine habits.”

The words he’s speaking are playful, but he sounds distracted. He glances out the window again, and it scares her, the look of intense worry etched across his features. Her mind explodes into fearful questions—what is Jackson is keeping from them? why does it involve Mulder checking outside?—but she quiets these quickly.

“Hopefully no big deal, right?” she whispers.

“Right,” he says quickly. Another reassuring smile.

***

There are swirling eddies of snow flurries visible through the kitchen windows as Scully and Jackson eat their eggs and toast.

“Snow,” she remarks, her voice sounding small. “I wonder if it’s supposed to accumulate.”

Jackson’s eyes track the direction of her stare. “Yeah, it looks like it might.” He looks back at her, seeming to remember something. He takes a big forkful of eggs. “Happy birthday. Today’s your actual birthday, right?”

“Yes,” she says. She takes a bite, too, trying not to watch him too closely.

“You’re… 51?”

She nods, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.

“So you were 37 when you had me?”

Again she nods, studying his reaction.

“Did you want to have kids?”

She hesitates only a second. “Very, very much.”

When he looks up at her, she knows he is using his shine on her, testing out the veracity of her claim. She can practically feel it.

“I was thinking about it,” Jackson says, shoving another bite in his mouth. “I think I might understand why my shine is so much stronger with you than with anyone else. Or at least I have a guess.”

Scully scowls and sips her coffee. “Oh? What’s your guess?”

“You’re a doctor, right?” Jackson says. “So you know that in mammals, there’s an evolutionary advantage to maternal-infant bonding.”

Her eyes widen at his language choice. Her chin goes up and down wordlessly.

“And that baby mammals learn to recognize their mom’s smell and sound, and learn how to, like, be in tune with her behavior so that they have a better chance of survival.”

She sets her cup down, slightly stunned.

“So if you think about my shine being one of my senses, like smelling or hearing, it’s logical that when I was an infant, still living with you, it developed to be… in sync with you. So I could know what you were thinking and feeling. And maybe once it developed in my brain or whatever, it stayed wired that way, even after all these years. It’s biology, right?”

“I had wondered… something along those lines myself,” Scully says, keeping her voice steady. “You’re very knowledgeable about biology.”

“I read a lot of articles,” Jackson says modestly.

Articles about what, Scully wonders? About maternal-neonate bonding? Is he worried about what he has missed out on by being adopted?

“Maybe a little,” Jackson says, looking down, and it takes her a moment to realize he is answering the question she was thinking. He then meets her eyes, and there is something unguarded there that reminds her of Mulder when she met him, Mulder the youngest she ever knew him, Mulder in Bellefleur, telling her his story. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she says. “Anything.”

“Why’d you do it? Why did you decide to give me up?” He looks so earnest, so sincerely curious and vaguely hurt that it makes Scully want to weep. “I can feel how much you didn’t want to. How sad it made you. And when you did it, I wasn’t brand-new either, was I? I lived with you a while. You knew me. You have all these memories of me. And you were still with Mulder, weren’t you? It just seems like… I don’t know. I guess I don’t understand.”

“You really can’t see any reason why? Or… feel why?” she whispers.

“Not really,” he says. “It’s confusing to make sense of everything that goes on inside of you when you think about this.”

“Yes. I imagine.” She rises from her seat to pick up the coffee carafe, refilling her cup carefully. She uses the opportunity to take a deep breath, too. “I thought they would take you,” she continues, her voice eerily calm. “I was on my own. Mulder was gone.” She sits down again, clutching her cup tightly with both hands. “And I was just … absolutely terrified that I couldn’t protect you. Someone had already tried to take you once. I was so scared.” Her eyes fall to her coffee. “The adoption agency told me they’d find someone normal, loving, and far away. That you would be able to live a happy life.”

“A closed adoption,” Jackson says, and his jaw muscle twitches, just like Mulder’s does—which tells her that this is the most painful part. That this concealing of her identity is something that has upset him, stung him.

“It had to be,” she says. “Or I would still be a danger to you. To your new family.” Her voice breaks. “But apparently Mulder and I were a danger to you and your family anyway. I’m so sorry about that, Jackson. So sorry. I tried to keep you safe. I tried … so hard. By far the hardest thing I have ever…” She’s crying, and she can’t do anything to stop it.

Jackson watches her tears, looking perplexed. “I know,” he says. He tips his head, as if trying to see her better. “It isn’t your fault. I don’t really think they came after my parents because of you and Mulder. Probably it didn’t matter … whose kid I was in the end. It was me. It was just the fact that I existed at all.”

Scully sniffs, nodding, trying to take charge of her feelings again.

“I never wanted my children to be in danger just by the fact that they existed,” she manages. “I wanted you safe. I wanted your life to be normal.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say my life was exactly normal,” he says, lifting his eyebrows. “It was never going to be normal.”

“As close as possible to normal then.”

“Yeah.” He nods thoughtfully. “I guess that’s what it was.”

There is a pause. Jackson taps the rim of his plate lightly with his finger.

“So there’s another one?” he asks.

“Another what?”

“You said you didn’t want your children to be in danger for the fact they existed,” Jackson says. “Not your child. You said children, like, more than one. Like plural.”

“Oh,” she says. She hadn’t realized this slip. “Yes. There was another child.” She pushes the remains of eggs around on her plate with her fork. “Once. She died long ago, before you were born.”

“I’m sorry,” Jackson says. He seems to be seriously thinking that over.

“I’ll tell you about her some time,” Scully says. “It’s not an entirely happy story, but I’ll tell you if you want.” She sets her fork down and steels herself to look at him. “The thing is, Jackson, is that I have lots I probably should tell you. And lots I could tell you, if you want to know. I’d like to do that. I’d like to … be part of your life, if you want. However that might look.”

Jackson’s eyes drift over to the window, which is busy white static. “Yeah,” he says softly, inscrutably.

“I think that’s something Mulder wants, too.”

“Yeah,” he repeats in the same tone. “He… actually wants me to live here with him and run track for the local high school. He’s thought about it. Going on runs with me and stuff.”

“Is that right?” The idea makes Scully smile. It’s just so Mulder. Not the Mulder of eighteen months ago, who was trapped in inertia, lying on a couch in frightening, stagnant darkness. But apparently the Mulder of now, who was ready to daydream about going on runs with his teen son.

“Well, he did daydream about that,” Jackson says, apparently shining her. His tone changes. “He might not be into that idea any more. We had a disagreement. He might feel different.”

Scully shakes her head in disbelief. She has no idea how to explain to Jackson how badly he has misunderstood Mulder. What are the words that could communicate this to a 13-year old, she wonders?

But then, she realizes, she doesn’t have to use words. Not with Jackson.

She closes her eyes and concentrates on a memory—a sequence of memories, really—from years ago.

Summer, just a few weeks after they first went on the run. A decrepit motel in rural Alabama. Waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of the shower running, the faintest undertone of Mulder’s sobs. Steam hitting her face as she drew back the curtain and stretched her arms out for him. My fault, Scully. You know I never really can protect anyone I love. You should get far away from me.

Jackson’s face twitches as he takes her memory in. “He was upset about me?”

“He was grieving.” She remembers how the water soaked her pajamas as she held his sobbing body, as she joined him in tears. “He hardly got a chance to be your father, and he didn’t get to say goodbye.” She clears her throat. “I don’t think he would ever stop being happy to get to spend time with you now, Jackson.”

Jackson looks down at his plate, quiet for a moment. “Why do you think Mulder can use his shine on me?”

“I don’t know,” Scully says. “My best guess is… he probably had a latent ability already, from what happened to him years ago. Maybe you somehow wake it up because of your own abilities. Maybe he’s been using it, subconsciously, to try to reach you.” She’s suddenly sad, thinking about it. “Maybe … he’s been doing it all along. For years. Without knowing.”

“And this is the first time he’s been close enough to me for it to work,” Jackson adds softly.

He stands up from the table, walking over to the window to look out at the falling snow. Scully’s eyes land on the back of his head, studying the familiar shape of his crown of brown hair. She imagines how much he will look like Mulder when he is fully grown.

“Your other child,” Jackson says in a voice of curiosity and wonder, pressing his palm on the window. “What was her name?”

***

It starts to snow almost immediately after Mulder steps outside. He puts up a pretense of going for a jog up and down Wallace Road, all the time actively scanning the horizon. No cars. No signs of anyone else out and about. Just gray sky and fluttering snowflakes.

He gives up on his fake run after about fifteen minutes and decides to come back and search the property again. It’s cold, and he’s underdressed, but he is also feeling a deep, primal pull: a compulsion to protect that he hasn’t felt in years.

The trouble is that he doesn’t quite know what this feeling means. Maybe it’s some phantom father instinct long buried in his psyche, juiced up by a painful history of losing sisters and sons.

Or maybe it’s … something else. This shine he apparently still has. Telling him to do something important for real reasons.

Regardless, something is telling him to stay out here in the snow—to keep looking.

The wind picks up, sending snowflakes spinning manically around him, an icy cyclone. Mulder spins himself around, too, looking everywhere he can see for any sign of something out of the ordinary.

His eyes land on a little cluster of trees about a hundred feet from the house. He has a sudden compulsion to go peek inside.

It’s so quiet out. Almost unnaturally so.

Snowflakes continue to whirl, winding and fluttering in a steady helix around his path. The morning light is pale and eerie. Mulder has the strange feeling he’s in a fairy tale. Like all the many snow creatures of myths and legends he has ever read about could be perched right behind any tree.

He thinks fleetingly of the Ijiraq, an Inuit shapeshifter who, according to the stories, lives in the snow and steals children. A person never actually lays eyes directly on an Ijiraq. He’s only supposed to appear in the very corner of one’s line of sight.

A nightmare, there in an instant, who takes a beloved child away forever.

On impulse Mulder turns around to look back at the house. Snow is already beginning to accumulate on the roof in stark, white veins.

Shivering a little, he turns back and walks up to the tight clutch of trees. Snowflakes have begun to melt in his hair. He’s going to be uncomfortably damp and cold.

He steps into the dark and dim cover of the overhanging branches. To his surprise, he sees a small hooded female figure standing alone there, facing away from him.

When she turns, his heart stops.

“Scully?” he whispers.

Because she is Scully.

Not Scully now, not the fiftysomething Scully inside the house he knows and loves, the Scully who has been at his side for years.

She’s Scully as he first met her: fresh faced and freckled and unblemished, the Scully who extended her hand in the basement of the Hoover building, the earnest and serious new partner who wanted to prove herself.

She is, impossibly, Scully in her twenties, standing before him in a dark wood, surrounded by a few errant snowflakes falling unhurriedly over her from the tree cover above.

Maybe this is a fairy tale. Maybe I have been bewitched.

“No. That’s not who I am.” Her voice sounds exactly like Scully of the past, too. High and precise, clear and authoritative. I’ve been assigned to work with you.

But as she steps forward, the light hitting her features more directly, he can see that what she says is correct. She’s not Scully. Just someone who looks incredibly, unbelievably like her, dressed in a sleek black coat.

“Who are you?” he demands.

Even as he speaks, he begins to realize, to remember. And as he does, he sees that this is no fairy tale at all.

“My name is Rose.”

“Rose.” He steps towards her, his legs beginning to shake.

“Yes.”

“Rose ... isn’t your real name,” he says. He’s having trouble getting words out, but his mind is racing. “I saw the song lyrics Jackson had—”

“Yes,” she says. “You’re right. But that name you’re remembering—that’s not my name anymore.”

There was no body in the coffin.

He should have thought more about it at the time. He always should have considered the possibility. Why didn’t he, even once, all these years? He had only seen the body’s disappearance as a final insult to Scully’s grief, a cruel denial of any answers or closure, but he had never asked or thought further about implications.

