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loaksky · 1 year

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— 𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳

the lowdown — neytiri’s his first love, but you’re his forever…he swears.

the who — jake sully x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 3.2k

the tags & warnings — possible language, she fell first / he fell harder, first love / last love, arguable tension

the notes — based on this request ! ideally this takes place before anyone dies & everyone is happy :)

masterlist

You and Jake have always been a sticky situation.

Because it didn’t always start with the two of you. At first, he had eyes for someone else, could only bear the thought of being with one person in the whole of Pandora, and that came in the form of the clan’s most important daughter. And you watched from the outskirts, watched as lessons in life turned into lessons of love.

To be frank, you don’t know when the adoration started, when the feelings began to bloom. Your heart was arid territory, but the seeds were planted and the roots were festering.

Maybe it was his dedication to the people, spirit one with the village. He was allegiant to Pandora down to every last blade of grass, every leaf, every insect. And he was kind, offered his heart and full efforts to every endeavor.

You admired him silently, learned to love him quietly, even as the passion between him and Neytiri swelled until it was ready to burst.

You hadn’t really realized that he’d noticed you until one day nestled among the trees.

“Is this where you disappear to everyday?”

Your neck swivels so hard, you almost get whiplash. The project you’re working on, another satchel to replace your own, bunched tight in your fists as your eyes scan the expanse of forest floor wildly.

Jake stands a few meters below, hand resting casually on the hilt of the dagger strapped across his broadening chest.

All that sounds in the quiet between you is the bobbing of your throat as you swallow, eyes wide and unblinking.

“You don’t really talk much, do you?”

You suppose you don’t, not when you’re used to blending into the edges, spending your days lounging around village grounds and finding odd and ends to tend to.

“Nothing?” Jake presses, weight shifting as he peers up at you.

“Not everyday,” is your only response, still unmoving from your perch on the branch.

Jake only nods, conversation coming to a painfully quick lull.

“What are you up to?” he prods, shifting again.

“A bag.”

Your cheeks are warm under his unrelenting gaze, mouth dry because you’ve spent months admiring him from afar, watching him slowly meld into becoming one of the people.

“A bag,” he repeats.

You nod.

He lets out a puff of air that sounds an awful like a humorless laugh and he scratches the back of his neck. He’s folding his cards first this time around, unsure of how to trod such uncertain territory with you.

“See you around, ________,” he says, giving you a playful salute as he peels away.

Your heart skips as he saunters off, timbre of his voice sweet around your name.

Jake continues to find you in that spot often.

Graduated from holding brief conversations from different elevations to propping against adjacent branches enjoying your company, he comes to find out that you're awfully shy.

Painfully so. But when he makes you laugh, and you timidly smile with full heart, he feels your facade crumbling.

And as chance meetings after duties turn into promises, you can’t help but wonder what's changed. Every moment with you means a moment unspent with his lover. It makes equal parts pride and dread swell in the pit of your stomach.

Whispers about him ripple through the village, that he’s learning quickly, catching onto the way of the people with great ease. There’s talk of a ceremony, of accepting him as one. It makes something sour, bitter, curdle inside of you in the ugliest way possible.

Because a ceremony means selection and selection means solidifying the relationship he has with the leader’s daughter. It means no more limbo and the time you’ve spent trying to guard your wanting heart is shot to shit.

It considerably dampens your mood, something that takes Jake a mere glance over your body language to read.

“Something’s bothering you,” he observes, head tilting to the side.

You bite the inside of your lip, eyes golden and gooey. They’re the only thing that betrays the stoic expression that colors the carve of your jaw and the curve of your cheekbones.

It takes every ounce of effort to not visibly melt at the way you carry yourself.

He doesn’t know when it started with you, how you could have possibly caught his attention when all you did was wash out in the background, bleed through the edges. But you had. Had captured his attention enough for him to second guess such a fleeting barrage of emotions when it came to the future tsahik.

Neytiri was a force to be reckoned with, but you were a gentle gust of embracing wind. Jake didn’t feel any pressure with you, didn’t feel like he was wearing the skin of someone else. He felt like him.

“Our time will end,” is all you say.

It takes him a moment, but he notices the slick of your lashes, the almost imperceptible hiccup.

His five-fingered hand cradles your chin, and for the briefest of breaths, you want to ease away, want to put as much distance as you could between you and the very one who has the power to nurture and shatter your heart all the same. But something glimmers like liquid gold in Jake’s eyes and you crumple.

“Why is that?” he whispers. “What makes you say so?”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” you ask.

There is no malice in your tone, only a lingering thread of defeat.

“Far from it,” Jake answers, nudging you to meet his gaze when your eyes flicker away. “You are the most intelligent and capable person I know.”

Your breath hitches and you swallow down a petulant rebuttal.

“I hear what they say about you, Jake Sully,” you say lightly. “They want to make you one of us.”

A gentle smile twitches upon his lips, something triumphant flickering over his features.

“You against it?” he asks, eyebrows quirking.

You shake your head, fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide his hand from your face. When you try to pull away, he threads your digits together, tugging you so that you shift closer to him.

“You do great things for the Omatikaya,” you say. “They are very proud of you.”

“Are you?” he presses.

“Am I what?” you ask, voice caught in your throat.

Jake draws you impossibly closer. You can make out the constellations of blemishes on his face, the smattering of glowing freckles across the expanse of his muscled chest.

“Are you proud of me?” he wonders.

It’s a loaded question, one that makes a shiver rip down your spine and your cheeks to warm.

Of course you were proud of him. You’d watched him from afar for far too long, had seen every accomplishment, every failure. Had seen the spectrum of his emotions, every jubilant moment and bouts of discouragement.

“Yes,” you answer simply. “Very.”

The smile that cracks the lush of his mouth makes you swallow hard.

“Good,” he hums. “I’m glad.”

He’s searching your face, eyes glazed as he takes in all of you before him. The silence is thick, pierceable by the bluntest of edges. When you show no intentions of breaking the quiet, Jake speaks again.

“Now tell me,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. “Why is our time ending?”

Your lips purse and something like annoyance shutters over your pretty face.

“The tsahik’s daughter has made her intentions with you very clear,” you say, trying to sweeten the acidic words on your tongue. “You cannot waste anymore moments with the likes of me.”

Jake bites back the widening of his smile, but he can’t help it, not when this encounter solidifies every suspicion he’s had about you and him.

“You’re right,” he says simply. “Neytiri’s asked her parents for their blessing for us.”

You try not to let the disdain cloud your features, try to tamp down the twitch of your frown, but you can’t get anything past him, not when Jake’s favorite subject to study is you.

“I’m sure they are delighted,” you respond, making a move to peel your fingers from his.

Your chest is tightening and your vision is clouding.

His grip squeezes and the film of tears that sheen your eyes makes his heart go soft.

“They do approve,” he adds, pausing to pick his next words carefully. “But…”

Your gaze flicks to meet his again, heart stuttering when you find that his gaze hasn't left your form. His eyes are mapping every one of your features, pausing a moment too long on your lips.

Your cheeks blaze.

“But?” you fill.

“I refused,” he replies thoughtfully.

He could laugh, the way your lips part, brow bones shooting up as your eyes blow wide.

“Why would you–”

“My heart belongs to someone else,” he finally admits. “It has for a long time and it was stupid of me to think that I could ignore it.”

“Oh—” Your breath hitches.

“But I can only act on my heart if she’ll have me,” he says, searching your eyes.

“Do you think she—”

Jake breathes out a laugh, tugs you so that your front presses against his, close enough to feel the fan of his breath against your lips, to smell the delicious spice of bathing herbs clinging to his balmy skin.

“You’re torturing me here,” he groans, throwing his head back.

You see the way his Adam's apple bobs and you fidget in your seat.

“I—”

“Jesus Christ, love, put me out of my misery and tell me you’ll have me, please.”

You only manage a noise of surprise before his hand cups the back of your neck to guide you forward, lips pressing desperately against yours. His mouth is warm and when he leans into you, you taste the sweetness of berries on his tongue.

His hands wander, gliding over the smooth expanse of your flesh like he’s committing every curve and edge of your body to his memory.

“Wait, wait,” you whisper breathlessly. “What about Neytiri? She… She loves you.”

Jake’s dazed, disoriented because the taste of you makes him far more delirious than he’d expected.

He presses his forehead against your own.

“She’s got nothing on you, angel.”

Everything shifts on its axis after that, but there’s one thing in particular that remains—the seed of doubt that had rooted that sunny day under the canopy of the jungle’s oversized leaves.

Perhaps you’re being cynical, a little paranoid, but Jake’s yet to claim you before Ewya despite officially becoming one with the people. And you could stomach it, the idea that maybe he’s just prioritizing a smooth shift into life with the clan, but lately he’s been sneaking around, blowing you off.

You don’t want to give that niggling feeling of insecurity any stock, not when he’s so lovely to you when you two are intertwined, but you happen upon them by chance and you feel stupid. It was silly, really, to expect Jake to cut ties so abruptly when his fickle heart used to all but thrum for the future tsahik.

They laugh on the embankment, sitting a little too close for comfort.You want to look away, tell yourself that you’re being too much, but he hesitantly tucks a braid behind her ear and your breath hitches in tandem with hers.

You can’t force yourself to expel the breath in your lungs, eyes locked on their figures like your pupils are tethered.

You wish you didn’t stick around, wish you’d just continue on in ignorance, because as Jake leans to give Neytiri a closer look at whatever he’s toying with in his hands, the distance starts closing between them.

They look like they belong together, two bodies that perfectly fuse.

“Oh—” You hadn’t meant to make a sound, wanted to escape quietly, but just as easily as the breadth between the two of them had closed, a chasm forms between their lithe bodies.

“________?” he calls, voice layered with alarm.

You turn on your heel, pushing through the curling foliage with blurring vision.

“Hey, ________, wait!” he calls out, feet splashing from the water as he climbs from where he’d been sitting with his ankles plunged beneath the surface.

When his footfalls fast approach and his fingers wrap around the width of your forearm, you quickly dash away the pooling tears before turning to face him head on.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, cupping your rounded cheeks in his palms.

His fingertips glide down the length of your neck, brushing over your shoulders as he examines you.

You shake your head quickly, forcing down the insecurity that bubbles hot like magma under your burning skin.

“Nothing,” you say, clearing your throat before finally meeting his worried gaze.

“Oh, come on,” he sighs, pushing the hair from your face to take a better look. “It’s just me, ________. You can tell me the truth.”

You lick your drying lips before gently breaking away from him.

“It’s nothing, Jake,” you reassure him with a small smile. “I’m just being silly.”

He opens his mouth to protest, taking a step towards you.

“Jake Sully!” Tsu’tey’s voice thunders through the forest as he claps a hand down on his comrade’s shoulder.

Jake turns a warning eye towards him, mutters that now isn’t the time as he swats his hands away, but when he turns to face you, you’re gone.

You feel guilty.

Guilty because you fear that you’ve blown things way out of proportion, guilty because Jake’s reserved to giving you your space after another failed attempt at coaxing you from your shell. And infinitely so because he holds you close, when your breathing is steady and you drift in and out of sleep. You hear him, like the gentlest of lullabies.

I love you.

It haunts you, those three words. And you guess you’re no better than him. The weight of solidifying your union before Ewya is a heavy one, Jake knows this. But such human words weigh the same to him. And you know that to hear such a lofty sentiment rasp from your soft voice is all he could ever want.

“He is at his wit’s end, you know?”

You pause your laundering, allowing your loincloths and woven tops to sink back to the shallow bed of the river. When you crane your neck to find the source of the voice, you’re surprised to find Neytiri leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree.

Your response is delayed.

“...Huh?”

“Jake,” she says simply, and your cheeks warm. “You worry him.”

You turn back to your chore, spine stiffening when something rustles and Neytiri moves to sit next to you.

“May I?” she asks, reaching for one of your intricately beaded tops.

“Okay,” you whisper, unable to meet her sharp gaze.

“I was hurt when he denied my parent’s blessing,” she says casually, like the thought alone doesn’t make your heart ache for the tsahik’s daughter. You can’t help it. “But I wasn’t surprised.”

Your head snaps up, meeting her eyes reluctantly.

“When I first brought him back to the village,” she says, wringing the corded fabric. “You caught his eye, but you didn’t even glance his way.”

And truthfully, you hadn’t. Dreamwalkers were trouble and you had no intention of ever crossing paths with him. But then you began to see more and more of him, began to feel the weight of his presence on the village and you couldn’t help but give into the fall.

“He started asking about you,” she laughs quietly. “Every time he’d see you. Said that you never paid him any mind no matter how close he got.”

You roll your lips nervously, watching the way she reaches for another one of your garments and washes with increasing frustration. You almost miss the tears welling in her eyes.

“I wished for so long that he would let it go, let you go, but you have a hold on him, ________,” she rasps.

You blink in disbelief, shaky fingers reaching to touch her own.

Her face tilts towards yours and her grip on the fabric loosens.

“Jake Sully is a good man,” she whispers. “Don’t waste something good because you are scared. It will not only be a disservice to him or me, but yourself.”

You swallow, nodding slowly.

“I’m–” you take in a shuddering breath as your head bows. “I’m sorry.”

A wet hand comes up to your cheek.

“Don’t be sorry,” Neytiri coos. “Just be grateful. Be fearless. It is Eywa’s will.”

Jake almost thinks you’re a vision when he sees you making quick strides towards him. He breaks away from the circle of villagers just as you press yourself into his chest and those not privy to his relationship with you watch with widened eyes.

“Hi,” he breathes, combing his fingers through your hair. “Hi.”

You don’t say anything, arms looping around the narrow of his waist as he throws an apologetic look over his shoulder and walks the two of you towards a quiet area outside of the circle.

“Everything alright?” he asks, trying to peel you away from where you’ve buried your face in his chest.

You mumble something unintelligible, something that makes his ears prick hard to hear, but your cheeks are hot and you aren’t sure if you can handle seeing his softened eyes as you utter the words.

“What?” he asks, pulling away enough to see the flush across your face.

“Said Iloveyou,” you murmur.

He freezes, like his brain is short circuiting when he pieces the words together.

“What?”

You steel your nerves, suck a deep breath into your lungs, and find his sunny eyes.

“I love you, Jake,” you say shakily. “I love you and—”

The laugh that leaves him is giddy and you have half the nerve to melt, but he’s kissing you for the first time since that day in the forest and you’re putty in his hands.

“Wow,” he whispers when you break away to stand on your tiptoes and wind your arms around his neck. “I didn’t think…”

You’re kissing him again, fervently, like you’re trying to make up for lost time and he can’t help the tickling behind his navel or the heat that starts from his toes and burns all the way up his chest.

Your skin is plush under the pads of his wandering hands and those three words, spoken into the hum of the surrounding jungle is all the confirmation that he needs that it’s you and him forever.

“Wait, wait,” he sighs breathlessly. “I have–”

A hand snakes between your bodies, fingers digging into the pouch strapped across his broad chest.

You watch with viscous eyes as he pulls what looks to be a gilded ring, tiny in circumference. Two pieces of thin vine cord through either side, beaded with pearlescent stones and smooth gems.

“I…” he trails off, scratching the back of his neck as you fall back on the heels of your feet, arms loosening from around his neck to give him the room to hold it up to you. “It’s one of the only things I care about from Earth.”

Your browbones twitch.

“The ring’s been in my family for a while,” he says gently. “But it’s probably too small and I know that Na’vi don’t wear things on their fingers and–”

“It’s beautiful, Jake,” you say softly, palm pressing against his chest.

He grins, sliding the heirloom up your wrist to rest snugly around the flesh of your bicep.

“Perfect,” he murmurs to himself.

And when your eyes swing from the gift to meet his gaze, you find him already staring down at you tenderly.

“I don’t…” you trail off, suddenly shy under such intensity. “I don’t have anything for you.”

Jake barks out a laugh, corner of his lips quirking up in a lopsided smile as he cups your face in his hands and brings his forehead to yours.

“Don’t need to give me anything,” he says quickly, breaths warm and lips a hairsbreadth from your own. “Just tell me you love me again, that’s enough.”

Your face is indescribably warm under his cool touch.

“And maybe another kiss,” he adds coyly, then a hand skims over the small of your back, dangerously close to your tail. “Or more…if you want.”

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#jake sully #jake sully x reader #jake sully fluff #avatar #avatar way of water #atwow #avatar the movie #avatar the way of water #avatar 2

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selarina · 8 months

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This is Part 2 because you guys asked

This florist guy is a peculiar lanky character, who later revealed himself as Gojo Satoru, who is apparently the son of a rich guy, the grandson a rich guy. He descended from a whole lineage of rich men and women, and so, it seemed particularly odd that this scion of affluence was was cooped up in a barely running florist shop.

So, you didn’t end up texting the guy after he cheekily slipped his number on the card but you did get rather… intrigued?

There’s something so strange and unreal about him. Apart from the oddity, the lankiness, the outright boldness that could only be a result of a privileged upbringing, he’s also interested in you — and boldly so. It’s never truly happened to you before, even your current boyfriend took about 6 whole months of weighing out the pros and cons before asking you out. It feels nice, you do suppose.

You’re lounging on your bed, the red roses from the shop lying beside you on your bed table almost dead from the rejection of the apology you gave. And honestly, you thought not to put waste to such pretty flower. You intended to put it into a vase or an empty bottle but you never ended up doing it. It’s funny how you’ve managed to neglect them over the past few days. It seems like a cruelly fitting metaphor of your relationship.

you: remember that florist guy

yue: sighh

yue: yeah you haven’t shut up about him all week if you haven’t noticed

you: shut up i only mentioned him like twice

you: anyway

you: i’m pretty sure he told me he wished my boyfriend died

yue: WHAT

yue: he’s just like me fr <3

You sighed. He is just like her. She’s never liked your boyfriend and saw right through him to be the facade of a temporary high school relationship based on nothing but superficial optics that would hurt at least one of you on the way.

But now, at the very least, she felt safe knowing it won’t be you, regardless of how cruel and selfish that may be. She always prioritised only the people around her. It’s something you admire about her, you wish you could care about the people around you as much as she did.

You mulled over the prospect of texting the florist, Gojo Satoru. For starters, he’s clearly interested in you, and you’re clearly in an odd limbo of a relationship and the ethics of that are well… pretty grey. And also, he came off strong, bold and you’re just meh. The first taste of your bitter sweetness and he’ll run.

A week passes, the withering roses sit comfortably at the bottom of your trash bin, amid ruffled paper, tissues and other junk alike. You stil find yourself thinking about Gojo Satoru, pondering whether you should send him a message.

If he's going to run away, you reasoned, you don't see the harm. Well, you do see the harm for your current relationship but again, he's going to run. So, it doesn't truly matter. So, you text him.

---

A week elapsed, and you received no text back, it started to eat you alive just a bit. The single checkmark next to your message mocked you every time you opened the chat. Did he give you a dead phone number? Was he just being nice?

It's all too odd, and the memory of you meeting the guy starts to feel like something you made up. You try not to dwell on it much, focusing on school, chores, sports, friends. Yet, after exhausting these distractions, you found yourself lying in bed, bones growing drowsy, thinking and dreaming about the man.

So, several days later, you do something slightly insane. Some might argue it was the most sane course of action, namely... Yue. But who cares? You're the only one here to judge.

You really, truly do not have interest in him but you do find yourself slowly taking the long route back home, walking past the flower shop every chance you get this week. But you always made sure to maintain a distance, choosing to walk on the other side of road, because like you said before — you aren't interested, just curious really.

And it would truly insane if this meant anything because he's just some guy you met while buying roses for your boyfriend.

You start to notice the little things about the shop itself — how it seems perpetually quiet, how the flowers displayed outside changing is the only sign of it being active, and then you eventually manage to catch a glimpse of Satoru inside, tending to the blooms like he's a practiced still from a movie.

You started to wonder if he was purposefully ignoring you. His quaint and unpopular shop always seemed devoid of customers. What did he do with all his time? From all the times you have crossed past the shop, not a single one of these instances has had any customers in them.

And one day, you decide to finally go back into the shop. No excuses prepared, you decide to make it all up as you go.

"Thought you'd never come in," he greeted you with a grin, leaning casually against the counter as if posing for a photograph.

You turned to scan every corner of the shop, checking to see if anyone else was present, reluctant to divulge your teenage romantic conundrum to an audience.

But to your relief, the shop was empty, save for the two of you.

You turned back to Satoru, noticing how his signature black sunglasses lay perched on the bridge of his nose. That's another one of those unusual things you've noticed about him, how he's always wearing his glasses.

One day you got late at school, having stayed back to hang some posters, so when you walked back you noticed the man still donning his glasses, even though the night had already set itself in the sky. You didn't understand why he would wear them. Perhaps, he has an eye condition.

"So, you didn't reply to my text," you say, striving for a casual tone as you pocketed your hands and approached the counter. You try to ignore the implications of him knowing you were walking past here all week.

He doesn't say anything, tilting his head, before he startles you by taking off into the backroom.

You wait there, confused, staring at the silent flowers beside you, as you wait and you wait.

He reemerged with a bag, rummaging through it for something? His phone, maybe?

Yes, his phone. "Right! Sorry! Sorry, I had my phone off," he explained, his eyes focused on his loading phone.

"You have one... right here," you remarked, removing your hand from your pocket and pointing at another phone resting on the counter.

He chuckles, "Huh, yeah. I do have another phone, but that's more for business stuff. My personal phone is the one you texted," he clarified, nodding toward the device in his hands.

"I see," you replied plainly, slipping your hand back into your pocket.

"I'm sorry for not responding. How about I make it up to you over some Mochi?" he grins. "Today? Right now?"

"Whoa, hold on. I didn't agree to go on a date with you. Remember, I have a boyfriend," you reminded him.

"Right," he grits with restrained chuckle. "Well, I didn't ask you out on a date. Just Mochi."

You can't help but raise an eyebrow at his response, amused by his persistence.

"Just Mochi, huh? Are you always this forward with all your customers?" you tease, finding yourself intrigued by him and all his boldness and audacity.

"Well, you're not really a customer today. Unless, you want to buy me flowers before our date?" he grins, abandoning his apron, as he comes from behind the counter.

"Hey! I said this wasn't a date," you find yourself yelling back at him, leaving only a slew of chortles as a response from him.

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piratefishmama · 1 year

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Forgiven not Forgotten | Part 4

People often wondered whether a person dreamed while comatose. Whether they were aware of time passing.

It was constantly up for debate, some claiming yes, they could hear people, they could see faint shapes behind eyelids that simply refused to open, could hear questions, and sometimes respond with the faintest of movements.

Some claimed visions of torture would torment them, where IV’s, and tubes were placed to save their lives, chains, hooks, and ropes would be instead, every pull on a tube causing pain from a hook, every itch from bed sheet rash intensified like sandpaper rubbing their skin raw, every noise amplified into screams from chambers down the row, until their minds became inescapable torture chambers of their own making.

Eddie Munson was somewhat thankful that his mind, for the first time in his life, seemed quiet.

It wasn’t a torture chamber, or the semi-dark space behind his eyelids, it was a black void, the floor covered with water, or… some kind of liquid, he didn’t know what it was, but if he thought really hard, usually he could conjure something in there and that something wouldn’t be damp, the water wouldn’t touch it.

Be it that couch from Max’s trailer to lounge on, his bedroom, or a lone, solitary picnic table for him to sit upon and ponder life’s great mysteries. If he thought hard enough, he could make any place he knew appear for a time.

Was he dead? He assumed he should be, given his spectacular final act… but something about the void felt… purgatorial.

Not quite the pearly gates he never expected to get within an mile of, not quite the burning pits of Hell people assumed he’d somehow claim a throne in, but a middle ground. The waiting room between life and death. Limbo, Purgatory, not the up, or the down, but the middle where the powers that be left you until they could determine your fate.

Eddie liked conjuring his bedroom.

It was pretty accurate too!

He had his little fidget toys, he had his baby, which honestly sounded a little funky in the void space, but hey, he could practice things in there! He had his yoyo, was getting pretty good at the rock the baby trick, he had that basketball that he’d stolen from the gymnasium on a dare. He had his handcuffs from that time Hopper had forgotten to link his cuffs to anything, and just allowed him to bolt into the woods to figure out the cuffs somewhere else, he had his notebooks to scribble in.