“How…” Mulder feels light-headed. He hasn’t had breakfast, which probably was a mistake. He doesn’t know what to start asking questions about first. He looks up, as if searching for the words around him in the trees arching above him.

“You know what it is that I am?” Rose takes a careful step away from him, looking up at the top of the maple tree. “That I’m not… entirely human?”

“Yeah.” His mouth is dry. “I think I do.”

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” She throws a look back at him, alert and curious. “Even when we met before, when she attempted the adoption—you knew what I was.”

“I had an idea,” he says, “but …we never entirely knew what was going on back then.”

“You would have let her adopt me anyway?”

Mulder can’t help a melancholy smile. “Nothing could have stopped her,” he says. “But yes. Of course. It wasn’t your fault.”

She nods, absorbing this. Then she turns to him with her incisive, Scully-like stare. “From your work, you must know I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t the only product of the hybrid experiments,” she says.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. He watches a single snowflake flutter downwards and lets it land on his palm, watching it melt into a speck of water. “We knew that. About other hybrids. But we also thought the hybrid program was eliminated. After the Syndicate was eliminated, in 2000 or so.”

“No. There were still some of us left,” she says. “Hybrids of different ages and purposes. Not as many as there used to be—we were reduced in number. But when I was still a kid, a group decided to band together. To form a collective for safety. There were about fifty of us left then. Mostly those you called the Kurt Crawfords, although they don’t go by that name any more either.” She picks up an icy-veined dead leaf and studies it. “There were other kids, like me. Some products of experiments like I was. Some agricultural clones.”

Mulder feels like he needs to lean against something, like the world is spinning too fast.

“They called our group the Walled Garden. At first the purpose was to take care of one another, protect ourselves. Protect those of us who were younger. We had a group of safe houses. But we’re very smart, you know. We have… gifts, some of us more than others. We were able to make investments. Buy a large amount of land in Maryland. Build laboratories. Work on projects of interest to society.”

“What kind of … projects?”

“Stopping an invasion, for one,” Rose says evenly. “We did that rather successfully. And without any violence or undue attention. Even attention from you, Agent Mulder, and you were waiting for it.”

Mulder’s mouth opens and closes in shock. “You stopped the invasion in 2012? How?”

“I’m loyal … to the Walled Garden,” Rose says, looking away. “I’m not going to share all our secrets.”

“Okay. Okay. Why are you sharing this information at all?”

“There is always disagreement about how much more we should do,” Rose replies carefully. “There are some of us who would prefer we remain scientists and engineers. There are others who would like to see us… in more powerful positions in society. They say we deserve it, because of our natural gifts and strengths.” Her mouth twists. “Some in the latter group felt like we should be protecting ourselves better, taking care of loose ends left over from the Syndicate. Jackson’s name came up as one loose end. Because, see, he’s not one of us, but he … has some of our gifts. That’s perceived as a threat.”

“So you were sent to Wyoming to stop him?” Mulder’s voice is sharp. “To kill his parents?”

Rose’s face falls, and she looks so much younger. “No.” Her big eyes are limpid and haunted, exactly like Scully’s. “No. You’re misunderstanding me. Someone was sent for that job, but not me. I went on my own—to protect him. To bring him to you. Because I knew you and Dana would take care of him.”

Suddenly Mulder remembers so clearly what she was like when he last saw her, how small and vulnerable she was, how utterly alone.

And he remembers viscerally how much Scully wanted her. How he and Scully would have taken care of her. He is flooded with a sickening sorrow, thinking about what the little girl’s life must have been like after that. After they were fooled into giving up on her.

Emily, can’t you see? There’s nothing you can do. There’s loving everywhere, but none for you.

“Most of the other hybrids,” Rose says, her voice cracking slightly, “don’t have living family. They never really did, or their mothers died. They don’t understand. But I’ve always known that I had Dana. I have always watched out for her. And for Jackson, once he was born.”

“You must have still been really young when he was born,” Mulder observes.

“I knew when he was born,” she says. “I just did. And even when I was little, I knew I could keep him safe. And when I got older, and you and Dana didn’t know where he was? I knew. I always knew.”

Mulder feels tears pool in his eyes. “Please,” he says. “Please, I beg you, Rose. Please stay here and let me go get Scully. Please let her talk to you.”

Rose digs her hands in her coat pockets, turning abruptly away.

“We thought you were dead,” he says simply. “You don’t know how the loss was for her, back then. She was … never exactly the same after that. Please let me get her. Let her see you.”

“You know, Agent Mulder,” she says, “if I were really unselfish, if I really cared about Dana or Jackson, I wouldn’t ever be in contact with any of you. Every time I do it’s a danger to everyone.”

“Why?” Mulder pushes. “Are you being watched?” He takes a cautious step towards her. “I could get her right now, and we could talk right here under the trees out of sight. It would take only a few minutes.”

“No,” Rose says, turning back to meet his eyes. There is something in her tone that stops him from arguing further. “No.”

He glances over his shoulder towards the house, his heart sinking, thinking of Scully so close inside. He thinks of her drained, gray face on the flight back from California all those years ago. The way she sat in the airplane seat with her palms subtly facing upwards, like something had just been taken from her hands.

“Maybe we can talk again,” Rose adds. Her softened, moved expression makes him wonder if she is using a shine on him, too. “There may be a way for us to meet safely. All of us. Just let me… think about it, Agent Mulder. All right?”

“Of course. You promise?”

“I do.”

“You keep calling me Agent Mulder,” Mulder says. “You do know that that isn’t my name any more either.”

“But it will be again,” Rose says. “I hear that you and Dana will be back with the F.B.I. very soon.”

He scrunches up his forehead. “How did you hear that?”

She doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she smiles a closed lip smile that looks incredibly, unsettlingly like Scully.

“You probably would have been a really good father, you know,” she says. Her voice sounds quiet and high, like a whisper. Her cheeks are pink in the cold. “You seem like it.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know about that,” Mulder says ruefully. “I’ll try to do right by him now, but I really don’t know how good I would have been at raising him. I make a lot of mistakes in every important relationship in my life.”

“I didn’t … I actually wasn’t thinking about Jackson in this case.”

“Oh.” Again he is overwhelmed by a wash of sadness. “Well.” He shivers involuntarily. “I would have done my best, Rose. We both would have.” It sounds so futile, all these empty words about time now gone, he thinks. “I wish we could have tried.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” she says matter-of-factly, lifting her shoulder in a shrug. “There’s nothing we can do now.”

And that makes Mulder think what he has always thought when faced with that notion. When a sister or partner has disappeared. When he has lost his life’s work. When a woman he loves has been infected with a virus and spirited away to Antarctica.

There is always something you can do. There is always something else to be done.

Which is what makes Mulder begin to believe he might finally, actually be starting to get better.

***

#xfiles fanfic #the x files #x files fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #x files #xf fanfic #msr #jackson van de kamp #x files revival

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wyn-n-tonic · 9 months

Text

Something In the Static

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x f!reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: Uhhhh... warning you now that I don't know what happened here. Gif is just a gif.

“You ever reckon I’m holding you back?”

No Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.

No kiss.

Not even a Hey, baby.

Just the sound of the door closing and the smell of a beer washed down by rain coming in before he does. Before those words come out of his mouth.

And you must really show your confusion because he repeats them; he repeats this question that is so beyond comprehension that he says it again. Three fucking times like it’s one for every year you’ve been back here.

Glasses off, you study him, sopping wet like a half drowned dog. “I'm going to ignore, Rhett Abbott, that you probably tracked cow shit through my goddamn living room seeing as you still have your boots on just so I can ask you if you’ve lost your goddamn mind.” But it is not a question, not really, and he knows that.

“Do you ever reck—“

“No, I fucking heard you.” It’s like he’s giving you one to grow on, to cover this upcoming year. “There's a book in your hands and he’s lucky he hasn’t caught it with his forehead. “Go take a shower, you smell like a distillery.”

“But—“

“No.” You’ve gone back to your book, curled up and into the pillow as he stalks away through to the attached bathroom in your periphery.

He gets like this sometimes. Not lately but sometimes. Like he’s got some preemptive grief he’s trying to work through and part of working through that is ensuring that it’ll be needed at all.

You don’t hear the water—stopping or starting—and you don’t hear when he comes back. For such a large man, he sure is light on his feet. It’s only when the mattress dips beneath his weight and the smell of soap and the coconut body wash you know he stole from you that you fully register his presence.

Rhett buries his face into your back and breathes deep, large, calloused hands sneaking beneath your shirt. His shirt. For a moment, you almost want to ask him if you can keep it when he succeeds in his agenda to push you away.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“You could fool me about that sometimes.”

Another sound, more words muffled by the fabric pulled between his teeth as he bites down and pushes himself closer.

“I thought you were over this shit, Rhett,” you say, staring down at the page that hasn’t turned since he came in. He was over this shit, these were never his words in the first place. These are the words of his brother; the words of the all the jackasses he’s never been able to escape. All these words picking at his deepest insecurities to give them life.

Some half-assed apology tumbles forward and his weight shifts until he’s pulling you over and around to face him and his bloodshot eyes. “Saw your mom today,” he says. “She said you might get promoted.”

“Might.”

“But you’d possibly have to travel a lot,” he says, “and that’s not something you’d have to do if you’d have just stayed in Chicago.”

“I didn’t want to stay in Chicago.”

Rhett’s eyes close and he takes a breath before saying, “I always have and I always will stand still. I-I’m stuck here and you came back for me.”

“I adore you, Rhett Abbott, so I’m going to give you the kindness of my cruelty which is where I hope yours is coming from, too,” you tell him, thumbing away one of the silent tears slipping from the corner of his eye. “It’s a little hypocritical to suggest I came back here for you while your own insecurity has you accusing me of resentment. I came back here for me and you were such a large part of that, Rhett, you were. I chose you and choosing you means choosing here and I don’t hate you for it.”

“But you should get to see the world, you’re not doing that here.”

“And I wouldn’t do that spending half my life locked in an office the size of a broom closet in some high rise in a big city just so I can pay rent and die alone either.”

There’s rawness in your voice as you practically scream it because you can’t do this again. You told him last time that it had to be the last time. You took his ring and made him promise that it would be.

“I'll be better for you,” he promises. He practically pleads. “I’ll do better for you.”

“But I don’t know what you mean by that,” you tell him. “Doing better for me is putting these thoughts out of your head and having the confidence in me that I am making decisions with my eyes open.”

“But I could be different for you,” he says. There’s no telling how much alcohol he’s had or how much is still pumping through his system. “I-I can—“

“I don’t want different, I want you. I live with you, I’m in love with you. If I wanted different, I would say something. If I wanted change, I would work with you to make it happen. I am fine where we are, I am happy.”

“But the promotion—“

“I don’t want it, Rhett,” you say. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t want it, I told my mom because I needed to talk through all the ways I didn’t want it without you doing this shit to me again. Why don’t you understand that?”

He flattens himself out onto his back, both hands coming up to cover his face. He’s still naked from his shower, warm from the water and the beer and just the fact that he is. Always so warm, a comforting blanket and the only person you ever want.

Pushed up and on your knees, you stare down at him. “Rhett, I was really depressed when I wasn’t here.”

“What does that—“

“Doesn’t matter because I didn’t want you to see me like that, I didn’t want to be like that. You’re not some static creature firmly planted into the ground with petrified roots and you’re not a bear trap holding me in your jaws either.”

He relaxes. There’s always some point that he does when all the tension melts out of him and he’s no longer a board but your boy again. “I want you to stop drinking about this shit.”

He mumbles that he knows as he sits up, back pressed up against the headboard. “I think you want me to stop drinking altogether.”

Reaching out, you wipe another stray tear off of his cheek. “I’m in love with you but I didn’t come back for you and I’m not staying because of you.”