Although nothing he scribbled ever actually stuck around.

He didn’t like looking in the mirror. The mirror… it felt. Wrong somehow. He couldn’t quite place why it felt wrong. The image looking back at him. It was him, but… it was wrong. Didn’t know how to explain it. Like he was staring into the face of something else wearing his skin, something else standing in a place somewhere else, even though it did look like him, it did look like his room. It felt wrong.

That was really the only thing that felt wrong in his void. The mirror. It was easy to ignore.

Most things were easy to ignore there. Like the strange passing of time. If time actually passed. Eddie had no idea, given his scribbles never stuck around he figured time was pretty much set in stone where he was, it didn’t pass. It didn’t matter really. Not much mattered. He was dead after all right? He’d gone lights out, and frankly had he any choice in his way to go? He’d have probably picked the one he went with.

He just wished it wouldn’t have dealt a crushing blow of trauma to the boy who’d quickly wormed his way into Eddie’s cold, cynical heart. He should apologise for that. Maybe in his next life, or maybe when the powers that be figured out where to drop his ass, he could get one of whoever shared the eternity, to pass on a message for him.

Like some kind of supernatural game of Broken Telephone.

Dustin had a friend with superpowers right? Or at least she’d had superpowers at one point, playing Broken Telephone from the great beyond couldn’t be that farfetched right?

God he was tired. Which was new. His limbs felt… heavy. Which was funny because he’d honestly forgot what his limbs were supposed to feel like. But all of a sudden, while sprawled out on his bed, he just felt… heavy. Eyelids drooped shut, breathing slowed, weighted down, he could hear the faintest beep, repeating, over and over again, it’d never been in his void before but—

It was fine. He could… he could handle a beep in his void. His void that seemed to grow a warmer shade of brown, details of his bedroom blowing away like wisps of smoke on a gentle breeze

Figures moved across his warm brown void, it wasn’t even a void anymore though if he were honest. It felt impossibly small. More just a space. A space behind his eyelids. Eyelids which struggled to open but seemed to want to.

Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he was and this was just the process of waking up in the afterlife. Who knew. Not him. He’d been stuck in a void for… a few weeks maybe? Few days?

Probably a couple of days.

“—e’s coming back… heart rate is steady, vitals seem normal, Mr. Munson, can you hear us?”

“Mnnhhh” oh cool, his voice! There was a crack in his brown space, a crack that looked blurry, like looking through water, through tears, and sleep trapped in thick eyelashes, he tried to lift a hand to clear his eyes but found it locked down, trapped by something he couldn’t see.

“Get those damn things off my client this instant.” That was a voice he didn’t recognise.

“It’s a precaution.”

“Against what exactly? Please, in your infinite wisdom, officer, tell me what exactly this semi-lucid young man could ACTUALLY do to you in his current state? What? Are you scared that he’ll wiggle a pinkie at you? You’re grown men, act like it for heavens sake.” A different voice, feminine, commanding, didn’t recognise it though, respected it a little, but he didn’t recognise it.

“Mom… Officer, please… just take the handcuffs off of him, he didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, knowing him he’d open all the windows in the house just to waft the damn thing out” Oh. Oh now that—That voice. He recognised that voice. The weight on his wrist seemed to vanish. Awesome.

“Oh now… I must be dead” his voice, sure, but awfully croaky, like he’d smoked a full six pack every five hours for a month. “Although how I went up I dunno…” didn’t hurt to speak but… it felt weird.

“Munson? The hell are you—”

“Pretty sure that could only be the voice of an angel.”

“He’s… very medicated.” the first voice seemed hesitant to speak, Eddie assumed doctor.

“Hiiiigh as a kite” he managed to croak out with a crackly chuckle that cut short with a grunt and a pained wince. He preferred his void. He didn’t hurt in his void.

“Jesus Christ, Munson.” His favourite voice was back! “Doc can we get some kind of wipes or something here?” Moments later, the gentle touch of large, rough hands on his cheek had that funny little heart monitor pick up its pace. It largely went ignored, although the silence while it went wild was pretty condemning. “Calm down, I’m just wiping your face.”

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t say it. Dooon’t—“sponge bath from Steeeeeeve Harrington, what a thing to wake up to.” Dammit.

“Maybe we should—" another man’s voice he didn’t recognise.

“Don’t even think about leave me alone with this.”

“Awww” that hand gently whapped his face, it didn’t hurt, just served to shut him up. Weird that it didn’t hurt though, he was pretty sure he’d been bitten on his face, a tap should hurt even if he was high.

“Don’t aww me, you did this shit to yourself. I told you, what the fuck did I tell you, Eddie? Don’t be a hero, don’t be a goddamn hero, and what do you do?” Steve angrily, yet still somehow gently, wiping the gunk away from his eyes as he spoke like some kind of vexed mother hen.

“…”

“That’s right, you got yourself ate. What. What REASON? What could you have POSSIBLY—”

“Would have gotten us both if I hadn’t. They came in… came in through the vents in my room… if I hadn’t—hadn’t drawn em out—Dustin was right there, man… they’d have come through the door. It was me or both of us. Shit—M’sorry Steve… is… is he okay? He hurt his ankle, was limping I think… is he—” oh hey light, everything coming back so quickly as his eyes were cleared up, the light was a lot, but not enough to detract from Steve’s face right there and— “Where’s all your hair gone? I swear you had it last time I saw you… Max! Where’s Max? Did—is she..?”

“Dustin’s fine. Max is fine. Doctors say they think she’s gonna wake up soon. Eddie… what do you remember?”

“…Most metal concert that the world never saw, evil bat tornado. Then… pretty sure I died. I mean. I did right? There’s no ifs or buts there, I kicked the bucket, hopped off this mortal coil, one with the wiiin—”

“Eddie.”

“Right, sorry. Uhm… yeah, not much, Harrington, sorry to say memories kinda end after death. Not that I was ever a believer of the pearly gates but—would have been nice to be proven wrong.” He remembered the void. Remembered every waking second of the void, but… with so many people around him, he wasn’t about to mention the void. “Why, should I be remembering something?”

“…No. No this… this is better. This is proof enough.” Steve turned to the soldiers in the room, right at the back where Eddie hadn’t looked. Not the police who looked cramped and uncomfortable. The soldiers standing rigid in the back, eyeing the bed and its occupant with suspicion. One standing in front of the others, stoic, his uniform adorned with the medals of rank. “You lot hear that? That’s proof enough, right?”

“…For now.” The one in front spoke “We’ll be keeping an eye on you all though, as a precaution.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, his expression one of pure hatred, one that looked so foreign on his face to Eddie, yet… it seemed so at home there now, it became it so easily. “You’d better believe we’ll be doing the same to you too, sir.” The soldiers left, the front man first, then the other two followed stiffly, and Steve relaxed, expression softening, he released a soft breath through his nose, then turned back to Eddie.

Eddie who found the silence that followed just suffocating enough to come to an unsurprising conclusion. Something that should have been obvious from the clues around him but yet he still had to ask about.

“…I wasn’t just out for a few days. Was I?”

Part 6

#PirateWrites #ForgivenNotForgottenFiclet #Steddie #Post!S5 #Mentions of Kas Eddie #Hurt/Comfort #Miscommunication

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lostquinn · 8 months

Text

Laughter

Ghost x (gn!) Reader

Fluff, teasing, very subtle nsfw!

Summary - you hear Ghost laugh for the first time and emotions take over as you finally realise that you're in love with him

So uhhhh... New obsession. I love Ghost cosplayers - maybe a König or Keegan fic soon! It's been a while but here you simps go! Sorry it's not my usual content!

Word count - 980

You had only been part of the 141 a few months, their combat medic that would follow the boys into the battlefield. They all appreciated having you around. All felt a little safer.

The team was between missions, spending time together in the lounge of base camp after lots of intensive missions.

You'd quickly gotten close to a few of them and currently sat on a couch next to Soap. Ghost, Gaz, Alejandro, Price, and Roach sat around in the room. You were all basking in the chance for relaxation. Ghost still wore his balaclava, yet apart from that, the whole team were dressed in more comfortable clothes than they wore each day.

For a moment, you'd been staring at Ghost, looking him over. Your eyes lingered on his, and you could see him raise a brow before squinting at you. There was something captivating by the way he stared at you.

Soon, you moved your attention to Soap as he started talking, ranting on about something. Suddenly, something Soap and said caused Ghost to laugh.

You snapped your head around to stare at him, eyes wide. You hadn't heard him laugh before. Something about the sound filled your cheeks with warmth. The way he stared at you made your skin erupt in goosebumps as butterflies came to life in your stomach.

A breath got caught in your throat, and you started to cough, hunching your shoulders slightly as you tried to regain your composure and breath.

"Need some water, love?" Ghost asked, raising a brow at the display. You nodded.

He handed you his bottle of water without thinking as Soap clapped you on the back gently. You unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a sip. The taste of water wasn't the only thing on your lips. There was also the subtle taste of his lips.

That near enough made you drool. Your eyes widened, and you screwed the cap back on the bottle, quickly standing up and leaving the room.

Jesus christ.

You still had the bottle in your hand as you stumbled to your room, collapsing on your bed with a deep blush on your face as you thought back to him. Ghost. Simon.

Your mind was filled with thoughts that you hadn't considered before. Hearing him laugh again. Holding his hand, hugging him. Kissing him. Feeling his chest vibrate as you cuddle up to him in bed and make him laugh over something.

You were completely and utterly smitten, enamoured, and distracted by these newfound feelings and thoughts for your Lieutenant.

There was a light tapping at your door before it opened. You had hoped to see him but instead, Soaps worried face filled the door as he entered.

He carefully sat next to you, his hands tucked in his pockets.

"You alright?" He tilted his head towards you.

"I think I'm in love with Simon," you blurted out, instantly smacking your hand over your mouth as you stared at Soap. He stared back for a moment before chuckling.

"Congrats on being the last to find out," he grinned wolfishly as he stood up, making his way back out. "I'll tell him to come get his bottle back," he winked, smirking at you.

Fuck.

Soap soon disappeared from your room, and you waited in an agonising limbo as you waited for a knock at the door.

It felt like the wait went on forever, every set of footsepts that passed your room had you on edge. A lump grew in your throat as you waited.

Eventually, there was a knock and the door opened.

"Comin' in," Simon murmured before pressing his way into your room.

You could feel your heart beating in your chest as you stared up at him, your feet dangling over the edge of your bed. You felt like you'd turn into a complete mess any second.

"I believe you have something of mine," he said, his voice husky as he slowly approached you.

"I- uhm- yeah, I still have your bottle," you muttered, hardly able to think.

He leant down close to you, placing one gloved hand on your hip as he leant his other hand past you to grab his bottle. He was tantalisingly close. You could kiss him if you wanted to, and he kept his eyes on you. Staring you in the eyes before tracing his gaze down your body.

You squirmed slightly under his gaze and touch, his hot breath connecting with the skin of your neck through his balaclava. He knew exactly what he was doing, and you could see him trying to hold back a smirk.

He grabbed a hold of his bottle, clipping the carabiner to one of his belt loops so that he bottle hung at his hip.

Then, he grabbed your chin, keeping your face steady as he moved closer. He lifted his balaclava slightly, just enough so his lips and the tip of his nose were visible.

"Try not to choke for me just yet," he whispered before pressing his lips against yours.

Your mind went blank, your hands shooting up to his jaw as you held him close. His skin was hot and soft. His tongue traced along your bottom lip before he pulled away with a smirk.

He pulled his balaclava back down before standing up straight and pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Good job, love. I'll be sure to come back for more," he winked at you before swiftly leaving.

As he left, you heard him chuckle under his breath and you couldn't help but think about the next time you would hear him laugh. The next time you would feel his lips.

You dragged your bottom lip between your teeth, lapping up the layer of his spit that he'd left on your lip with his tongue. He was delicious and you couldn't wait for more.

#ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #x gn reader #writers on tumblr #writing #fluff #simon riley fluff

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limbo-lounge · 5 months

Text

Introducing Snow Angel

A resident of the Limbo Lounge

Sin: Lust

The Limbo Lounge AU version of Angel Dust

If this is the first time you’re hearing of us please click the link below 👇🏽

#limbo lounge #hazbin hotel au #helluva boss au #hazbin au #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critique #hazbin hotel critical #hellaverse #hazbin hotel redesign #hazbin hotel angel dust #limbo lounge character sheet

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obsessive-valentine · 3 months

Note

Just suddenly thought of it, but I'm imagining your Yan!Fae wants to increase the love between them and their lover (the lover will probably be colder after the kidnapping) and he started thinking of a way, What would it be like for a lover who wants to read books but the books in the library are written in a language they cannot read (I think every race or country would have their own form of writing). I think he will take advantage of that to get closer, like teaching them the words and then praising them (he intentionally kisses their cheeks).

Yandere!Childhood-Friend-Fae x Kidnapped-GN!Reader

Fae 100% have their own language and many variations so it can be difficult for a human to grasp, love this idea. He just wants closeness and to recreate the love he had from reader in his childhood but went about it the wrong way lol -let him try win your favour again ❤️

You wanted to hate him but you knew the person he used to be was still in there, you grew up with those eyes and that smile and a part of you missed him.

But his voice is different and hes dauntingly tall, he’s colder even if it’s unintentionally he’s not as relaxed and innocent as he used to be. You can’t bring yourself to think of him like you used to, he’s now your kidnapper who slightly resembles your beloved childhood friend.

Stuck in the limbo of not hating but not liking his presence, a indifference badly masking your fear and mourning for your old life. He could tell you were troubled and expected it from such a fragile human, you always were so empathetic and emotional as a kid.

Before he could begin recounting those memories he snapped himself out of it. “Not getting any damn work done” he huffed to himself before standing up from his desk making the dark wood chair scrape against the floors and closing the ink pot for his pen before leaving the room.

He found you sitting comfortably in one of the various lounge rooms of the house, this one you’d taken to most. The sofas were plush and the room wasn’t to big, the carpet and fireplace made it somewhat homely. He lingered in the door way watching you with amusement as you sprawled out on the sofa dramatically, staring at the carved details on the ceiling.

He wondered what you were thinking, you hardly talked to him anymore and tried to slip away from his company any chance you’d get. “Hello love” he started with his knuckles grazing gently on the door like a quiet knock in an attempt to not spook you. Your head tilted awkwardly to look at him with an expecting face “what are you doing in here?” He continues while inviting himself in.

“Nothing, there’s nothing to do. I can’t go outside without you, no sane person to talk to nor books to read” you ranted turning away from him once again, he let the jab about his sanity slide “Ive got a whole library” he replied plainly. You sent him a nasty glare but he stood unmoving just now with a slight grin sneaking on his face.

The smile made it blantantly obvious he was messing with you, you huffed and went back to looking at the ceiling. “Yes I know you can’t read those books but what I’m suggesting is I teach you” you didn’t bother look at him this time instead answering with silent rejection, you rather not be stuck in a room with your captor for hours.

“Suit yourself” his hand gently ran over your hair “I’ll be downstairs if you change your mind” he mentioned rather softly before taking his hand back and leaving the room.

...

That offer was sounding really nice after another boring hour passed, every evening he’d take you for a walk around his gardens but that was hours away and it felt weird and lonely that he was bothering you much less than usual. You knew deep down that he was playing yet another game with your head, making you come to him but you stopped caring about your dignity when the silence became deafening.

Slowly you tiptoed down the lush carpeted stairs and peaked over the banister during a moment of doubt, ultimately you decide to walk to the door. You didn’t knock, you became to nervous, instead you stood and peered into the crack of the door. Before you could turn around “you okay out there love?”

You pushed the door open fully, the book he occupied himself with was already closed in his lap and he sat expectingly. “Come here” he demanded calmly, when you were close enough he gently pulled you down into his lap “change your mind?”

“I’ll go mad if I can’t read” you replied bluntly. You are glad he didn’t push further, instead he sat back comfortably dragging you with him “The books I read are more academic, probably bore you to death”

He reached over to another book laying on the side table “-this book is probably easier to read, a fantasy” there were no other books in the room, you realised that he’d picked that out for you and was waiting for you to come to him. He’d predicted this and it made heat rise to your cheeks in embarrassment, it was frustrating that he’s always right and knows it.

He pulled it in front of you and began teaching you letter by letter and word by word. The whole time not letting you off his lap, it had been maybe 2 hours of repeating sentences after him, but it went by fast. You were so focused and quite comfortable.

So focused you you wouldn’t question it when his hands began wandering down your sides, or tracing your thighs followed by hums of approval. And it would only get worse as days went on quicks kisses on your shoulders then your nape, cheek and eventually grabbing you cheeks to kiss you on the lips.

That night after a walk and dinner he took you to pick out your own book from the library, and instead of going to bed and read his own book as you drift to sleep you both slowly read the first chapter together at candle light. He even rummaged through his draws to find a delicate metal book mark once you both decide to get to sleep.

...

At some point you’d gotten the hang of reading, but he wouldn’t stop there. No, he enjoyed having you in his lap while he taught you what each word meant or correcting your speech. Instead, one morning he calls you into his study and pulls you into his lap.

“You’re getting much better at reading, you’re going to learn to write it now” he left no room argument and handed you the expensive looking dip pen. He liked this activity much more because he had yet another excuse to touch you, for most of it his hand gently hovered over yours, correcting any mistakes. He would lean close over your shoulder so he could read what you were writing but really he’s just pressing himself gains you as close as he can.

You signed up for more than you realised.

#yandere oc #yandere #x reader #yandere fae #fae childhood friend

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 7 months

Text

Kissed by Moonlight (Alucard x Witch! Reader) 2

A/N: Thank you for your patience! I've been very busy with Monstober and have taken time to focus more on this story. Hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 2

In your dreams, you’re whole again, and the happiest you’ve ever been.

You jolt in a familiar bed, one cold and worn from the years melting away: a bed too small. Yet, it’s not the bed you had when you were under Bogdan’s roof, and it brought forth fond memories.

Your mother was situated by her workbench, humming a soft tune you remembered from your childhood. Standing behind her, you could only watch, observing how she had not aged since that day, and she looked as you remembered.

“You are very hard to communicate with, sweet girl,” your mother spoke, her dark dress swayed in the deadness of the air, keeping her back to you. “Your mind has been elsewhere.”

“I don’t understand how I’m speaking to you,” you wavered, holding a hand hesitantly but pulling away, afraid of touching her again, “you are not here anymore, mama.”

“I and my sisters are in the ancestral plane, my girl,” she continued. “I have always been with you, in mind and spirit.”

You could only choke on a laugh, bitterly replying, tears threatening to spill. “Then I must have failed myself for losing all my powers. I’m not the prophecy you spoke of.”

Your mother turned so you could see her face finally, and a veil covered her face, darkness shrouding her appearance. Despite not being able to see her face, you knew she was smiling.

“Why do you think that?”

“I cannot do anything,” you held your hands out in front of you, trying to concentrate on anything, flames or cold to reach your fingertips, yet nothing came, “I am hopeless.”

“You are speaking to me through a veil of limbo, are you not?” She questioned and there was sadness in her tone, as if you had disappointed her.

It made you question her words, thoughtfully reflecting on them. “You did not teach me about astral projection—or how to reach the veil of the ancestral plane. I… did not know it existed.”

“It belongs to us,” she sang sweetly, “it has always belonged to us, my Y/N.” She reached towards you and placed a hand on your shoulders, her grasp as cold as death.

“There is one thing that has always made me proud of you, what has made the sisters believe in you,” she spoke, and you felt the chill spread like wildfire through your chest. “You were everything they needed in a witch.”

The comfort of dreams and darkness spat you out until you felt exhausted, shuddering back life into you.

Your mind felt as if it was in the middle of a fog, slowly clearing up as your heavy eyes opened and shut with the contrasting brightness. The burning sensation seemed to dwindle from your chest, and you were replaced with the cold that came harshly.

You shivered, groggily taking in the sight of flames that brightened the already dark room. You seemed to be in a reception or lounge, the Corinthia you were laid on was a deep crimson colour, and gold leaf trim took part most of its decoration.

“I see you’re awake.” The same voice cut through the sharpness of the air, startling you to stare at the entrance. Oh, right, your saviour—if you could call him that. You could still remember the blade, as cold as ice, pressed against your neck before you passed out, and you were suddenly very aware that you were alone with this stranger; a stranger with a habit of murder.

“Where am I?” You groaned, clutching your head as you found beside you a glass of water already by the table, gingerly picking it up and debating whether to drink from it. If he wanted you dead, he would’ve killed you by now, and the liquid was already being chugged, cooling and crisp down your throat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t even think twice before you stepped a foot inside these halls,” the dulcet voice sounded both bored and irritated by your mere presence. His silhouette moved like a black cat, sticking closely to the doorway. You heard his voice closer to you this time. “I can’t tell if you’re brave or a fool for coming here.”

It dawned on you finally and slowly that you were still inside Dracula’s castle—that the Vampire king himself owned it. It brought a shudder down your spine, but the curiosity in wanting to know why he was there.

“You don’t seem afraid to be here.” You questioned vigilantly.

“No, I would be if this had not been my home.” The figure finally emerged from the shadows, and you almost squinted at his appearance. The first thing you noticed was his wavy long pale blond hair, reaching past his waist, skin pale as moonglow. It was his eyes that were the most beautiful and eerie: golden as honey or the same colour of leaves that fell in the autumntime.

There was something unnatural about him: not exactly human that you could place, a sombreness that hung over him. You did not know what he had seen in his lifetime, but you could see it in his eyes.

The handsome stranger was dressed in black leather trousers and boots, a simple shirt that showed some of his chest, and a long drawn scar was visible, grotesquely large and haunting.

It was only when you saw what was floating beside him, a long, thin sword, glinting brightly with silver and ornate beauty as it stood vigilantly by his side.

He seemed to notice quickly your eyes darting between him and the weapon beside him. “Will you put that thing away?”

He did not answer you but the sword pulled back from him to stand by the door as he inched closer towards you, watching you with suspicion. “Who are you?”

The stark contrast of his words was not as soft as they had been before, and with the sword standing in the background, you chose to answer him honestly rather than risk being another body staked outside. “My name is Y/N. I come from a village not far from here—”

“You do not speak the truth.” He snarls, and something glints as he opens his mouth wide enough, but is gone within seconds. The blond’s nose scrunches in almost disgust as if the most revolting stench fell over him “It reeks of sorcery,” there’s something feral in his demeanour and the way the sword flickers to move closer to his side, “witch.”

“Yes, I am a witch,” you reply honestly, eyes darting between the sword and him again, your life dangling on the edge. “Please, I don’t have anywhere else to go—I wouldn’t be here for long if you—”

“I do not have anything for you. Leave at once.” He interrupted tersely, circling you, posture tense as if he was either ready to lunge at you or flee. “I do not welcome strangers.”

No, if the bodies were not a warning already. You gulped. “I have no choice but to leave there. I had to for—” Your words stilled on your tongue, nervously tracing your fingers along your wrist in feeble comfort. “I cannot go back there. They… I fled for my life.”

The blond man doesn’t speak for a moment, instead, he watches in hawkish contemplation, studying you, examining if you are telling the truth. It felt as if you could be set on fire by his gaze alone, and finally, he looked away, eyes taking to the hearth.

“Very well,” he says after some time, “you have one month to stay here. One month, and then you can find your way somewhere new.”

Your heart leapt from your chest, ready to almost jump into his arms with gratitude. You watch as he turns, before saying over his shoulder. “There is a bathroom on the second floor, the last room to the left. You stink.”

There is no time to speak your thanks to him, as he’s gone in a hurry, away from the room you occupy. You don’t go looking for him, following up the winding hallways as you follow his instructions, finding the room after looking for some time.

The bathroom is as splendid as the rest of Dracula’s castle: all marble and gleaming white stones and a bath! You take your time to make sure you’re alone, before finding the way to get water through. It’s utterly incredible to witness true science, how hot water comes through without ever needing to gather it from a source. You laugh to yourself, believing how undeniably insane you look in front of his man, and how you too, would be wary of your presence.

It was obvious by your state when you looked in the mirror: your hair was tangled and difficult to even run your fingers through, with the odd chicken feather poking out. Your skin was riddled in mud and bruises covered your thighs and arms. Your cheek is still sore from when Bogdan smacked you, though it is not as red when you see splatters of red across your clothing.

My God, I look mad. You pluck the feathers as you try detangling your hair with your fingers, before stripping off your clothes as the water grows to a level that is good enough for you to get in. The water almost stings from how hot it is, your skin grows pinkish from the heat as you sigh in relief, submerging your body as the water grows clear to a greyish-brown hue.

Grimacing, you occupy yourself with the shelf of many bottles by your side, picking out shampoos and conditioners as you begin the long process of washing your hair. Your curls hid many secrets, as well as the knots that take forever to untangle until they’re smooth and soft to the touch. You dip your head to lean the suds, scrubbing your entire body with the bar of soap until it's red raw.

Not wishing to get out, the water grows cooler, and you grab a towel for your body and head, wrapping your hair up securely as you gather your dirty clothes. You debate on putting them back on or awkwardly trying to find the man of the castle, opening the door to feel something wedged in front.

You inspect the neatly folded clothes, a dress as seaweed green and looking a decade or two out of fashion, a clean chemise and stockings. You dress quickly in the bathroom, finding the kirtle fits you nicely, and you can feel that the material is good quality – as if it’s not been worn before.

Questions dance in your mind – why does he have dresses? Did they belong to a previous wife?

You kept them to the back of your mind as you let your hair air dry, keeping everything as neat as possible as you wandered back to where you could hope of finding the oddly handsome man.

You checked rooms on the second and ground floor: to no avail, was he around, until you found the kitchen on the ground floor, empty, except for the beautiful smells that wafted through the room. You didn’t realise how hungry you had been, not when the food smelt as amazing as it looked.

“You found the kitchen fine then.” A voice interrupted you.

You turned to find the culprit, the blond man was carrying a basket of apples, passing you as he placed them in the middle of the table. The apples were so large they didn’t look real!

He noticed you staring, looking at you for a moment up and down. “The dress you found I see?”

“Yes,” you gathered the material, feeling its softness, “it is very beautiful. Was it your wife’s?”

You see it for yourself, his pale cheeks erupt into a brightness you’ve never seen before, and he averts his gaze from you. “No, the dress is actually my mother’s.”

“Oh.” You say, awkwardness filling the room as he continues sorting out a meal. “Is fish okay for you?” He asks to break the ice.

You nod, watching as he preps two plates, filled with vegetables you’ve never seen before, as bright as anything that could be harvested. The two of you gather your plates as you go to sit at the table, and you fill your stomach with food before it reaches your eyes. The food is rich in flavour and you almost cry from having something so filling in your life.

Neither of you speak as you eat, and though you wish to keep asking him questions, he is quick to speak. “My name is Alucard.”

You choke almost on your fish, staring wide-eyed at him. “Like The Alucard? The one who defeated Dracula?”

“I do rather not like being used that title, but yes, I defeated Vlad Dracula… my father.”

It suddenly dawns on you: his pale skin and unnatural eye colour, how he moves on a whim and as fast as the wind. There was an ethereal beauty to him that you could not place at first, and you were now certain you weren’t losing your mind when you thought you saw fangs in his mouth.

“Oh.” That is all you can say, and Alucard is quick to scrunch his eyebrows at you incredulously, with a look that reads ‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

“I’m sorry for your loss.” You finally manage to say, and you think you’ve said the wrong thing, but the look that flashes across Alucard’s face is one that you think he’s not felt before.

“No one has ever said that to me, that they were sorry,” his words are soft, tired from a life of grief. You can understand him, yet you wish for him to warm up to you. You notice his sword is still in the room, floating in the corner like a sleeping soldier, idly waiting for orders to strike. “It feels quite relieving.” It takes you a moment to realise that he’s trying to joke from the solemness of his tone.

The tension is still there, and quickly you notice that his softness is replaced by the cold exterior once again, as he stands from his spot, cleaning the dishes. “If you’re to be staying here as a temporary guest, you should find the bedroom on the first floor to the right is free to use.”

Watching him pass from the room and disappear is enough to make your heart sink, from the loneliness of the castle, and from the pain of having to share it with a living, broken ghost.

#castlevania alucard x reader #alucard #alucard castlevania #castlevania fanfic #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania netflix #witch!reader #half black! reader #reader is a witch #mixed race reader #alternate universe #itstheendofthegoddamnworld writes #castlevania #part 2

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butmakeitgayblog · 3 months

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Omg the first time they held each other was so sweet 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 I love starlet au musings so much. Now I HAVE to ask…. First kiss?

The first kiss is appropriately dramatic, given the fact they're both rather talented actresses. It's in their blood. It's in their DNA. Of course it had to be dramatic.

A couple of months after the night Lexa spent the night on Clarke's couch, holding her close and feeling her weight as she slept, they find themselves in this weird state of limbo. They've kind of given up on all pretenses of pretending to not want to be in contact at all times, but at the same time... they fall back into this habit of keeping each other at a vague arm's length.

It's not nearly as bad as before. Not after Clarke had woken up alone on her couch to only a post-it stuck on the table next to her head that read,

"Thanks for letting me lead. Even if I do have two left feet...

L."

in neat, looping script.

She'd spent the next 7 hours of the day mentally berating herself for having not only crossed such an intimate line, but having basically made such a fool of herself in front of her not-crush right after. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things when her extensively thought out and painstakingly crafted text of, "Hey, so, sorry for getting pathetic on you last night. Yikes," is met with a simple, "Nothing to worry about, Clarke. I'm much more pathetic than that when I'm just hungry for lunch." Followed immediately by another, "If helps, you're actually kind of pretty when you cry. You should put that on your resume 👀"

And it does help.

It helps because it lets Clarke breathe a little more easy; lets her feel like she can laugh at that white flag of confirmation that she hadn't gone and ruined absolutely everything.

So yes, after that night things change between them. But not in any kind of earth shattering way. They still text everyday, but the calls become longer. More frequent. Good morning texts and bids for good nights and sweet dreams, all peppering the tail ends of too-deep conversations for people who are supposed to be just friends. All the flights and the downtime, and all the hurry up and waiting of their lives, is set to the backdrop of a new message's chime. Lexa now saved in Clarke's phone as Fred Astaire (which earns her a very nonplussed selfie)

Neither mention that Clarke was saved in Lexa's as Rosemary...

It's not until Lexa's birthday that the house of cards they've been building for all those months finally came tumbling down.

Because Lexa had to work.

She had to work - out of town - for the entire goddamn week, and there's nothing at all she can do about it. Which was how she found herself sitting in the Primeclass lounge of the airport, head in her hands, quietly sobbing.

Because of course Clarke had called her at exactly the stroke of midnight just to wish her a happy birthday before her red eye was scheduled to take off. Because of course Clarke had insisted on singing that stupid song right into her ear, all syrupy words and husky voice slightly off-key, which meant she'd set an alarm just to make sure she wouldn't miss it for something as trivial as sleep.

Lexa had barely held it together long enough to get her off the phone - to lie and say they were almost done boarding and that she had hurry and go. It'd taken everything in her just to not let her voice wobble, whispering her thank you's and a gentle urging for Clarke to go back to bed.

Because of course the second the call ended Lexa finally, finally, let herself break.

Very, very messily.

And she didn't care if people looked or took pictures or made up ridiculous theories, because it was just too goddamn much to keep buried inside. She'd been strong about this for so long it felt like she was suffocating under its weight. As though all the good pieces of herself were slowly dying.

Because she loved Clarke. She loved Clarke with her entire broken heart, and there was not one single thing she could do to stop it.

She had tried.

And so she held her head in her hands and hiccuped through a hundred silent sobs until a nice woman eased her way over and said as gently as she possibly could that it was her last chance for boarding.

The next week flew by in a haze of early call times and late night reshoots that had Lexa almost too busy to wallow. Almost. But between her own internal revelations and a set of extremely poorly timed publicity shots being posted of a certain blonde on the arm of her leading man, both enjoying a carefree and flirty looking night out on the town, Lexa cobbled together a rough draft of a plan. A smart plan. A logical plan. A plan to ask Clarke to meet her somewhere and just talk this crazy whole thing through.

A plan that went right out the window about an hour after she had landed back home, and somehow had found herself on Clarke's apartment building's front stoop.

And the truth was that even though she apparently couldn't wait, she had every intention of just going there to talk. To knock on Clarke's door and explain her feelings like a perfectly rational adult. Except then there was Clarke, with those piercing blue eyes and all that beautiful, curly blonde hair. With those lips dropping open and that unfairly attractive beauty mark perfectly dotting her sudden smile.

So their first kiss was dramatic. All relieved sighs and gasps of surpise when Lexa stepped into her a d threaded her fingers through Clarke's hair, cupped her face and pulled her close, and kissed her right there in the darkened doorway of Clarke's apartment. She kissed her through Clarke's initial startle and the slow relaxing of her bones. Kissed her harder when hands found her hips as Clarke melted into her and moaned.

For all the passion she poured into it, Lexa took her time with the kiss, stretching the moment and making every brush of lips and sweep tongue achingly slow. Because if this moment of weakness was all they would ever allow themselves... then Lexa was going to savor it.

#anon #starlet au #gay that's gay they're so lame and gay #i love them

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libby-for-life · 2 months

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Title: Adam Dies

Summary: Adam dies. Or does he? When he's reincarnated back to when he was first created, Adam realizes that he has a chance to live a better way. One where he doesn't die nor does he have to make the same mistakes. Can Adam make a better future, one where he isn't so alone?

Chapter 1: Rebirth (preview)

Adam didn't really think he would die today. He actually came down to do the killing. Who would have thought that he would be stabbed in the literal back by some maniacal demon? He could hear her insane laughter as she stabbed him over and over again, burning firey pain running through his veins with each stab.

He felt her hop off him just as he heard the sound of Lute's voice yelling for him. "NO!" Adam whimpered in pain when he felt himself being rolled over. Lute's devastated face came into view. The first thing he noticed was that her arm had been ripped off, golden blood gushing from her wound. And yet, she was worried about him. He had never had someone look at him like that before.

He couldn't help but smile gently at her. Lute was loyal to the end and if it were possible, he would never forget that. He felt himself close his eyes as he heard Lute yell one last time. "ADAM!"

Darkness.

The darkness around him seemed never-ending as if he was stuck in an abyss with no way out. It was cold and lonely, and he couldn't see anything. Was this his hell? The thought crossed his mind more than once. He tried to shake it off, but the feeling of despair lingered. It was like a heavy weight on his chest that refused to lift. He wondered if this was his punishment for his sins. He was once Adam, the first man created by God. But now, he was nothing but a lost soul, floating aimlessly in the void of darkness. At first, he was filled with anger and indignation. After all, how could he, Adam, be confined to such a fate? He should be lounging in heaven, basking in the glory of God.

XxX

As he floated aimlessly, Adam's anger gradually faded into a deep sense of denial. He couldn't even begin to fathom how long he had been stranded in limbo. It seemed like an eternity had passed since he was cast out of Heaven. For he has to be or they would have come for him. But he held on to the hope that he would be brought back soon and all of this would be forgotten. After all, he was the first man and a pivotal figure in the creation story. He wasn't just anybody - he was somebody important! Surely, Heaven needed him. And God needed him too! Who would lead his army of angels without him? These thoughts swirled in his mind as he desperately clung to the belief that he would soon be rescued.

XxX

Adam found himself still lost in the pitch-black darkness, unable to see anything around him. He had no idea how long he had been drifting in this state, but it felt like it had been far too long. He realized as he had nowhere else to go, that maybe he had been too brutal in his killings when it came to demons. And yes, he could have been more attentive to the rules instead of skirting along them. If any could hear him, he's learned his lesson now! He would be much more careful in the future.

As he called out for help, he hoped that whoever could hear him would understand the gravity of his situation and come to his aid. Despite his pleas, the silence remained unbroken, leaving him feeling more alone and helpless than ever before.