A beat passes and then he pushes his hair back while laughing. A pitiful ass fucking sound. “And to think I spent all day out in the pasture thinking about being between your legs. I didn’t even mean to go out fucking drinking, I just had to pick up feed, ran into your mama and ended up there.”

“Didn't answer your phone,” you add, “didn't apologize at all—“

“I'm sorry, honey.”

“Don't honey me, Rhett Abbott,” you tell him, “and you’re damn right you’ll be between my legs. You have a lot more apologizing to do than just that pitiful shit.”

Rhett twitches, his muscles flexing of their own accord beneath his smooth skin, and he groans. “You wanna do it right now?”

Your head shakes. "Maybe I would’ve if you’d come home on time,” you tell him, stretching out beside him. “These conversations take all my energy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Do it again and I won’t even let you sleep in here.”

He laughs and it only makes him twitch again against his stomach.

“I'm serious, Rhett,” you tell him, glancing over the fact that you’re fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. “But I don’t like being mad at you, I don’t like being jealous and I know that you have a lot of jealousy and I don’t like that either.”

And even that makes him twitch.

“I like being here with you,” you go on, lips dragging across the skin of his rib; over the tattoo of your name he never told you he was getting. “And if I came back for anything, it was for this massive dick.”

Twitches. Again.

Which makes him cover himself, one massive hand cupping over his length. “Now you’re just teasing me, sweetheart.”

“You broke my heart when you walked your scrawny little ass in here and asked me if I hate you for making me stand still, so I think I’m entitled to it.”

“I just think about all the things you could be doing and all the things you have done, you know?” Rhett shifts his body back down the bed to lay flat beside you and turns until he’s facing you. “I'm just some dumb cowboy who can barely operate a toaster.”

“And it’s the best damn toast I’ve ever had.”

This conversation has gotten off the rails now and, truthfully, the hurt it caused to begin with has faded. All to leave two tired bodies next to one another, nose to nose with nothing but your own clothes between you.

“Touch yourself,” you tell him.

“I want to touch you,” he responds, followed by a promise that it doesn’t have to be much; that he just wants to hold your hand.

His eyes are just innocent enough to believe, pulling you in until his lips are on yours. Because that’s also how this works. He says something hurtful out of insecurity, betraying the insecurity he has in your relationship because he doesn’t believe he’s good enough. He takes his slap on the wrist, the talking down, and then he curls into and around you. Some sort of protection as if he needs the closeness of the night to convince him.

“Can I just be inside of you?” He finally asks, fingers creeping over the elastic waistband of your panties. “Please?”

“There it is,” you tease. “You know you can just ask to fall asleep inside of me, you don’t have to make me sad to do it.”

Guilt flashes across his face, so heavy with the day and the work and this on every feature, before he smiles. “Is that a yes?”

He doesn’t wait a second longer as soon as the word yes starts to form in your mouth, doing his best to pull the soft material down and off of you with the help of your twisting hips. Then he pushes inside, easy the way it always is for him.

As he settles, lips mouthing at your pulse point, he says, “will you tell me again? Just one more time?”

“I'm in love with you, Rhett Abbott,” you indulge him, “and if I have to be caught between somebody’s teeth, I’d rather it be yours than job’s or anybody else for that matter.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I'm sorry.”

“Clean the cow shit out of my rug and then I’ll accept the apology.”

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott fanfiction #outer range fanfiction #goodbye

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madlittlecriminal · 6 months

Note

Hiya babs! Really not doing too hot lately. Hope you're well though :) can I get a Miguel or Steven grant fic with a depressed reader? Love you lots and happy Halloween 🩵

You Don't Mean It...Right? ☾ Steven Grant × Depressed!GN!Reader

i haven't written for steven in forever & i miss writing for him. also, im so sorry this is a month late, love :(

Warnings: angst, mentions of lack of eating, mentions of not sleeping, mentions of isolation, reader does snap at steven and calls him a hypocrite, marc pays a visit in his mind & there's a indirect mention of jake (shows depiction of DID), FLUFFY ENDING I PROMISE

note: i don't have depression (not diagnosed), but i have two friends who are...let's just say May (in 2023) was a bad month for me. my brother also has depression & he has insomnia. if there's anything wrong, please correct me.

Steven wasn't happy. You weren't eating properly, and your sleep schedule was out of whack. Heck, sometimes you would go days without sleep, and it worried him. You'd even go as far as to isolate yourself and he couldn't take it anymore. "Love?" You moved your head, silently letting him know you were listening. "Are you sure you don't want to eat?" You shook your head and he sighed. "Love, you need to eat." You didn't move and he made his way towards you.

"What's the matter? Do you want to talk about it?" You say nothing. You scoot farther from him on the couch. Steven felt his heart break a little. He knew you weren't okay, but when you moved away from him as if he was poison, it hurt. "Alright, we won't talk, and you don't have to eat now. I'll say it for you for later, yeah? Just get some rest."

"I'm not tired." Steven sighed. "Darling, you haven't slept in days. Please, get some rest." You scoff. "Hypocrite." He was taken aback. "What?" He looked over at you with sad eyes. "You're telling me to sleep and eat when you don't even do it sometimes. You're a hypocrite." Steven froze at your words. "What?" Marc's voice echoed through Steven's head. He was also hurt by your words. He knew you weren't okay, especially because you never snapped at any of them, let alone Steven. "You don't mean that, love...do you?"

You blinked a few times before shaking your head and falling into his chest before crying. "I'm sorry." He hugs you tightly and rubs your back. "It's alright, love. Do you want to talk? Eat? Sleep?" You shook your head. "Can I just lay here with you for a bit?" He nodded. "Of course." You nuzzled into him and sighed. "I'm sorry for being so distant, Steven. I'm sorry for not eating or sleeping." He shook his head. "Don't apologize, darling. I know life can get in the way. I mean, you know better than anyone what goes on in my mind. People will think I'm bonkers, but you never did. You understood." You smiled softly. "And I love you all." Steven kisses the top of your head. "We love you too. Also, I'm sorry for not eating and sleeping sometimes too. I feel like I should apologize for that."

"I really didn't mean it when I called you a hypocrite." You say softly and he sighs. "I know, love. Just remember, if you ever want to talk about it, we're here and we'll listen." You smiled softly. "I got lucky with the three of you, didn't I?" He shrugged. "Not to sound shallow, but maybe you did." He whispered, causing you to snicker. "Hearing it from you is definitely something I have to get used to." He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. "Good because neither of us plan on leaving you."

#steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #steven grant x y/n #marvel #mcu #marvel universe #asks #ask #moon knight #mister knight #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #moon knight x y/n #x reader #reader insert

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jellieland · 6 months

Text

The land around spawn is destroyed. Torn to shreds, full of holes. It's like a warzone.

Martyn leans up against the rocks by the side of the Secret Keeper. It, of course, is pristine. Completely untouched. Unharmed.

Something about that makes him really angry.

He glares up at the massive pillar Joel had jumped off a few weeks ago. Behind it, the sky is bright and clear.

Last week, as Jimmy climbed up it, Martyn had shouted after him. Fly, canary, fly.

Usually he might repeat that to himself, at this point. Laugh wryly, gaze off into the distance dramatically. Maybe make some comment about how letting the canary go free didn't actually keep it safe.

Not this time, though.

He won't laugh about it this time, because everyone else already did.

If he thinks about that, it feels like something is burning in his chest, so he keeps thinking about it.

He's the only red left, after all. He has to really give it everything he's got.

He'll tear them to shreds.

There isn't the same red bloodlust, this time, but he can make his own.

They all banded together. Roped in Jimmy, roped in Mumbo. Slayed the monsters, and congratulated themselves on a job well done, and left Martyn completely alone.

Jimmy had already betrayed him. Tried to punch him into lava. They hadn't really had the chance to resolve that, before he was gone.

It had honestly really stung, which was ridiculous and hypocritical given what he did to Scott last time, but he can't help it, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how much he tells himself that he, of all people, really had no right to feel betrayed.

It's so frustrating when he gets attached. It just makes things so much harder.

"You'd think I would've learned by now," he says, bitter. He looks away from the Secret Keeper, across the torn up ground. "You really would."

Maybe he had just been feeling sentimental, today, for some stupid reason. He'd even thought Tango sounded like—well, it's embarrassing to admit this even to himself, so he won't. Tango, of all people! The guy hates him!

But he'll show them.

He's not sure what, exactly, he'll show them, but he will. He'll make them hurt. He'll make them bleed. No honeyed words, this time.

He'd looted Lizzie's house, earlier, before he'd known quite how this was all going to end up.

He still would have if he'd known, of course—it's not like she was using it. Maybe he would have taken more, actually.

It's better not to think about how she died falling through the void, because when he does he starts to remember what that felt like, and he starts to feel cold, and that's the opposite of what he needs, now.

Mumbo had gone off the rails a bit. He does always seem to do that, when he hits red.

Martyn had still given him the TNT he needed, though, of course.

Mumbo had barely got to do anything. He'd had so little time.

It makes him so, so angry.

"I'm going to kill them," he growls, still staring out and away from the Secret Keeper. "I'm going to kill them. They were so proud of themselves."

He clenches his hands into fists.

He should, probably, be marching back home, planning and gather resources and seething in the shadows.

Looking out over this battlefield is good, though.

It's making him feel how he wants to be feeling.

It would be just wonderful if he could find a way to justify saying here forever, but unfortunately that's beyond even his skill at bending the truth into knots.

He is, unfortunately, going to have to go back to the house, eventually.

The house that Jimmy built, with Jimmy's stuff all along one wall, and the chests they'd been using to measure how many tasks they'd each completed.

He glares straight ahead as the thought crosses his mind.

It's always easier being angry. It's always so, so much easier, being angry.

So he'll keep being angry until he is dead. He'll do what he always does, and scream in the face of sorrow.

Hopefully he'll take a few people down with him.

#secret life spoilers #secret life smp #martyn inthelittlewood #my writing

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beatricebidelaire · 1 month

Text

She thought she was holding it together.

After all, she sort of expected this. She hoped she was wrong, hoped that things won't come to this stage, hoped that he wouldn't make choices that led to this, but deep down, she always suspected that this was - not exactly inevitable, but definitely not unexpected.

Sure, he has always been volatile in some way. Dangerous. But people say that about her, too. The chaotic twins, sometimes they call them, even though they aren't actually siblings and they actually look nothing alike. Still, he's the closest thing to a brother that she's ever had. Even now, after all that he's done.

The vileness of some of the crimes stuns even her, even if she thinks his betrayal is not that surprising.

Then again, she did kill his parents first. For a mission. She understands the reasoning behind the assignment, knows where it's coming from. The Count was becoming too dangerous. Sometimes she wonders if she's still allowed to judge O for what she's been hearing about him after what she's done, and yet -

She does, at least for some of those. Hypocritical as it might be, but she does. The unnecessary cruelness - was it always there?

It had been, brimming underneath, and she thinks she's always known that. She also thinks he would say that she's equally cruel - but she isn't, she's ruthless in some regards, maybe, but that's different. That's just steeliness. Efficiency. Capable of getting things done. But she knows he would just laugh at her. His eyes mocking and knowing. "We're cut from the same cloth, B," he would say.

She loved him like a brother.

Not anymore, but the bond is still there. Always there.

She hates him and misses him and still remembers their childhoods, the lawn of his backyard, their apprenticeships, the forest, their theater years, their everything. Ever so clearly. Her partner in crime, except now he's committing worse and worse crimes that she didn't realize he was capable of.

Beatrice is holding it together, at least on the surface. She has to. They're all worried about her, the one who'd known him the longest, the one closest to him. The one who fired the dart.

Beneath the well-kept together surface, she feels like she's falling apart.

She doesn't miss him, she just misses who he was, who she was, their childhoods, the more innocent years. But she can't let anyone see this. She has to be brave, to be strong, to be a volunteer.

She is absolutely keeping it together, which is why she's lying on the sofa of a locked room alone, hiding away, because that's what keeping it together means - that no one sees this side of her. If the light is not switched on, that's simply because it's cooler this way. Makes her feel like she's in some movie. This, she thinks, is cinema. (She is very clever.)

Then the sound of keys turning in the lock interrupts her misery, and the door swings open because some hotel managers are absolutely rude and will take it upon himself to check the supposedly locked and unused rooms that Beatrice has decided to hide in without informing anyone.

"Beatrice," Frank says.

"This is - method acting." She says, immediately, sitting up.

He turns on the lights. She hopes she doesn't look absolutely wrecked, or if she does, she hopes she looks like she's acting, that it's all just a performance.

He sighs. "It will ..... hurt less, eventually." He pauses. "At least, if you keep yourself busy."

Frank, in contrast with Beatrice, actually does have a brother who switched sides, Beatrice knows. Suddenly, the pretenses don't seem so important. At least, temporarily, she can allow the mask to fall.

"Explains why you're a workaholic," she mutters.

He rolls his eyes, just a little. Then he sits down beside her, and after a moment, she lets herself fall onto his lap unceremoniously, burying her face against the sofa. "Frank," she says, quietly. "How do you deal with this?"

"As I said, work."

"That's so you."

"I know," he sighs.

They're quiet for a few moments, and he adds. "J keeps a few bottles of brandy at my office. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we opened one."

#beatrice baudelaire #count olaf #vfd theater kids who practically grew up together #frank denouement #brotp: overly specific hotel rules just for you #vera.txt

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i-write-things · 4 months

Text

What your favorite form of fanfic says about you:

(This is a joke and probably not 100% accurate, but I'm going to phsycho-analyze every aspect anyway. I am NOT a liscensed therapist, just the therapist friend of the group, and also pretty good at reading people and figuring them out. But if this is all true about y'all, please, talk to someone!)

Hurt/comfort-

Who hurt you? (your parents) Because someone did, and you're seeking the comfort/apology you should have gotten, but never received. As someone whose favorite genre is hurt/comfort, I might be projecting just a teensy weeny bit. but still, that doesn't take away from the fact that I know the majority of y'all have been hurt, phsycially and/or emotionally, by someone who was supposed to protect you. So you probably have daddy and/or mommy issues. Probably some relationship issues, too. Sorry if this is a triggering realization, just what I think. Anyways, my message to you would be STOP. 👏 LETTING. 👏 PEOPLE. 👏 WALK. 👏 ALL. 👏 OVER. 👏 YOU! 👏 I know you're either a people pleaser deep down, or it's very obvious and surface level, and I know this is hypocritical but whatever. Know your worth! Please!

Fluff-

This could either mean 1 of 3 things:

You sweet summer child, you. You've never met a day of violence and was trapped in a safety bubble all your life, and you can't even look at something awful happening in real life. Those ASPCA commercials have a target audience, and that is YOU. And does it work? Absolutely.

You've been neglected in your childhood or past relationships, so you're clinging to every bit of a sweet moment that you never got. This probably also bleeds into your relationships, so you're either super clingy, or push everyone away because you don't want to be hurt if you get neglected first. (If that is you, STOP DOING THAT! You are beautiful, loved, worth people's time, and not everyone is going to neglect you! And if they do find someone who won't. And not someone who isn't real. I know I write fanfics, but still.)

You just read the most heart wrenching, gut kicking angst of your life and you need some tooth rotting fluff to heal you because that hurted. (Why do you do this to yourself? I think it's unhealthy at this point...)

Angst/Hurt no comfort

No. Nuh uh. I don't fuck with y'all. there is some serious shit going on in that brain I'm not sure I wanna unload, but all I know is you need to seek a deeper therapy than me. I'll try to figure out what's going on, but this is gonna sound made up, and that's because I'm winging it at this point with little evidence other than a loose theory.

Ahem. You, and don't get mad at me, crave drama. And not because your a bitch who likes to see others suffer, (which you might be, but I'll just give you benefit of the doubt) and say that, once again, it leads back to your upbringing and past relationships trauma. Basically, I think that during your childhood/past relationships, there was so much drama(and trauma) going on that you can't move on, so now this hurt is normal to you, and your clinging to what is familiar. My message to you? No. NUH UH. Stop that. If your going to cling to what is familiar, try all the positive things, and not the shit that kills you inside.

Either that, or you're a masochist. JK! don't kill me!

(Bug me for part II)

-Pen, out!

#i write for you #writing for you #reader diagnosis #what your favorite says about you #fanfic #fanfiction #please seek therapy #I am not a liscensed psychologist #Fluff #hurt/comfort #Angst #hurt/no comfort

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dre6ming · 2 years

Text

Have some respect

Masterlist

To be added to the tag list click here

Pairing: Austin Butler x fem reader

Warnings: smut 18+ <minors dni>, oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, cursing, explicit language, mention of parent loss, mentions of death, fluff, angst…. Hope that’s all

Plot: you played Priscilla in the Elvis movie, but because you’re socially awkward you rarely interact with Austin and after a very intrusive interviewer asks a inappropriate question you two find comfort with each other.

Word count: 3220

Disclaimer: The idea came to me when I stumbled upon this TikTok (click here to watch) of the interviewer asking Austin how he broke the news that he’s gonna be Elvis to his mom. The interviewer didn’t know about Austin’s mom, which to me just shows lack of interest in doing your job, but you know it might be just me idk

It was yet another long day of sitting in a very uncomfortable chair answering the same questions over and over again. I love acting, please don't get me wrong, I love my job and sometimes even doing interviews can be fun, but after a full day of doing just that, there's nothing more I wish than to go home and take a bubble bath. I guess I should be thankful I'm not the lead of the movie though, as most questions are directed to Austin, so I get to sit beside him, nod and smile.

"Ok the last interviewer will be on in a minute" someone says. I sigh, rubbing my temples and wiggling a little in my chair since I've been stuck in it for hours now. Because of all the wiggling and moving around my chair tips over and I go straight for the ground. I close my eyes, letting out a little yelp, waiting to hit the floor with my face. Thankfully Austin was somewhat paying attention to me and he's quick to grab the chair and my arm. "Phew, my god, thank you" he lets out a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief, he knows I'm clumsy. I get stuck looking at him for a minute and then I realize his hand is still wrapped around my arm.

Looking down at his hand, seeing the veins running down it, while he's holding my arm...lord have mercy. I lick my lips and have to bite my tongue to stop the moan that rises in my throat. He clears his throat and takes the hand away, brushing it through his hair. If I weren't so fucking tiered and high on caffeine I'd swear I see a blush show up on his face.

The interviewer coming in startles me, so I take my eyes off of Austin and start to fiddle with my shirt. I've worked with Austin for 2 years filming and now we're almost done with a year long press tour, that's three years we've spent together, not once did I think of him in a romantic way. Sure he's good looking, but other than that I don't know much. I know I must sound like a hypocrite, but I'm not really social and besides the talking we did regarding scenes and filming, we've never really talked.

"Hi guys, nice to meet you, can we start?" The interviewer interrupts my train of thought. We both say hello and soon enough the guy starts asking questions. I'm not really listening and my luck will have it that besides two questions, which I've answered before, the guy only talks to Austin. I zone out for the rest of the interview, smiling when it seems like a good time to and laughing a bit when Austin does it. All goes smoothly until I hear the next question.

"So what did you mom and your grandma say when you were like 'guys I got Elvis! I'm gonna be Elvis!'" As soon as the question leaves the interviewer's mouth, my stomach drops. I look at Austin and I see his face fall as he takes in the question. Suddenly I feel so overprotective my mouth speaks before I can process it. "If you're gonna stand there asking us the same stupid questions, you could've at least done some research before hand." The guy seem taken back by my harsh answer and before he can say anything else, I get up from the chair and start taking my mic off. "That's it we're done, we've answered enough, thank you!" I slam the mic in the guys lap and walk past him.

As I make my way to the dressing room, I try not to think about how loud my publicist will scream at me. I also try not think that maybe I overreacted and it wasn't my place to do so. I get inside the dressing room taking my shoes off, my feet hurt so bad from dangling all day on the high chair. I hear a knock on the door. "Come in!" I say closing my eyes preparing for being scolded. God I feel like I'm back in highschool when I used to talk back to my teachers and get screamed at by my mom. I turn to look at Jenelle, only she's not the one to have walked in. It's Austin. I stand up and try to look presentable, but I know I'm far from that.

"Um hi, I just wanted say thank you, for having my back out there, I kinda got stuck." He says fidgeting with his hands. "Oh, yeah, I just, it's nothing. Plus I'm sure I would've frozen if I were in your place." He nods and I dare to look at his face for the first time. His eyes are red, he's not crying but I'm guessing he wants to. "Sit down." I say, motioning to the small couch. I go lock the door, so no one will barge in. Getting some cold water from the mini fridge and a box of tissues from the vanity, I put them next to him. I also sit down, but as far away from him as I can, it's already awkward enough, adding uncomfortable closeness will only make it more awkward. Austin looks at the things I brought over and chuckles, dragging his hand over his face. "You think I'm going to cry?"

I can't read his tone, so I'm just a bit stuck on what to answer. "I would" I say, remembering how hard I cried a few years ago when an interviewer asked me what my father thought about my role in 'Fifty shades of Grey', the woman, just like the guy today, didn't know my dad died when I was 15. "I'm past that." He says, but I don't really believe him. "I'm not."

After I say it, I cover my mouth with my hand, widening my eyes. "What?" He squints his eyes at me, confused by my words. "I-" my eyes move around the room trying to find something to focus on. "My dad died in a car crash when I was 15. A few years ago an interviewer asked my if I ever plan to show my dad 'Fifty shades of Grey', I started bawling on the spot." His face softens and I can see compassion washing over his expression. "I'm sorry!" I laugh trying to hide the lump that forms in my throat. "Don't be, the interviewers have one job, they should know these things"

I look at my lap, playing with the hem of my pants. One of his hands comes to my face, forcing me to look at him. His eyes have evident tears in them. My own vision starts to blur, then I feel his thumb caress my cheek, wiping away a singe tear. He licks his lips and without breaking eye contact he leans forward. "Can I?" He asks, his lips barely touching mine. Austin's breath feels warm against my face. I close my eyes anticipating the kiss. "Yes!" I say breathless.

He's lips crash onto my with force. With one hand holding my face, the other one moves to my waist. His tongue teases my bottom lip, making me open my mouth so he can explore freely. I sigh into the kiss and burry my fingers in his hair. Oh my god is it soft. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears and my lungs burn from being without oxygen for too long. He pulls me towards him, forcing me to sit on his lap, with my legs on either side of his hips. "Austin!" I moan when his lips leave mine and move to trail wet kisses down my neck. He grunts, the hand on my waist moving down to grip my hip.

Austin looks up at me, his eyes are dark with lust, lips swollen from kissing. "Baby, you look so beautiful like this!" I've gone mute, I can't talk, my body reacts unconsciously, as I shiver at the tone of his voice. The hand on my face, travels down, his finger tips brushing my skin, causing goosebumps to appear. Austin plays with the ribbon at the top of my shirt, untying it. The garment opens up, showing a bit more of my cleavage. "So pretty..." he whisper cupping one of my breasts, kneading it though the thin material. When he takes his hand away, my nipples stays hard, showing up through the thinness of the blouse. "No bra?" I shake my head. It was way more comfortable this way.

"Fuck" Austin breathes out, pressing me down on his crotch. I can feel the contour of his bulge, which causes my arousal to grow. Suddenly the room feels too warm. My hands move down his body until I reach the hem of his soft sweater. I sneak my hand under, feeling his hot skin. Austin muscles tense when my cold hands explore his torso and chest, slowly lifting off the sweater. He helps my take it over his head, grinning at me.