XxX

The oppressive darkness seemed to stretch on endlessly, causing Adam's desperation to grow with each passing moment. He couldn't help but wonder if anyone would come to his rescue, but deep down, he knew that he was alone. After all, what use did heaven have for him? Lute, his right-hand angel, could easily take over his duties and the archangels were more than capable of carrying on without him. Perhaps it was only right that he suffer the eternal consequences of his actions. It was his own fault, he couldn't deny that. Adam had made grave mistakes, and now he had to face the repercussions of his wrongdoings.

It was fitting, wasn't it? If Lilith could see Adam now, she would be enjoying his eternal suffering. She was as beautiful as she was dangerous. Even in the idyllic setting of the Garden of Eden, Lilith was a force to be reckoned with. She was fiercely independent and determined to do things her own way, no matter the cost. He remembers how he would force himself on her, saying that God wanted this to happen and that it was their duty as His creations to do as they were told. He...didn't like it either but he didn't want to displease God in any way.

He learned the hard way that there was also a darker side to her nature, a ruthless streak that made her dangerous to those who crossed her. Adam made the horrible mistake of ever hurting her and paid the price when he was tempted to eat from that damned apple. Poor Eve, so innocent in nature. So dainty and submissive, the exact opposite of Lilith. He didn't like her either.

Eve was always hanging off of Adam, no matter what he did. Her amazement was unceasing and it seemed that everything Adam did was an incredible feat of strength and intelligence. At first, Adam was flattered by her constant attention and empty praises, but he soon grew tired of it. He couldn't understand what was so great about picking up a simple rock or performing other everyday tasks that he found mundane. Despite this, Eve would still cheer and clap in admiration, which only made Adam feel more annoyed. He wished that she would stop worshiping him for things that he considered to be trivial.

Eventually, he thought this was how he should be treated and expected as such when he first came to heaven.

Adam was now aware of the fact that Eve was a product of a highly patriarchal and oppressive system. The system had been designed in such a manner that after Lilith's rebellion had resulted in Eva being put in her place instead. Consequently, men and women were no longer considered equal. The angels, who had been entrusted with the task of restoring order, had decided to make women more submissive in nature. Adam supposed that this strategy had worked, considering there was no more fighting or rebellion against the order. However, despite the apparent success of this system, Adam couldn't help but feel unhappy. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong with this situation.

As he floated in the dark, for how long Adam couldn't remember, it came to him. Love. He wasn't in love with Lilith at the time of creation nor was he in love with Eve after it. That was why he was unhappy during it all even after he ate the fruit of the forbidden tree. In fact, this was why he had eaten the fruit to begin with. He was so depressed with his life that he was willing to even sin if that meant change.

'And look where that landed you. If only he could do things differently, maybe you wouldn't have died.'

Suddenly, a yank at his core made Adam yelp in pain. What was going on? And then he knew no more.

So, what do you think of the preview? If you're interested in my book, Adam Dies, then go check it out!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53883259/chapters/136385803

#adamsapple #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel #preview #chapter 1

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ynmnrmt · 2 months

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You & Me & Rhea Makes Three: Chapter 8

rhea ripley x m!reader x m!reader's girlfriend

word count: 7,049

warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, themes of domination/submission, dubiously consensual nonmonogamy, relationship drama, violence/threat

a/n: This chapter contains a moment of metatextuality which is so self-indulgent I should probably be in prison for it. However, it also contains scenes of rough, kinky sex, which is presumably what you're really here for.

(The story so far: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven)

The bathroom isn’t where you remember it. It isn’t how you remember it, either. The door doesn’t stick, and the tiles are pleasantly warm under your feet, which is good, because it’s a long walk across them to a sink like a sacrificial Roman altar. Surely, you think blearily as you lift your toothbrush from a silver recreation of an eagle’s claw, the old cup worked just as well.

Obviously you see Jen come into the room, in that banquet-table sized mirror, long before she’s anywhere near you. But you still make the noise of pleasant surprise when she hugs you from behind and kisses you on the neck.

“How’d you sleep?” you ask as best you can through a mouthful of fluoridated foam.

“It’s...a really nice bed,” she says. “I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

“That new bed smell,” you joke half-heartedly, it still makes her smile. Perhaps she feels the same neurosis as you, that this is all some kind of trick, that any moment the bottom will drop out, perhaps it’s all some kind of reality show. “I know, it’s all still strange.”

“It’s not that,” she mumbles. “I woke up feeling really fat and bloated.”

“You’re not,” you insist, and turn to caress her stomach and show her that part of her too is loved. She has less body fat than you do, which is probably still under a healthy amount. “You have absolutely no reason to feel unattrac-”

As you say it, Rhea walks in to yawn and stretch her arms over her head, broad at the shoulders and lean in the waist. You both stare, and it really feels like it would be patronising to finish the sentence. And of course you know exactly how Jen must feel, faced with that gorgeous strength and power, there’s the vague thoughts of how scrawny you are by comparison but before anything else the immediate desperate desire.

“Can you stop making our girlfriend feel insecure?” you ask her, with the same air of flimsy jocularity as before, even though you mean it. Rhea blinks, taken aback somewhat, and you reflect it is an unreasonable thing to ask, it’s not as if she can help it. Then she kisses Jen full on the mouth, bending her back slightly over the sink, only to break away and leave Jen dazed and move on to you.

It was the morning wood that woke you, straining in the cage up against Jen’s thigh, and you stayed awake in the dark for some time in that half-sleep limbo. Now, with Rhea’s morning breath filling your lungs, it’s back with a vengeance. One of these days, you reflect muzzily, as you share lips and tongue and oxygen, you’re going to have to have a little talk with Jen about the logistics of wearing one of these things while living with two sexy ladies.

When Rhea backs off, it’s your toothpaste-froth she has across her mouth – and she licks it up, you see her run her tongue all around her teeth. When she swallows, you go so far as to make a little noise, a choke on the inhale. She gently lays a hand around Jen’s shoulder, onto her triceps, and tells her “You’re beautiful just the way you are” before giving her that golden easy smile.

“Yeah,” you agree, and come round her other side, this time it’s you kissing her on the neck and probably leaving a foamy imprint where your lips touch her. “Don’t ever change. Ever.”

You find yourself alone, in the larger lounge, slightly awestruck by just how high the ceilings are. “What’s up?” you ask, as Rhea shuffles into the room.

“I’m a little stiff, I’ve been blasting my abs,” she replies – and lifts her shirt. “Here, feel.” The heat, the hard steel ridges, it’s as if you have your hand on the world’s sexiest radiator. She flops down on the couch with an “Oof!” and spreads out. “Stretchie-me-out…” she mumbles as she gets herself the whole way across the couch and across you. The filthy, lovely smell of her body is still all around you, rising from her underarms and her crotch and her feet, and between her top and her sports shorts her tummy sparkles. “God, I’m beat. I bet you could take me at an arm wrestle, right now.”

“No I couldn’t,” you say, even as she pokes you with her toes, and eyes you in a way that makes you want to give it a try. “Anyway, you were doing your abs, and-”

With a grunt of discomfort, she’s upright and in your face. “Come on, I dare you. Maybe we can make it interesting.”

“Interesting how?” Hardly even your words, but the response she wanted, and you’re all too happy to give it to her.

All playful, she proffers “If you win, I get to suck your cock,” and immediately you are uncomfortably aware of the cage under your clothes as you twitch in her direction, “and if I win, you get to jam your face in my ass and take a nice deep whiff.” She’s so close she’s practically French-kissing you, and she comes closer still to lower her voice and add “I showered before, it’s not like, y’know.”

Oh yes, you know. “When you put it like that, I don’t see how I can lose,” you say. Rhea wriggles with glee. You have already firmly decided you will let her win, or rather, won’t even resist too much while she effortlessly defeats you. Now is not the moment, you feel, for the shock revelation of the cage, the awkward explanation, and God help you the politics of it all.

It’s a couple of careful, deliberate movements with which she stretches out on the floor, lying on her stomach, her right arm cocked and ready. You get down there to match her, meet her head-on, a conception that seems ridiculous when your palm meets hers and she sweetly smiles “Holding hands.”

“Come on, take this seriously,” you say, as you try to shift so the cage isn’t wedged straight into your bladder. She hardly needs to expend any effort to lever your hand down towards the floor, and you don’t try to stop her – and then, when her victory seems assured, she pulls you hard back the other way. Even if you did take the strain now there’s no possible way you could stop her, the back of her hand’s on the floor, and your hand’s there on top of hers.

“Oops,” she says, cutely. “I knew you could beat me.”

“But Rhea,” you reply, and you think you keep your voice steady and don’t let the desperation show, “I was really looking forward to getting better acquainted with your ass.”

“Aww…” she gently strokes your cheek, with the hand you allegedly just pinned to the carpet. “Tell you what. Since you won, we can do both, since that’s what you want.” Hmm, you’ve allegedly won and ended up with the exact opposite of what you wanted, how’s that happened? Though really, it’s not as if you didn’t want either side of it, it’s just the circumstances that – but no time to think about this, because she’s up on her feet, and as you rise slowly to your knees she’s turned around to present you with your prize.

Rhea pulls her sports shorts down to the shelf where her thighs begin, and there it is, looking you right in the eye, the gorgeous rounded form of her rump which is painfully arousing to you even when you try to think of it with a profoundly unsexy term like ‘rump’. A gleaming bead of sweat rolls down it – no, around it, it struggles over the upper curve before it succumbs to gravity and goes in freefall the rest of the way.

“I hope I’m not too sweaty,” Rhea halfway giggles, while you restrain yourself from instinctively licking clean the imperceptible trail that droplet has left down the right cheek of her glorious ass.

“No,” you manage in response, that low-lying musky smell already invading every orifice in your head, by no means appetising but it makes you hungry all the same. You can already feel the cage pressing in on all sides.

“I mean, I wasn’t really working the glutes – alright, biiig whiff,” she says, encouraging, as she reaches back and puts her hand on your head. But she doesn’t pull you in, she couldn’t, because her mere touch is all the prompt you need to dive right in there. And you can’t take that huge inhalation because your nose is clogged up by her ass, the softness over that steel-hard muscle underneath moulded so naturally to your face.

She doesn’t smell the way you would after a workout – she smells the way her abs shone. There’s a moment of shock when she doesn’t let you go, of course there is, the panic as you realise just how short of breath you are. But this lightning sensation gets re-routed straight to your dick. It’s not even that you want to be inside her because you practically already are, and you barely even want to escape.

When she lets you come up for air she looks back at you, no, down at you, peeking from the corners of her eyes over her shoulder, and says “You didn’t take a whiff” with the faintest disappointment. So you breathe in greedily, while the cage wobbles around in your underwear, and all you can think of is how every lungful of her essence will be a further mindbending factor in how intense your eventual orgasm is going to be.

And when you’re finally out of breath and have to back off, the taste lingers, floating on your palate, in through the nose and into your mouth. Rhea turns around quickly and drops to her knees to face you, and gives you a long, gleeful kiss. All you can think is that you wouldn’t have the stomach to do this if she’d been sniffing around your ass, and how very, very grateful you are to her.

“I hope this was okay for you,” she says, cheek to cheek with you. “After that – I really am worried about accidentally pushing you into something you don’t want to do.”

“No,” you say, a choice word for this moment, “it’s fine. I like your ass.” And you can feel her giggle at that.

“What else do you like?” she husks, and the cage clinks audibly.

“I,” your mouth is dry, “I’m really not in the mood for a blow job. Not right now.” Now you feel her face change again, you can sense the expression of surprise and disbelief, because, yes, why would anyone say such a thing?

Rhea backs off, she doesn’t look sad, but even the little curl of disappointment in her mouth twists your heart in knots. “Alright. If you’re sure.” Perhaps it’s not even disappointment, perhaps it’s concern, it’s a bit of a giveaway when she squeezes your hand and gently adds “Is something wrong?”

“No! No, it’s not – you’re great. You know that.” You can’t put the same poundage into squeezing her hand back, but she still brightens up a little when you do. And you love her, so you kiss her, with the taste of her body still on your tongue, and she kisses you back with a relieved enthusiasm while you try not to think about the metal pressing into your cock.