I get off from his lap and kiss my way down to the waist band of his pants. "(Y/n) you don't have to!" I think for a millisecond that, yes I don't have to, but I do want to. "I want to!" I say looking up at him between his legs. I carefully unbutton his pants, dragging them down along with his underwear. I sit back and take in the image before me. Austin Butler, my co-star, the person I've been scared to talk to for three years, is sitting naked in front of me, cock hard against his abdomen. He's perfect.

I blow on my hands to warm them up a bit before I touch him and he chuckles at me, brushing his hair back. "You wouldn't be laughing if my hands were freezing cold when I touched your dick." I say, looking at him through my lashes and smirking, when the smile falls from his lips. I take him in my hand, stroking slowly up and down, moving my thumb over the head. "Ah, fuck, baby!" The pet name as me rubbing my thighs together, hoping to get some relief. I come close to his cock and blow on it, smiling when his hips jump up slightly and his bites his bottom lip. "Don't tease!" He warns.

I take him in my mouth, moaning at the taste of him. Austin is struggling to hold still and one of his hands grabs my hair. I move down slowly, trying to take as much of him as I can in my mouth. I moan around him, starting to bop my head. One of my hands grabs his thigh to steady myself, the other goes to his balls, massaging them softly. He can no longer contain himself, he uses the grip on my hair to guide me around him. Tears stream down my cheeks as he starts thrusting his hips up, touching the back of my throat every time. "Fuck me, such a good girl for me, sucking me off so good. Agh-" he throws his head back, eyes closing tightly.

"Stop...stop" I get off of him as soon as he says that and panic arises inside me. Oh god what was I thinking, giving him a blow job, here, when we've barely spoken in the years we've worked together. "I want to be inside you. Can I?" My cheeks turn crimson red. I stand up and pull my shirt over my head, exposing my breasts. "God you're an angel!" As my hands work on my pants, Austin starts stroking himself. I moan at the sight of him pleasuring himself in from to me. After my pants and underwear drop to the floor I kick the away and sit back on his lap. "Like what you see?" I ask with more confidence than I've ever had in my life. I press myself down over his hard dick, grinding myself against him. He grabs my hips stilling me. "No teasing baby, please!" Austin's eyes are half closed looking at me through his lashes. Those long lush lashes.

I lift up my hips, grab him with one hand and align him with my hole, but before I sink down on him he stops me. "Condom, I- I don't have one" he says through gritted teeth. "I'm clean and I have an IUD" I say whining, my wall contracting around nothing in anticipation for him to fill me up. "I'm clean too." He says and lets me move down on him. "So wet for me.." he breathes out "Austin!" I moan as I keep going down.

When my hips touch his, I throw my head back moaning loudly at the feeling on being so full. I start to move on him. He grunts taking in the feeling of me around him. "So tight f'me" he starts helping me move, thrusting into me, meeting my moves. "So good!" I say moving my hands up to play with my breasts. He growls at my actions and moves faster. I have to let go of my breasts and grab his shoulders to steady myself. Austin lifts his head up and sucks one of my nipples in his mouth. "I'm close, please!" I beg.

My walls squeeze him, causing him to lose the rhythm of his thrusts. "Me too baby, me too..." his right hand leaves my hips and goes to my clit. "So wet.." he moans starting to draw circles on the bundle of nerves. Soon I'm trembling above him, my pussy contracting around him over and over again, incoherent curses leaving my lips as my orgasm washes over my body. "Riding me so good, (Y/n), I'm gonna come so hard." When he says that he gets up from the couch, holding me in his arms, dick buried deep inside me. He supports my back and puts me down on the couch, hovering over me.

Austin's thrusts are relentless, the rhythm animalistic, making my boobs shake up and down. "I- I can't, Aus, too much!" I say barely gathering my thoughts enough to make sense. "One more honey, for me, you can do it." I shake my head as tears prick my eyes. His lips are on my cheeks kissing away the salty liquid pouring from my eyes. He starts playing with my clit again, he's unforgiving, chasing both of our orgasm. "With me baby, cum!" He whispers in my ear. I see white dots behind my closed lids, my body trembling with the force of my climax. He kisses me swallowing my screams. I feel him twitch inside me and the the warmth of his cum spilling in me becomes evident.

I hug him closely, tangling my arms around his torso. We stay like that for a while, enjoying the warmth of our bodies being so close. Unfortunately we both broke a sweat during our unholy activities, so I shiver at the temperature in the room. He notices and getting out of me, which is met with a vocal disappointment form me, he takes his blue sweater and puts it over my head. "As much as I hate to hide those beautiful breasts, I don't want you to catch a cold." I giggle and put my arms through the sleeves of the sweater. I lift my hips up to drag the clothing item over my butt as it reaches almost my mid thigh. I wince when I move, feeling the aftermath of having sex after a long time of unintentional abstinence.

His eyebrows draw together at my reaction and then it becomes clear to him as a huge smile spreads over his face, eyes twinkling with joy. "Did I fuck you that good, baby?" He asks kissing my forehead. I laugh and pull his head back by the hair. "What would you say to having dinner with me tonight?" I blush and look away. I can't believe he wants to have dinner with me, it has to be a pity offer since I fucked him. Austin seems to catch on the fact that I'm overthinking and he draws my eyes to him, by lifting my chin up. "I've had a crush on you for a while now, but since you were always so formal when talking I thought you weren't interested" My eyes widen at his confession. "I like you too, I'm just, you know socially awkward.."

He laughs and dips a long finger in between my folds gathering some of his cum, mixed with my own. I moan and watch him as he take the finger up to his lips and lick it clean. "Social awkward? Didn't seem like it a minute ago!" I laugh and slap his chest playfully. We share another laugh and then he comes in for a kiss, a tender, sweet and slow kiss, that causes my heart to speed up and my stomach to do flips.

"So dinner?" He asks when he pulls away. Austin kisses my nose before I can answer, the ticklish feeling making me giggle "with me?" He asks kissing my forehead. "Tonight?" His lips cover mine giving me a quick kiss there as well. "You have to let me answer Butler!" I say chuckling at his playfulness. "So?" He pushes.

"Yes I'll have dinner with you!" I say and he hugs me tightly, kissing my cheek. We both jump when a knock is heard. We hold our breaths as we see the door knob move, but thankfully I locked the door before hand and whoever is out there can't come in. "(Y/n) meet you at the car in five, what you just did out there was a disaster!" Jenelle, my publicist screams form the other side of the door. "Okay!" I shout back as I start moving around gathering my clothes. I try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of cum dripping out of me.

In my hurried frenzy, Austin puts his hand on my shoulder. We both share a look and laugh at our current condition. Naked in a dressing room, looking fucked out. We begin to laugh as we both begin getting dressed. I sigh disappointed to have to give his warm, soft sweater that smells like him. After we're both presentable, he kisses the top of my head, holding my face in his hands. "You go first baby! I'll wait a minute to leave!" He mumbles against my hair. I step away from him, take my bag and my shoes and go for the door. Before I walk out I look at him one more time. "See you at 7, I'll make sure to bring the sweater, you can have it" he winks at me. Blushing I smile and walk out of the dressing room.

As I get in the car, I start to question if what happened was real or a tiered hallucination, but all doubt gets washed away when I get comfortable in the seat and feel the cum soak my panties, making me smile as I cross my legs. "What was on your mind?" My eyes snap at Jenelle and I just shrug my shoulders. All I can think of is how I wished 7 o'clock would come faster.

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juminies · 1 year

Text

CCTV

day 6, saeyoung's perspective

seven x mc, 752 words

☆

Code. Check the cameras. Code. Check the cameras. Code. Every time he looks back to his work his vision is practically a blur. Her name forms at his fingertips. He backspaces, but the strings of numbers and letters and symbols on the screen may as well just read her name over and over again anyway. He leans back in his chair and groans half-heartedly; almost considers burying his face in his hands but, no. Instead he clicks over to check the cameras.

“Focus, agent,” he whispers to himself, because that’s what he needs to be now. Agent. Though his eyes, Saeyoung’s eyes, stay glued to the CCTV footage. She’s just so distracting.

He can’t even see her. She’s inside the apartment, and the security system is only positioned to show outside. One camera points at the door, another at the hallway. Considering how on edge he is, he’d probably notice if someone were to come into view of either camera even while Vanderwood is on watch. But sometimes, not very often but sometimes, she’ll poke her head out of the door and wave at him. Every 2 seconds (the extra 0.35 had slowly whittled away over the course of the last two days) he has a chance to look over and see her for real, outside of the images of her his mind is toying with while he should be working. Outside of the thought of her laugh when he says something silly, the idea of her gentle touch when he's so starved of it.

He opens up the agency server again, as if it's somehow possible to distract himself from the distraction. He doesn't even manage to type a full line before switching back over to the cameras.

The CCTV doesn’t have sound. Even still, in an even smaller portion of the sometimes-s, with giddiness forcing and clawing its way through his reasoning (though he won’t admit she makes him giddy, he can’t, because people like him don’t get to feel giddy) she’ll mouth something to him. Her voice plays automatically in his head when she does it. Then it lingers; stuck on repeat. Did you eat? she’ll say, or you got this, Seven! Once or twice she had even told him jokes, sweetly waiting in jest for a response she knew she wouldn’t get before dropping the punchline. He didn’t eat, not like she means to ask. He hasn't eaten a real meal in days. And realistically, he thinks, he doesn’t have this at all. He has never felt so clueless when it comes to hacking, and to make it just that bit worse he has absolutely no idea why he can’t just focus. Nonetheless, it gives him a spike of motivation when she appears on the screen. So maybe he’ll add back in the extra .35 seconds, just for a little while, until he gets too distracted by the thought of her again.

It’s hard to place feelings you’ve come to find so foreign as time ticks, ticks, ticks (for him like a bomb, rather than a clock). But he can’t stop thinking about seeing her, and surely, surely, a tiny voice tells him, her gestures mean she can’t stop thinking about him either.

Which is bad.

So why does it make something in him feel… hopeful? Is this what hope feels like? He’s forgotten. It’s been so long.

He had asked everyone not to make guesses about him. He wonders if maybe he was a hypocrite in that sense, because when it comes to her he can’t stop guessing. Even subconsciously. He wants to know everything she could offer. So he guesses. What she’s doing right now, what snacks she buys from the convenience store, if she feels safe, if she trusts him. When why do I want her to care so much? surfaces, however, he pushes it down immediately. He ties cinderblocks to it and throws it into the ocean. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it, because he can’t. Vanderwood reminded him of the fact, too. People like him

aren’t

allowed.

They’re not allowed to care, because caring means forming attachments, and forming attachments means danger, and it means pain, and it means heartbreak when he inevitably has to uproot himself again; take on a completely new person again. Haven’t people he loves suffered enough at his hands already? So he protects from a distance.

And he keeps looking at the cameras. Merely to protect, if not to subdue the dull ache in his chest.

#is this anything OTL #mystic messenger #seven #saeyoung choi #seven x mc #saeyoung x mc #I wrote most of this at 3am and tried not to obsess over editing so forgive any mistakes #annfic

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ogdoadfates · 11 months

Text

This is a little all over the place but I’ve been dieing to write at least something while I’m so busy with art fight, commissions and all the other things happening this july, so have some percahllia in my Potions and Trinkets au!

One thing Vex noticed rather quickly after getting to know Percy was that he rarely showed much skin but after a while and some rather interesting events, she got to see why. He’s covered in scars, something she didn’t expect to find under the shirt of the tinkerer. A few here and there sure but as she retraces a scar marring his chest she knows that there is more to his story then what he’s revelived to her.

Of course he’s told her some, not all though. Vex can guess where some are from, a murderous betrayers knife finding its way long ago into a frightened boy's side, a horrendous fall into a rapid filled with dagger sharp rocks that granted him his escape in exchange for his blood. Still there are gaps to his story that she only has mysterious echos of mangled flesh to help her puzzle together.

As Percy’s work worn fingers trace over a scar marring her side, she’s reminded she herself doesn’t have room to talk when it comes to revealing stories. In fact she’s probably accidentally told Keyleth more than she’s told Percy, which brings up a thought.

“Does Keyleth know how you got these?” She asks as she lightly drags her fingers over a particularly large puckering scar on his waist. As his brow furrows with discomfort she’s quick to add. “I’m not asking for details on where you got them just if she knows.”

Though his brow stays furrowed it’s no longer uncomfortable but rather in thought. “I believe I’ve told her. I was rather delirious when we first met, I’m not even sure how much I told her.” He takes a deep breath in, his eyes take a slow glance around the room till they make their way back to hers. “She knows a great deal, enough to where she knows me better than myself I feel.”

“Keyleth does seem to have an innate ability to get people to ramble their life stories.” Vex mumbles causing Percy to laugh and what a delightful sound it is. It’s such a beautiful noise and her heart gives off a joyful yet pained pang, it’s one born of happiness of hearing this cherished sound more and more often but with the saddening note of how many years the sound has been lost to the world.

“That she does.” He says looking to the ceiling with a gaze miles and miles away from their place on his bed but it isn’t in the tortured way she usually finds him in, where he’s locked in a time long ago rather it’s one of a sad yet happy fondness. In some ways the expression reminds her of the day the two of them finally stopped dancing around each other, the only difference being shy bashfulness had replaced this sadness. “Does it bother you?”

The sudden question startles Vex out of her prolonged staring. “What do you mean?” She asks, her voice thick with confusion. It’s not like Keyleth explicitly asks or bugs people into telling her their life stories, it’s more so a thing that just happens so it’s not like it bothers her.

“That I’ve not told you everything.” He’s looking into her eyes with a cautious intensity that she hasn’t seen directed her way from him in a long while, it gives her pause for but a moment till she bursts into giggles. She can feel the man besides her confusion but she really can’t help but laugh.

“Darling, I’ve barely told you of my own past, I feel I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I disliked the fact you haven’t told me everything, not to mention I wouldn’t be here as often as I am if I had a problem with it!” She knows he fully understands her meaning as she sees the blush overcome his now smirking face.

#Potions and trinkets au #percy de rolo #percy x vex #percahlia #vex'ahlia #vex #criticalrole #critical role #criticalrole fanfic #critical role fanfiction

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webarebares · 9 months

Text

Back to Back

I wrote a little post TOTK Zelink fanfic a few days ago and wanted to post it here <3

Ao3 Link | Rated G | Word Count: 2,958

They sleep back to back. Link can feel Zelda breath through the night in two different patterns. The first one is offbeat. She goes through moments of holding her breath and then short breathing. She’s mentally turning herself inside out and upside down, and he can’t do anything about it. The second pattern goes off after maybe two or three hours of slight shifting and an occasional heavy breath. It’s steady. It’s quiet. It means she’s finally asleep.

Then and only then is when Link will close his own eyes to sleep. He could sleep right away, really. He likes to sleep a lot these days. But there’s a chance Zelda will slip out of bed to go for a short walk, and he gets to follow and tell her that he wasn’t sleeping anyways without lying. They spent so much time apart that he doesn’t want to spend any of it being dishonest.

It is a strange little relationship they both have. Preceding the first rise of Calamity Ganon, they never vocalized any deep feelings other than the one time Zelda said to him, “You are my best friend.” He didn’t even remember that until he made her the first meal she had in one hundred years. After that, Link stayed at the inn and Zelda stayed at his house until one day he fell sick, and she made him sleep in her (their?) bed to take care of him. He hasn’t slept elsewhere since.

They sleep back to back. Before the fall, before the loss of his arm, Zelda would wrap her arms and sometimes legs around him and fall asleep in an instant. Not every night, but Link liked to keep a hand on her waist or her back. When she was surely asleep, he’d give an experimental squeeze to know she was real and not a memory. She was living, and he could feel her under the hand that fought to bring her back.

Now, he tracks that she’s real through her breathing. The one week she had a stuffy nose was hell because she could go so long without letting out a single breath, and he was always on the brink of sitting up to check her pulse before she moved, and he knew she was alive. Maybe he’s too paranoid now. Whatever she replays in her head every night, he knows that she can’t tell her not to worry about it without sounding hypocritical. He worries just as much even though Ganondorf literally blew up before all of Hyrule’s eyes four months prior. He’s already worrying for the next fight in the next life and how he’s going to protect her then.

Since Hyrule is still going, that probably means he’s never failed. But maybe, maybe, maybe he will fail one day. One day he won’t be strong enough or dodge fast enough and then, then, then, he will fail her. He can’t tell if he already has because they sleep back to back.

Zelda sits up and right away, Link’s eyes fall wide open. Their loft is dim in the full moon, no longer red. Just like she has every other time, Zelda tries to slowly move to the end of the bed to get off without having to climb over him. He saves her the trouble of being sneaky and sits up, her neck quickly turning to him.

“Oh, Link,” she says. She doesn’t sound surprised. “I had a feeling you’d be awake. I am going to go on a stroll. Would you like to join me?” Link nods and gets his legs out of bed and slips his feet into his sandals. Zelda, wearing her white night dress, grabs her a blue coat from a hook in the corner and slips into her own sandals. Link bought her that coat recently, and she wears it often. Link’s pajamas are made up of a thin green long sleeve and matching pants. Zelda cut the right sleeve and sewed it into a neat fold, as well as his other clothes. He decides he doesn’t need his coat, but he makes a note to suck it up if it does get cold.

He settles the Master Sword on his back and follows Zelda down the stairs and out their front door into the cold air of the night. Goosebumps move up his arm, but he closes the door without going back for his coat. He doesn’t want to go back up and plus, Zelda is already at the suspension bridge. She’s always moved very fast, since they were teenagers. Get here, do that, now onto the next thing.

Recently though, she’s seemed to slow down. As if she’s afraid to make progress because she’ll be ripped away from her life again. Link doesn’t know how to communicate that he feels the same way. How to communicate that he’s waiting, cowering, and afraid. And still, he’d do it a third time, lose another limb, run straight into malice if it meant they’d get to sleep in the same bed. Even if it’s back to back.

They take the path through Hateno Village. It’s a calm quiet Link sometimes can’t believe exists in this world. If he listens too hard, he can make out sounds of monsters but really, he’s only seen Keese in the distance since it all went down. It makes it easy for him and Zelda to walk through Retsam forest in peace.

There’s enough light from the moon and stars to see them through late dusk as they venture into the trees. Link can make out mushrooms and stops to look at an ironshroom.

“Zelda,” he says her name. He doesn’t say it much. It’s only when he absolutely needs her attention. He wants it all the time.

“Yes?” She walks back a few steps to meet him. He crouches down lower and points at the mushroom.

He says, “Let’s bring the students to pick mushrooms. You can talk about the science part of it, and I can teach them a few recipes.” She smiles under the lighting they are given, and he cherishes it.

“I like that idea.” He likes the validation he gets from her. “We can do a few field trips now that the forests are safe.” Because their lives are a reality show for Hylia, they hear a wolf’s howl in the distance. Link immediately stands and puts his hand on Zelda’s hip, over her coat. They don’t touch as much as they used to before. It’s much rarer now. Just in moments like this or Zelda tying Link’s hair back for him. A lingering hand touch as they pass spices in the kitchen, Zelda picking lint off his shirt, Link taking grass out of her hair after she lays on it to cloud watch. Much rarer.

He doesn’t expect to hear her laugh, but he finds himself smiling with her. “Well, I think we can scope out for wolves in the morning before we bring them along. And the foxes will just flee. Oh, maybe you can catch a fox for us.” Zelda puts her fingers under her chin like she always does when she’s thinking. Link has copied her a few times, and she’s yet to notice it’s something she does. “Maybe next year when they’re a little older we can dissect a few things like fish or frogs. Wouldn’t that be exciting?” He nods.

She turns herself towards him and leans her hip more into his hand, and he’s basically holding onto her now. There’s no danger and still, he doesn’t want to let go. She starts talking about getting tools for dissections and tells him to remind her to ask Robbie about borrowing some. He listens because he loves to listen to her. She has so much energy even in the midst of the night. Her brain never stops.

“I think I’m getting ahead of myself again,” she says nervously. The excitement got sucked out of her with the realization. There it is. This fear of planning for the future.

“Who cares?” Link says. Maybe not the most comforting thing, so he tries to save himself “Plan ahead. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” She still sounds unsure, and her anxieties are the one thing Link can’t slash with a sword. It fills his chest with deep lament. “It should be fine.” Link realizes how close she is to him. He can see how her eyes change from enthusiasm to fear. The chili weather is nothing amidst all these trees and their proximity, but he feels cold for other reasons.

“I’m scared,” he says. Is he making this about him? Or has this always been about them, together? Zelda looks at him curiously, a tilt of the head and studying eyes. He’s not sure he’s ever admitted to something that can come across as weak. He’s been strong his entire life, and in order to balance out the weight of brute immortality versus humanity, he’s gone silent. Still, he knows he can speak all he needs to with Zelda. He can be vulnerable with her. “I’m scared it’s all going to happen again. And again. And again.” Zelda steps closer to him and brushes some hair that had fallen into his eye. “Maybe I can do it one more time in this life but after that? I only have one arm left.” He moves his hand off of her and wiggles his fingers in front of her face, making her giggle.

“It will not happen again,” she says to him. She takes his hand between hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Not now at least.” They hear two wolves howl in the distance, one right after the other. Maybe they’re looking for each other, and Link can’t find the danger in that. “But we’re going to worry about it forever, aren’t we?”

“And ever.” So much for being comforting. But it does feel good to get things out in the open. Zelda can figure out why he still takes the sword to school but maybe she’s always known. “How do we move on?” he asks.

“How we did the first time,” she shrugs. “How was that?”

“Dragon brain get you again?” he asks. She lets out a full laugh that comes from her stomach, and Link feels happy to be alive. Her hands still hold onto his, and he frees it to flick off a leaf that has fallen on her shoulder. Naturally, he then sneaks his hand past the open front of her coat and settles his hand over the waist of her nightdress. Touch. Laughter. Exploring. This is how they moved on the first time.

Zelda’s voice lowers to a whisper and she says, “I think we need to sleep at better hours. It isn’t good for us to sleep so little when we are already in such state. We slept so much that first year after the calamity.”

“Second year,” Link corrects her. “You were so excited to be out and about again that you ran yourself to the ground that first year. Then we forced you to sleep a little more, and your body had to play catch up.”

“I remember that,” Zelda says. She starts laughing under her breath. “I remember the one time I didn’t sleep for about two days, you made me get in bed and then fell asleep on top of me so I wouldn’t sneak off.” Link’s fingers involuntarily squeeze her waist. He’s so fond of her, truly.

“You can laugh, but I was so worried. I still am.”

“Please don’t worry. I’m safe even when you’re sleeping.” Zelda’s hands go into her coat pockets, locking Link’s hand inside of it. He’s not sure what to make of it. “Speaking of, you should really try to sleep even if I’m still awake. I know you refuse to fall asleep until I do, but I feel quite bad.” Link feels his face turn red. He didn’t think she knew.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s a habit.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t nag you about it. But I’d like it if you tried.”

“Would you sleep easier?”

“No.” She is honest as well. “My mind has to tire itself out first. Then I can sleep.”

“It’ll get easier,” is all he can muster to tell her. It’s not a lie. It’s not a desperate promise, either. It’s a fact.