Is it the way you feel so safe that makes you reach blindly out for her, to touch her stomach, touch her breast, and make her giggle again? It must be, and the cage is so tight on you now that when she starts curling her fingers down your chest you almost let it happen, for what little comfort that will bring. But eventually you have to pull back, and when you do you try your very best to make it seem natural.

“I used to be so insecure about my butt,” confesses Rhea, a warm glow in her cheeks.

“Come on,” you scoff.

“Well, I get sweaty around there. And, I get all this fan mail,” when she brings this up you’re already giving a little oh of mea culpa, but she continues, “a lot of it gets incredibly graphic. I even get people writing elaborate fan-fictions about me, and usually about people I work with as well, and, fuck, then I have to look them in the eye on Monday. Do you know what it’s like, trying to keep that kind of filth out of your mind?”

Your hand finds hers. “Yes,” you say, entirely truthfully, and it sets her off laughing, a low-level amusement that she cannot possibly stop.

“Alright, alright – stop looking at me like that!”

“I know. I’m sorry. Christ, maybe I don’t know, I know I don’t know what it’s like being a WWE megastar. I just, well, I hope beyond all that, I can make you happy. We can make you happy.” That’s a rhetorical flourish, you want to add, not an afterthought.

“That’s it, though, that’s why you guys – I just want a safe place where I can get away from everything. Where I can be with people who really matter to me.” When Rhea leans forward again this time it’s not simply her lips on your lips, this is deeper, this is something primaeval, and you let her force you onto your back and climb on top of you. “It’s just so much fun.”

“It sure is,” you enthuse weakly, the cage itself strangling your voice. Even with Rhea straight up on her arms over you, it’s somehow like she’s pressing right down on you. And before long, it is exactly like that, as she sweetly kisses all around your mouth.

“I want to make you feel good,” she continues, and now her lips walk their way down your chest, even over your shirt it gives you cold thrills. You grab at her, your hands on her shoulders, it’s to try and stop her inexorable move down your body but it just seems like a loving clutch, even to you. “I want to make you feel the way you make me feel,” and then she has hold of your waistband and pulls, sharply.

The sudden chill of open air is nothing compared to the way your blood freezes when Rhea does too – gaping at what she has found in there, struck dumb completely.

“What is this?” she asks finally, and immediately plays with it, bouncing it in her fingers, which makes you tilt your head back and gasp.

“Jen was – she didn’t want you to be able to make me go with you again,” you stutter out, what an interesting way of saying it.

“She did this t-” Rhea begins, shoulders squared, full of fire and outrage and for a moment so unbearably sexy you try spiritedly to clench your prostate and burst the cage from the inside. Then she slumps. “Yeah. No, I, I understand. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bundling you to the ground like this.” You nearly cry out but yes! You must! when she says that, you nearly do, before she takes your arms and sits you back up. Again, a wave of desire that feels like it’ll have the metal cut through your skin and turn you inside-out. You rest your head on her shoulder, and she rests her head on you, and sits with you, troubled. She sounds utterly wretched when she confesses “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” falls from your mouth, and you do, but more than that you do not want her to feel bad in any way.

“And I love Jen, too – I don’t care if she wants to stop me fucking you, I still love her, I love you both so much I think my heart’s going to…” You hear her choke back the tears.

“Oh, Rhea,” you don’t have the words but you wrap your arms around her and squeeze, as if you don’t want her to get away. She could break your grip and throw you off in a second, instead she passes a hand over your elbow, and grasps you too – hard, maybe it’ll leave a bruise, you shift uncomfortably, there’s the cage again.

You do the dishes. It is the distraction of the task, combined with the comfort of the warm water, that makes it appeal to you in this moment. Then Rhea creeps up from behind you, and holds you lightly in her arms, and suddenly the idea of warm water being in any way comforting seems profoundly stupid. You wish you could quite literally melt into her grasp – life as a liquid strikes you as so much simpler.

“I don’t even know how to feel about this,” she says, and you can feel the pain in her voice. “Part of me wants to get Jen in an elbow lock and then chokeslam her through the drywall, and I hate that this even occurs to me.”

“I know what you mean,” you say, “I used to be terrible for bringing work home with me.”

“I wish she was here,” Rhea muses, setting her chin down on top of your head. “We could just talk things through instead of getting wound up about it.”

“She did say her aunt was really ill.” At the time she left, it didn’t occur to you how long she might be gone for, and it seemed uncouth to ask about the key. But at that point you’d had the cage on less than four hours. “I keep thinking I should have gone with her.”

“But then I’d be on my own,” and Rhea hardly needs to inflect that to make it sound like flirting, “all alone, in this big house.” If it was uncouth to ask about the key then there’s no way in hell you can ask her to stop being sexy so the cage doesn’t get wedged into your tender skin.

You finish the dishes and go for a walk together. The tree on the horizon seems like a natural goal, and as you cross the grounds arm in arm with Rhea, the grass – her grass – wetting your ankles and everything looking beautiful you wonder how it is that you seem so desperately unhappy.

Rhea leans against the tree. She might be looking out into the distance, over the unspoiled land and light forests, a lot of which are also now hers – but her eyes are filled with tears. “I thought we’d be happy here,” she says, and for want of anything you can say to try and make this come true you hold her around her middle. “I thought we’d never have to worry about anything ever again.”

“We don’t,” you try desperately to reassure her, the sight of her even mildly upset like a dagger in your guts, “we’ve got everything we want here.”

“I wanted to make you happy.” No emotion to the words as she looks down at you, you feel about half her height and this is incredibly exciting in your hips. “That’s why I let you win at arm-wrestling.”

“You made me win.”

Through those tears Rhea gives a little hiccup of laughter. “I did, didn’t I? It’s because I wanted to get you off, I love doing that, I love how nervous you get,” and she’s grabbing for your waistband again, but she doesn’t pull it down this time, her eyes are clear as they look into yours and she asks “please?”

And how could you say no?

Rhea drops to the ground, on one knee like a soldier, and takes the whole cage in her mouth. You don’t much like thinking of yourself as bite-sized in that way, perhaps that’s what gives you a chill and makes you worry, makes you say “Rhea, anyone could see.”

“They could,” she muses, with her lips against the metal, “and I bet they’d like it, too.” She is after all a stage performer, you think to yourself, she will have thoughts and opinions with capital letters on this sordid business of being watched, then as if she’s read your thoughts she continues “No, what I like best here is that nobody’s going to be watching us, nobody’s going to be glup anywhere near, this is just for us.” She opens her mouth again and touches her nose to your stomach.

“Oh fuck, Rhea,” you breath, she holds you by the balls and the gnarled bark of the tree is pressed into your back. Even through the gaps of the cage you can feel how warm and wet her tongue is, and then she wriggles it in, she actually touches you with it…

“Mmph!” she yelps, and you cry out too, now you feel the metal on all sides – except where your expanding cock has trapped the tip of her tongue in there with it.

“Fuck – I’m sorry – I’m sorry!” Eyes wide, you look about for help which, as Rhea has firmly established, is not there. And she gazes up at you with her mouth up against you, she pleads silently. You bite your own tongue, hard, to try and quell all that sealed-off arousal, but it’s down the other end of your body, it might as well be a thousand miles away. “I’m trying not to get hard, I’m so sorry,” you splutter, and she whimpers in reply, soft muffled moans that you’ll never forgive yourself for making things worse.

You close your eyes, grit your teeth, and rake your hand down the bark of the tree. The pain cuts through, for a moment it seems to work, you want it to work. Then Rhea chokes her mouth off the cage, her tongue still pinned in place by your cock, and she gets her fingers in there, she fiddles blindly and ends up touching your already-tender skin and now it is pain at both ends.

The bark tears through your knuckles, you swipe up and down unconscious to the pain now, and still it is no help. It is finally Rhea who solves this, roughly pulling herself free with a “Blah!” with such force she falls on her back. Frantically you help her back to her feet, though it’s more like you guide her rise, and she nurses the end of her tongue.

“I’m sorry, Rhea,” you repeat.

“I’m thorry too,” and when she hears herself she scowls in amused frustration. “I hope you’re thatithfied.”

“Obviously not,” you say, and mercifully you can both laugh at that, even as your balls throb and the blood trickles down your fingers.

You wake up from a wonderful dream of you and Jen and Rhea all happily naked as the days you were born, and you wake into a sting of pain, the curse of morning wood. You writhe, you breath sharply, nothing you seem to be able to do can make your cock go down. Then your noises of pain must wake Rhea, too, because she muzzily says “My poor boy” and wraps her big arms around you.

Despite everything, even when she brings one thigh up over the offending area, this is better. For sure, the cage is cold and hard, but everything else is warm and soft.

By the time you are up and have finished making breakfast, Rhea comes through the front door, flushed and pink from her run. “Only ten miles today,” she observes, “I’m being very lazy.” And yes, once she’s eaten, she flops on the couch and snuggles up under a blanket. “I hope you’re sleeping okay,” she adds, the fabric up to her chin, only her face peeping out.

“Most of the time,” you say, truthfully, between those painful interruptions you do manage to get in some shut-eye. “I hope I’ve not been disturbing you.”

“Take a look in the ice box.” When you do, Rhea has topped herself, she manages to melt your heart a little without even being in the room, because she’s made you an ice-pack, an old-fashioned cartoon ice-pack of the kind that’s usually meant to soothe a sore head. The frosty feel is a thrill all of its own, and one that doesn’t immediately bring you into conflict with the cage.

You go back through with a suspicious bulge in the front of your trousers, and kiss Rhea on the forehead, adding “You’re precious and perfect.”

Rhea smiles sunnily and brings an arm out from under the blanket, a flash of fear and arousal that she might touch you – but instead, she pushes the blanket in between her thighs. “There we go…” she murmurs, and then explains “I’ve always found this really comforting.”

“You want comforting?” Without waiting for a response you sit alongside her to stroke her hair, and she wriggles with some glee.

“Actually,” she wheedles, blinking her summery eyes up at you, “my feet hurt.” Her gentle smile turns into a grin. “So long as that isn’t going to cause you any little problems.”

You rearrange yourself at the other end of the couch and start working her soles. Of course it turns you on, but realistically just being around her was going to do that. You try to stay detached, and to look her in the eye while you’re doing it, but as the scent of her run rises up into your face you find yourself thinking how lonely her toes seem outside of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she wheedles far above you, what can only be the lead-in to a request or perhaps a plea, “but having you here like this caring for me – loving me – it makes me, oh God, so fucking horny.”

She just has to edge her running shorts down with her thumbs, over the curve of her hips. You are all too happy to take it from there and strip them off completely. Then you bow your head, and as you lap at her labia, already flushed and excited, yes, there’s the taste of her run. It feels as if you have to eat your way through it to even get to her vagina, though you treasure every mouthful.

This is more the scenario you’d had in mind, where just because you are sexually restrained is no reason for her to go without. You do not feel her pleasure in some second-hand voodoo transfer, but you feel everything else, you feel her heart beat faster and her juices flow. And you definitely feel it as her hips shift to invite you in further and her big thighs tighten around your head. She squeals, and giggles, and tells you what she wants to do to you, and the cage gets you like a snare.

Before you’re in too much of that permanent intimate pain, the call finally comes, and you drive to the airport to pick up Jen. As you wait in the short-term parking you wonder just what it would be like, trying to get through security with the cage on. You play it out in your mind, they take you aside into a sterile-looking back room, of course they do, but then the guard looks like Rhea, all buttoned up in uniform, and the jab of pain between your legs brings you back to the real world.

When she comes through baggage claims she looks dreadful. You go in for a hug and she almost collapses into your arms.

“So, how’s your aunt?” you say, with that slightly breathy sympathy, the voice that is already fortified for the worst.

“They were lying,” Jen sobs, “they made it up to hassle me about Grandma Barbara’s will.” Jesus! This really gives you pause, since she was only left a china hutch. No wonder she never goes back home.

You carry her suitcases, then you sit her down in the car, to give her a moment’s respite, before you load them into the boot. You’re not good with these types of situations, you never have been. Before you can even start the car she’s thrown herself across you, arms draped round your neck like a feather boa.