“It will, won’t it?” she says with an air of calm. Her eyes go up to the sky that’s blocked by the tree they are next to. They move to Link and then down to the nook of his arm. She is almost too quiet when she asks something so bold, “May I ask, why don’t you hold me to sleep like you used to?”

Link can’t stop it from coming out of his mouth. “Oh.” He feels a little stupid for letting it slip out so fast because he sounds as stumped as she is. “I just.” This is so complicated. He should have kissed her years ago and every time he’s ever wanted, maybe it’d be easier. He tries to act like he didn’t think that.

“It’s okay if you need space. We’ve been through a lot, and you most likely got used to having a bed to yourself.” Link was the one that insisted he wanted to share beds with her when they got back four months ago. He knows that they grow a bit distant and weird after reuniting because they’re both processing so much, and he didn’t want to lose the one intimate connection he’d for sure have with her.

“I thought you were the one that wanted space.”

“I wish you gave me less.” Her eyes dance with his. Her mouth is in a thin line, so he knows this conversation is costing her all she has. Somehow, he is thankful.

His hand pulls her closer by the waist, and she steps into him. Her face is in his, and he can feel the warmth of her breath. “Like this?”

She can barely get the words out to confirm. “Exactly like this.” Link doesn’t waste another second and kisses her, Zelda wrapping her arms around him to place her hands on his back. He’s not cold at all anymore.

He pulls away to admire her before pressing another soft, chaste kiss on her lips. He tells her, “We should go home. And maybe get some decent sleep.” She agrees, and he grabs her hand, leading the way back to their home.

“We do this on and off,” she points out to him, holding their interlocked fingers up for a second. “We get closer and then when we survive a tragedy, we separate. I don’t like it. I never know how to act around you afterwards.” She sounds humored. “Not that I’ve known how to act around you even after all these years.” He was a fool to think he could stop her thoughts from spinning so fast with a kiss. He’s not upset about it, either. Somehow this is the most relaxed he’s felt in so long.

“I’m sorry.” He understands every word that comes out of her mouth. He knows her so well. They feel the same things in such a similar wavelenght, and he wonders if that comes with centuries of being reborn for the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever known how to act around you. You’ve always taken the reigns. Even today,” he says. “You go, I follow. But we can talk it all out. I’ll listen.”

“Are you okay with that?” She squeezes his hand as they enter the village. The sun is vaguely rising in the distance. They can catch a few hours of sleep.

“Okay with what?”

“Following me.” Zelda has felt guilt for this before, and he’s by her side because it feels right.

“I’m going to follow you into the next life and smile while doing it.” It’s the truth and although heavy and laced with dreadful knowledge, there is light in being in love.

“Despite it all?”

“Despite it all.”

They cross their bridge and enter their house. Zelda removes her coat, and Link leans the sword against the wall next to their bed. Baby steps.

The two slip under the covers, and Zelda and him are forehead to forehead. She plants on last kiss on his nose for the night and lets her arm lay over him, Link doing the same and resting his hand on her back.

Link decides to get it out before they fall asleep. “I love you. I want you to know that. I always have.”

“You always have?” Zelda’s eyes were closed, but she opens them just for this. The subtle grace of dawn is starting to dance through their window. They can sleep in with no worries. They don’t have to save the world anymore.

“I’ve loved you for ten thousand one hundred and seven years.”

“That’s a long time.” She’s smiling, looking at him fondly with a face he makes note to kiss every inch of when he gets the chance. “I’ll have you know I’ve loved you for ten thousand one hundred and eight years.”

“That’s a long time.” Joy comes naturally with her. He can sleep, but he gets more happiness in staring at her face. “Can you say it once before I fall asleep?” His body is starting to crash, but he’s trying to savor every moment of this without dreading a possible end.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He has to say it twice. “Just in case you didn’t hear it the first time.”

“So considerate,” she mumbles. They’re both asleep within minutes, nose to nose.

#stars writing #loz #zelink #the legend of zelda #totk

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growup-thatbeautiful · 1 year

Text

the story (i was made for you)

Summary: On the Texas Plains, Cody and Ben meet. And they fall in love.

Tags: Cody/Obi-wan, Cody is a good bro, Cowboy AU, western, no major warnings

Word Count: 4k

~*~

The Texas plains are less quiet at night than people think they are. The insistent rustle of grass in the wind, the faraway howling of some nocturnal animal, the low buzz of insects, all these sounds fill the silence, a symphony of their own. When he first moved here, it was unnerving, how alive things always seemed. He was used to the city noise, the radio-static stoplights, and the constant hum of his brothers talking into the late hours.

Now, though, he’s used to it- he can’t sleep without it. Things are too still when it’s quiet, and the world seems to be passing him by while he stays stuck in the same place. He’ll never get used to the missing chaos of his family, but he figures that’s a part of being homesick.

That’s not something you ever get over, he thinks. No matter where he is, he’ll miss the soft-spoken, hard-truth complaints from Fox and the constant steadiness of Waxer beside him.

He has things to keep him company, though, when Rex isn’t here. First and foremost, he has Sunny, his brown and cream splattered paint, tied to a tree a few feet away. She’s his lone companion, most days, and she’s not too bad company. She can be temperamental and standoffish, but so can he. The fire going out, the wind howling in his ears, the coffee burning. Mundane observations that take the forefront of his mind without his permission.

Cody isn’t sure when Rex is going to be back; the town can be busy at this time of night. Or, at least, as busy as it gets. Usually, Cody wouldn’t mind going into town with Rex, but, like always, Rex seemed to know when Cody needs time to himself.

As the night grows more alive, Cody does too. He’s never been good at going to sleep or staying asleep for that matter.

He can’t see far into the distance, but he hears the sound of Rex approaching.

“Hey, bud,” Cody greets.

“You’re still awake? I thought you would at least be pretending to sleep by now.” Rex swings out of the saddle and his boots crunch on top of the dry soil. “And don’t say that weird shit about the night being alive.”

Cody chides, “Language,” and gets up to help with the unpacking. He doesn’t deny the accusation. “Did you get the-”

“I got everything you asked for, don’t worry. When have I ever let you down?” Cody doesn’t answer the question and focuses on sorting through the various cans of beans, fresh tortillas, and dried meats.

“You forgot chewing gum,” Cody mentions, after he’s done looking through the bag. “You’re going to bite your nails bloody, bud.”

“I didn’t forget, I already have it in my pocket.” Rex’s tone is off-hand as he tosses the gum to Cody. “Take a piece and give it back.”

The pink wrapper flashes in the light of Rex’s lamp. “This is bubblegum,” Cody says stupidly. “You hate bubblegum.”

“Yep.” Again, the off-hand tone. “I got the kind I liked last time. It was your turn.” Rex sets his palate down on the hard ground next to Cody, his green pillow almost brown at this point. He lays down on his back, his hat covering his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cody protests. “You chew it more than I do.”

“I wanted to,” is all Rex says before he turns on his side and falls asleep. Cody knows he asked for this, knows that his own distance is the reason that Rex is acting the way he is, but it hurts nonetheless.

It’s hypocritical, the way Cody allows these things to hurt him. Rex is the only person he really has left anymore. He can’t let the little things wear him down, not when he has to be a model for Rex, not that he’s been a good role model all this time. But he knows what it means to look up to someone, knows the weight that it should carry on both ends.

He needs to live up to the legacy that Rex has built in his head.

But all anything seems to do out here is curl up and die.

~*~

The altruistic sun burns above him, giving its life for forms that it doesn’t know to exist. The waves of heat that distort the horizon cast a dreamlike state over the plains, brown trees and limitless yellow grass in every direction.

At first, he almost doesn’t see it. Shadows, however uncommon, blend in with the hazy land as if they were painted on with the barest brushstroke. But movement is undeniably present, and Cody knows what to look for. He knows what a person riding up on a horse looks like, and he knows it doesn’t always mean good news.

“Hold up,” he calls to Rex, putting his arm up in case he doesn’t hear. “There’s someone out there.”

“Really?” There’s excitement in Rex’s voice, an uncommon opportunity. Cody hates to be the person to always On the horizon, the man steps off his horse, patting it on the side before stopping to look at Cody. It seems as if he’s psyching himself up before he starts the long walk closer to them. It’s not an easy walk, but Cody figures that he’s trying to appear peaceful. As if anyone can really be peaceful out here.

He gets closer and Cody can make out more details. His reddish-brown hair glints in the sunlight almost like the sunlight itself, and even Cody with his eyesight can see the freckles that dot his nose. And his eyes, oh, his eyes. They’re the color of the ocean, with just as much depth. They’re cunning and smart, with laugh lines and stories to tell. He’s close enough now so that Cody can feel himself start to get nervous. It’s unavoidable, when there are so few people he’s used to seeing.

“Bud, get the horse.” Cody doesn’t look at Rex when he speaks, but he doesn’t need to. There’s no one else he would speak so gently to. No one else to speak to in general, besides the approaching figure.

“I want to stay here with you,” Rex argues, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “You can trust me.”

“I know I can,” Cody sighs. If only it were as easy as trust. “Get the horse. Now.”

“No.” The set of Rex’s shoulders is firm, set against the ever-dying orange sun.

“Do it,” Cody says, with eyes that cut like his voice does. Rex was raised to know when to listen and when to shut up. With a flash of his eyes, he turns on his heel and walks away, kicking up dust. The horses aren’t far away- he can hear them huffing against the dry air from where they're tied to a low wooden fence.

Finally, the man is close enough for his voice to carry. It’s gentler than it should be, in a place like this. “I’m Ben,” the man introduces in a soft, lilting accent. It doesn’t belong here. It belongs to those period dramas Cody’s mom used to watch with him and his brothers when they were sick. He always pretended not to like them, but he misses their inconsequential romance plots and pretty words.

“Who are they?” Cody asks bluntly, pointing to the two figures in the distance. “They’re with you?”

“Those are my kids, Anakin and Ahsoka.” Ben doesn’t wave them forward, but he doesn’t tell them to turn away either. “We’re just passing through, if you don’t mind.”

Cody shrugs. “It’s not my land.” He whistles sharply two notes in succession, signaling for Rex to bring the horses over. If they need to outrun these strangers, Cody’s sure that they’ll be faster. Ben nods and waves Anakin and Ahsoka forward. Warily, they make their way toward them. As they get closer, a sinking feeling settles low in Cody’s stomach. Anakin looks like he’s no more than 17, and Ahsoka looks younger. They’re both bone skinny, wearing clothes that don’t fit correctly.

Ahsoka dons a ratty blue coat that’s belted at the waist, roughly hewn, knife-cut notches visible from her. What seems to be a blue and orange ribbon is interwoven with her thick braids, faded from whatever past glory it faced. Her dark skin is dotted with lighter patches on her cheeks and forehead, and some memory helpfully supplies Vitiligo to Cody.

Anakin doesn’t look much better. His dark blue jean button-up fits better than Ahsoka’s, but it’s definitely seen better days. His jeans have holes in the knees and along the stitches, and his hat looks like it’s being held together by the piece of leather wrapped around it. The hollows of his cheeks are more pronounced than they should be, and his hair is matted with sweat along his neck.

Ahsoka steps down off her horse and sticks out a gloved hand to shake. “I’m Ahsoka, and this is Morai.” She points to her horse, a white mare with big, green eyes. It blinks slowly at him, indifferent to Ahsoka’s introduction.

Without waiting for Cody’s name, Anakin speaks up, staying on his horse. “I’m Anakin. This is Artoo.” Anakin’s horse, a gray quarter horse, shakes its mane and huffs, calming at Anakin’s touch.

Rex approaches Cody surely, not giving away if he’s as on edge as Cody is about the newcomers. He looks at Cody, who gives nothing away. Or, at least, he’s trying to give nothing away. Cody might not have the best poker face, but he knows for a fact that it’s better than these strangers, all brimming with excitement and curiosity. With a roll of his eyes, Rex sticks his hand out for Ben to shake and introduces himself. “I’m Rex, and that’s my brother Cody. He’s not as mean as he looks.”

“He doesn’t look mean,” Ben smiles, squinting against the sun and looking at Cody. “He’s simply cautious, as he should be.”

Cody has the strangest urge to thank Ben. He settles for asking, in the politest tone he can muster, “Are you new around here?”

“I’m not, but Ahsoka and Anakin are. I’ve been showing them the ropes, so to speak. Is it that obvious that we don’t know what we’re doing?” Ben, surprisingly, doesn’t have any trace of embarrassment in his voice, as so many would.

“Not at all,” Cody assures. He doesn’t say anything about how Ahsoka is riding too stiff and Anakin is too far back for such flat terrain. “You look like pros.”

“Really?” Ahsoka beams, her smile wider than the sun. Ben sends an appreciative look at Cody before turning to her and giving her a thumbs up.

“Sure you do, kid,” Rex chimes in. “You’re a real Butch Cassidy.”

“She doesn’t know who that is,” Anakin laughs, flipping Ahsoka off, to Ben’s apparent dismay. “Sorry, Ben.” Anakin doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“I don’t have to know who it is to know they’re a badass,” counters Ahsoka. She turns to Rex with a fierceness behind her gaze that Cody knows from his brothers. He can tell that Ahsoka and Anakin are fighters. They have the strong Fett set in their jaw and the determination in their eyes that Cody doesn’t see reflected in Ben. Mainly, Ben seems kind, but they had to learn it from someone. “Right?”

“Exactly,” Rex agrees. He spares a quick glance at Cody before guiding his horse closer to them. “Where are you on your way to? Most people don’t just wander along these parts.”

Ben starts to answer, but he’s cut off by Anakin’s louder voice. “Ben was going to take us to Mos Eisley.”

“The gambling town?” Cody asks skeptically. He didn’t take the three of them for the type of people to frequent places like Mos Eisley.

“No,” Ben corrects with a smile. “Just outside of there. I know a few people who live out there, and I thought it would be a good getaway for a while.”

Whatever Cody is going to say next is interrupted by the clapping of thunder, loud and rolling. All at once, the atmosphere has changed. It’s charged with wind and the smell before rain.

And electricity. He can feel it, the static creeping along his neck, making his skin stand on edge. Maybe it’s superstition, but he knows that they need to get out of here; this isn’t a thunderstorm that they can sit through underneath a tree. He can feel the air charge up to strike- lightning lighting up the sky.

“What was that?” Ahsoka asks, cocking her head to the side.

“We need to get out of the clear,” Rex explains. “It’s too dangerous to be out here in weather like this.” Cody notices how he doesn’t add that usually, they could outride it. Anakin and Ahsoka don’t seem like they could do that.

“We should find shelter,” Cody agrees. Him and Rex have seen lots of these kinds of storms, but even they know not to underestimate the danger. That’s how you end

“Where do we go?” Ben asks, looking at Cody for answers. It’s not the way his brothers look at him, though. With a raised brow, Ben isn’t asking for Cody to fix everything, he’s asking for an opinion, a solution.

Cody should tell Bell that most of the time in storms like this, it’s easiest to ride them out. Kick everything into high gear and outrun the weather. It’s not the most effective solution, and it definitely doesn’t always work, but it sure does free him. There’s nothing that makes him feel more powerful than leaving things behind him.

But he just doesn’t have the heart to say that and watch Ben’s crestfallen face. “I know a place that isn’t far,” he says; Cody can tell by the way the red clay road leads that they’re close.

Side by side, a party of five, they ride towards the sun and stop miles later at a blue-painted, white-shuttered house. There’s a key underneath the doormat, faded silver and hard to fit into the lock.

It was his grandmother’s house. The white lace doilies on the wall and the obnoxious pink curtains weren’t really his mother’s style. She always hated this house, but Rusty had a strange fascination with it when he was young. It transported him to a time when his parents didn’t exist, where the rivers and grass ran wild, undisturbed and undiscovered.

A layer of dust covers everything, the air thick with memories left untouched for years. He hasn’t been here since his grandmother's funeral, where his mother complained about getting the house in the will and his father was kind enough not to show up.

“What is this place?” Ahsoka asks, running a hand along the crooked oak banister.

“A tomb,” Cody answers, looking at the pictures on the walls. His parents, smiling at their wedding, looking young and free and happy. Him, in a white dress shirt one holiday, grinning with a missing tooth, his grandmother hugging him from behind, grace and beauty in her older age. A family picture of his extended family, looking like a Christmas card in their matching colors. After him, his parents never took any of their kids here. Fox and Cody are the only ones who even know this place exists. No one else got the warm hugs or the hot chocolate; they lived a childhood without any family besides their siblings, not that any of them ever complained that they weren’t enough of them.

The kids race off to explore, happy to have a roof over their heads and promised security for the night. The various rooms with their antique decorations and faded patterns supply ample imaginative space for them.

Cody wanders his way to the kitchen, Ben following behind him quietly. It’s just like the rest of the house, dust particles dancing in the air, mason jars full of preserves lining the shelves. Not knowing what to do with his hands, Cody goes to the sink and turns on. For a moment, the water runs a rusty brown color, but it clears out after a while. The taste of that clear, spring water fills Cody’s senses as he remembers all the times that his grandmother filled him a glass from the same faucet after he played out in the yard for hours.

“Is it hard being back here?” Ben asks kindly, standing beside him at the sink. Cody doesn’t have to ask him how he knows that this place is important to him. In fact, he’s almost positive that Ben has a similar place like this somewhere out there, gathering dust. “ I can imagine the memories it must bring back.”

“It’s too different to remind me of when she was alive,” Cody deflects. The truth, that he can’t stop looking around corners for a weathered face and long braids, hurts too much to admit. “Being at my parent’s house would be harder.” He’s not sure why he offers that piece of information; he hardly ever talks about home, especially about missing home.

“I’m sure. It must have been hard to leave your family.” Ben’s consoling voice digs deep into Cody, some part of him that remains unscratched by his regrets.

“Sometimes the need to escape outweighs the need to stay,” Cody responds, a bite in his tone. “I left because I had to.”

“Of course,” Ben agrees with a knowing smile. “Home can only stay such for so long. You couldn’t possibly know how well I know that.” Cody doesn’t have anything to say in response to that, so he keeps washing the dirt from underneath his fingernails and staring out the window. It’s easier to look out at the landscape than Ben’s eyes, although he would rather stare into the lovely blue of eyes.

Ben breaks the silence, bumping his shoulder with Cody’s before offering his own confession.“I found Anakin behind metal jail cell bars a year ago, wasting away with every call for lights out. I saw something of myself in him, and my mentor implored me to reach out, to be a provider for a messed up kid.” Anakin, Cody thinks, has more behind him than most people do. The set in his jaw, the reflected haunted look in his eye, they’re too old for his young frame.

“Your mentor sounds like a good person,” Cody responds, trying to get more information but not be rude about it. It’s hard to stop himself, though, when all he wants to do is know more about Ben.

There’s conflict on Ben’s face, but it settles with a sad smile. “He was a kind man, and he cared deeply for me, that I don’t doubt. But he was frustrating at times, which I still feel bad about saying since he passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cody says. “How long ago did he pass?” Cody just wants to know more, at this point. Ben’s voice, his past, Cody wants it all in the most unfair way possible.

“5 years ago. It feels longer, though. I mean, as soon as it happened I was the one taking care of Anakin, and I had absolutely no idea how to. That dulled the pain for a long time.” Hesitantly, Ben continues, looking down at his own hands. “I don’t think that I was the best person for Anakin then. It’s hard to be sure that I am now.”

Cody, despite his best efforts, lets out a huff and looks at Ben. “I may not be the best judge of parents, but I see the way that Anakin looks up to you. From what I can tell, you’re his sun and moon.”

“Oh,” Ben grins, trying to hide his pleased look. “That’s nothing to how Rex follows you. I didn’t have any siblings, but I know that you’re quite the older brother for him.”

“I try,” Cody responds. He turns the water off and dries his hands on the old towel still hanging next to the soap. “I couldn’t leave him at home.”

“That bad?” Ben asks, but there’s no judgment in his tone. Cody wonders if there ever is. Probably not, based on the way Ben seems to know what it’s like to not have a home you want to go back to.

“Yeah, that bad.” Cody loves his family. His mother’s strong voice and his father’s strength that held them up for so long are ingrained inside of him stronger than anything else. But there was only so long he could stay there, in that tiny house filled with people who always had so many expectations. He was taught at a young age how to survive, how to ride a horse fast and hard if he was ever in trouble, how to tie knots that won’t break, and how to avoid having emotions get in the way. Those lessons make up who he is today, but they’re also the reason he can’t seem to hold on to anything.

Rex doesn’t count. He’s always been by Cody’s side, even in the hardest times. It’s why he could never have left Rex like he left the rest of them.

There’s a lull in the conversation where Cody sneaks glances at Ben from the corner of his eyes, trying to be at least a little conspicuous.

Cody’s not one to be poetic. He prefers the quiet, easy moments with his family instead, where he doesn’t have to say anything and everyone is on the same page. But Ben makes him want to try to be romantic, to try to say something special that encompasses all of the wonderful, overwhelming things about Ben.

Cody also can’t help but notice the cut of Ben’s jaw, the grey of his eyes, the reddish-gold in his hair, they’re all softer in this light. Ben looks younger now than he does under the harsh sunshine, the lines of his face relaxed, the squint of his eyes less pronounced. But his smile stays the same, warm and inviting.

The storm outside flashes and rolls, the wind whipping against the shutters and whistling through the cracks in the wood, but it’s safe here with Ben. The ghosts have died down to a whisper and Cody, for a moment, lets himself relax into the peace.

He takes a deep breath and hears the kids laughing upstairs somewhere. It’s the first time he’s heard Rex laugh like that in a long time. He’s missed that sound.

“We can take you to Mos Eisley,” Cody says after a while. He keeps his voice quiet, trying to emulate Ben’s tone as best he can. He doesn’t know why or how, but he wants to let Ben see that he can be more than a rough hand or a decent older brother.

“Really?” Ben asks, tilting his head to the side. It doesn’t look like he actually believes Cody, which Cody can’t blame him for. It came out of nowhere.

Cody tries to backtrack and make it make sense, although he’s not sure how much he can salvage at this point. “I’ve been meaning to take Rex that way for a while, and with the number of kids we have with us, it might be best to stay together for a while. Not to say that you can’t take care of-”

“Cody,” Ben interrupts, grinning. If Cody was going to try and say anything more, that stops him in his tracks. Ben should smile more, Cody thinks. It suits him much more than the vaguely worried expression that he frequents. “If you really mean that-”

“I do,” Cody assures him, reaching out to clasp Ben’s shoulder. It’s awkward and it lasts too long, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind.

“Then I would be thrilled to accompany you. I know Ahsoka and Anakin would love to talk to someone else besides me, and it would be nice to be in the company of someone so generous.” Cody’s never considered himself a generous person, but if Ben says he is then maybe it’s true.

His courage briefly ignited, Cody holds out his hand for Ben to take as he asks another question, meeting Ben’s eyes with his own. “Would you then also care to join me for dinner? I can see what we can find here. The house should still have a standing table somewhere.”

Ben’s smile grows, meeting his eyes and sending butterflies flying through Cody’s fingertips. “I would love to.”

#star wars #codywan #thank you cormack mccarthy <33 #codywan fic #codywan fanfic #star wars ships #star wars fanfic #cody/obi wan #commander cody #clone commander cody #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x cody #cody x obi wan #cowboy au #nova writes #cody star wars

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