“I missed you,” she says, voice steadier, as if you have administered relief from a deep-seated pain. “This,” you keep your eyes on the road but hear the jingle of the keys around her neck, “was the only thing keeping me together.”

“Jen,” you say, at least you know where to begin, “sometimes I get worried that, since, you’re coming from that background – I’ve read some stuff on psychology, that, people who have a history like that, they end up understanding that kind of abuse as a kind of affection in and of itself. If you know what I mean.”

“Well, I get that,” she says, “but I don’t see how it’s really relevant to – I’ve got you and Rhea. I got away from all that horrible shit. I’m happy with you guys. I’m safe with you guys.” And when she says this, it twists the ventricles of your heart, you think you might need to try not to cry. Then she holds up the key and adds “You want road head?” all smiles now.

“Oh no,” you say, “I’ll go off the side and over a cliff if you do that,” and she laughs, and squeezes you.

When you get home, Rhea’s nowhere to be seen. The lobby’s empty, so’s the atrium, the swimming pool lies silent and still. You slog Jen’s cases up the split staircase, along the balustrade and into the master bedroom, these are all deserted too. It’s just you and Jen, alone in the house.

“Did you want something to eat?” you ask her. “Coffee?”

She still looks downcast until she crashes into you, face smashed against yours, arms wrapped around you so you can’t balance, and you topple down onto the bed as she gives you rough mouth-to-mouth. You squirm in her grasp, it’s not like being with Rhea, you could definitely escape here, but obviously you don’t want to, you’d never want to.

“Come on,” she says, when her mouth finally leaves yours and you crane your neck trying to get it back, she tugs ineffectually at your clothes, “I want you to fucking stick it in me.” So you undo your trousers, and try not to shudder-moan when the cool air kisses your cock inbetween the metal spokes.

Jen leans down to open the cage – and there behind her you see the door open and Rhea framed in there, lit from behind and shadowy, but you can still tell she’s in her work clothes. The spikes glitter and her eyes flash fierce white out from her black makeup. For such a big, muscly, glorious woman she moves so silently. Then Jen straightens up and refills your view, holding the padlock.

“There we go,” she halfway giggles, and sets it aside. “Now let’s get this off.” You’re already semi-hard, so she has to give the cage itself a bit of a tug. “I’ve missed this, I was imagining finally getting you inside of me the whole way home.”

“Jen,” you breathe, not able to muster a real warning with your cock flapping free.

“I was shaking just thinking about-erk!”

Rhea’s grabbed her, one thick arm under her shoulder and curled around her neck, and Rhea brings her face right next to Jen’s and says “Welcome home.” You want to intervene, but Jen’s flash of untrammelled delight makes you want to see where this is going. “You wanted to get some, did you? Yeah, I bet you did.”

“Uh-huh,” Jen nods frantically.

“Did you consider, for one moment, what it’s been like for us? I have been aching to get at his cock, but oh no, somebody decided to put it in a cage. What the fuck was that, anyway? Where’d you get a sick idea like that?”

“I thought it was kind of kinky,” says Jen, still slightly choked.

“You think something that degrading was kinky?” Rhea’s teeth touch Jen’s earlobe as she growls that, and she delivers it with conviction, but a small mad part of you seizes that little hope, the idea it is all okay and she’s just putting it on. “It hurt. Obviously it hurt him. And you didn’t care.”

“Unnh,” is Jen’s response, probably because Rhea’s other hand is jammed down her trousers.

“You went off to who knows where, and you knew he’d be in pain,” Rhea snarls, the muscles in her arm like hydraulics as she works Jen over, “and you knew we wouldn’t be able to fuck… you’re a shit fucking girlfriend.”

“No, Rhea, come on,” you say, you try to prop yourself up a bit. “This isn’t exactly-”

“Come on,” Rhea echoes you, while Jen whimpers in her arms, “say it.”

“Oh-hh, I’m sorry,” Jen husks, snatching big preorgasmic breaths, “I’m a shit girlfriend, I’m sorry I locked up your cock.”

“For – sound like you mean it, don’t do a stupid little rhyme.”

“I’m so mmnh sorry, really, I’m sorry,” Jen jerks about in Rhea’s arms, almost trying to get free, but Rhea’s fingers have her hooked firmly in place, “fuck, Rhea, let me kiss him, please.”

Rhea tightens her grip around Jen’s body, you almost feel her bones creak. “No,” goes Rhea, cruel and taunting, and follows it with a long lick up the side of Jen’s mouth. You flash Rhea a look, she replies with an expression that makes you want to marry her. You flash her another look, and another, and she bobs her head this way and that, showing you that perfect full-cheek smile from every angle, until finally she has a little laugh and lets Jen free.

Jen explodes down onto you, she locks you to her with her tongue alone. She grabs at you, too, her arms scrabble around yours like she wants to be rescued. But then you feel Rhea’s greater weight on top of your little pile, along with the shuffling of her hand around your midsection that is still making Jen whine directly into your mouth.

Rhea finds your cock and takes hold of it and lines it up, right where the squeeze of Jen’s thighs meets her pussy. You’re not quite certain if it’s Rhea hauling Jen up and down, or Jen herself shifting her hips, but either way you’re going for it too, you poke yourself in the only direction you can.

“You like that, huh,” Rhea says more softly now, as she keeps your cock clamped in place along Jen’s labia, while making wide swirling circles against you with the back of her other hand. “You want it.”

Whoever that was meant for, it’s Jen who says “Yes, yeah, yes I want it,” her hands smear all over your chest, “yes, yes I want it, I want it, yes yes yes yes-”

For a moment Jen convulses on you, before Rhea peels her off and throws her aside. It’s not a violent act, she’s not hurled against the wall, just further along the bed, but at a distance from you both – and it’s there she thrashes, she clutches at her pussy in a vain attempt to keep it under control while her legs point out like scissors, beyond words as that last ‘yes’ goes further into the same primal cry of pleasure. She’s so wet she’s left a trail of dark droplets along the sheets.

“Ha ha!” Rhea lays her head fondly on your chest, turned to one side to gaze on as Jen still writhes her way through an orgasm. “Was it good for you too?” Rhea asks, and plants a little kiss close enough to your left nipple to make you shiver. After the days of buildup, you’re amazed you weren’t the one to come from all that.

“Rhea,” you say, you struggle slightly for breath under her lovely bulk, “I really don’t like you talking to Jen like that.”

“I thought it was better to address it like this,” she says, looking winsomely up into your eyes, “in the context of a loving, satisfying sexual encounter, rather than it be in anger.”

You look sideways at Jen. She adores you with her eyes, tongue out of her mouth, sweaty and panting, her whole body heaves with each ragged breath. “Maybe,” you say, “but-”

It’s drowned out completely when Rhea hoists herself up over you, and grabs your cock again. Before you can do anything she’s got you inside her, she bounces playfully on you as you twist your tongue trying not to come already.

“I guess, ah! I see what she means,” Rhea reflects, “the wait kind o-of makes it better.”

“I’m really sorry if I come too soon,” you squeak out, and she laughs a knowing, conspiratorial laugh that is somehow reassuring. Then she kicks out a leg and rolls onto her back and brings you with her, all of a sudden you are on top of her and Jen looks up at you from right next to her breast.

“Now fuck the fucking shit out of me,” Rhea warns you and it’s all the stimulus you need, you pump into her with all your might, you grab her arms to keep them there where you want them and she lets you do that. Jen’s tongue drools onto the bedsheet. Rhea moans for more, she turns to jelly under you, she clenches her fists and her leg jerks violently.

Miraculously, you do feel as if you’re in control, more in control anyway, like riding a large and powerful horse that is no longer actually trying to buck you off. Rhea certainly isn’t doing that, the spasms in her legs have calmed down enough that she’s wrapped them around your back.

“You like watching this?” Rhea throws out this jagged little aside in Jen’s direction. “You like seeing your boyfriend’s cock going in and out of me?”

“Uh-huh,” Jen hazes.

“Really?” you add, though you don’t stop.

“Uh-huh,” she says again, and she projects such warmth toward you that you immediately resolve not to let her down on this score. She reaches flimsily out towards you, and Rhea grabs her and pulls her in under her arm, all while you keep right on fucking.

“I’m glad,” you tell your girlfriend, although it might get lost in all the action, underneath Rhea’s cries of pleasure and Jen’s little moans. It makes your heart beat out of control, all this feminine pleasure and love, but you deliberately try not to focus on it, because every fresh husky gasp brings you perilously close to coming, you might actually bite through your tongue if they carry on like this.

But before too long, something gives way inside Rhea’s magnificent body, she throws her head back in one silent cry and her muscles relax. And it’s not a moment too soon, because then all the fluid in your body spurts unstoppably out of you and into her vagina.

You collapse, sweaty and shaky, onto her, and her big arms thump onto your back as she gives you a clumsy squeeze. “God that was good,” she sighs, and cuddles you harder and realigns your spine. “Alright, maybe she has a point about deferred pleasure.”

“The chastity cage wasn’t her idea,” you admit, “at least not originally, it was mine.”

“You kinky little beast,” rumbles out of her chest, and she kisses you tenderly on the crown of your head.

“He just gave me the idea, but it was me,” insists Jen, slithering sluglike up the side of Rhea’s body. “He was just showing me some kinky porn, he wasn’t the one who wanted to do it for real.”

“Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson. In fact-” With the same sort of sharp little tug Jen used to pull the cage off, Rhea pulls the key from around Jen’s neck, the chain snaps and she yelps. Then Rhea sits up, possibly not meaning to throw you aside but it happens either way, and grasps Jen by the back of the head to look straight into her eyes while she protests feebly. “I’m going to go out there tonight, and I’m going to win, with this key around my neck and your boyfriend’s come inside of me.”

For a few moments, Jen is lost for words. Then she simply says “I’ll get horny watching you.”

“Is that so?” Rhea turns back to you with the deranged grin of a woman with a plan. “In that case, maybe we ought to teach our pretty girlfriend a little lesson.”

You’ve just come, you feel empty between your stomach and your knees, and yet she simply has to say this to fill you up with lust again. “What sort of a lesson?”

And Rhea raises the cage. “Maybe, if you want, we can show her what it’s like.”

Jen nestles in your lap as you both watch the TV. Rhea has won, like she said, she’s been cheerfully clear that it’s arranged well in advance but still, to see her triumph, she looks so profoundly sexy. There again, if she lost, then of course you could be there to comfort her.

“I love how tight her ass is,” says Jen, initially it seems apropos of nothing, but then, you figure, you were both thinking it.

“She said – I shouldn’t say, she said she was insecure about it, if you can believe that,” you say, though you artfully leave out how this came up.

“We ought to help her feel more secure about it.” There on the screen, your mutual girlfriend throws her arms wide and wriggles her shoulders, it’s probably not even meant to be sexy but Jen stiffens up and you do too. “And I love how her pits taste.”

You nod along, because yes, you do too. “I love how strong she is.”

“I love when she shoves me around.” A cold sweat of relief there, that had really worried you.

“I love when she’s on top.”

Jen starts to laugh, and you do too, and she adds “I also love her tits” before you kiss, and roll on the couch, and kiss. The cage becomes very present inside your underwear. Everything’s alright, you think. It’s all going to be alright.

#rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley x you #rpf #rhea ripley fanfiction #rhea ripley smut

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dailydamnation · 2 months

Text

They Were Roommates... Eventually

An X-Addendum fanfic (Part one here.) (Also posted on AO3.) (Banner art by Chris Sprouse.)

THE THIRD NIGHT

Some nights, Kitty actually did go to bed at an hour she would not be embarrassed to tell her parents about. To bed, mind you, not to sleep. After two hours which felt like ten, she turned her bedside light back on and stared at the ceiling. Why was she so bad at this? Kitty was not good at being bad at things—and she hated it.

Ah, if she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well get up. There was something nagging at her mind anyway.

Either she was sleepier than she felt or the mansion was haunted—and all things considered, the latter seemed as likely as anything—because try as she might, Kitty could only find one of her slippers. Maybe a Bamf took the other one. She chuckled at the memory of that bedtime story she’d once made up for Illyana. If only the Bamfs were real.

Well, whatever. Her feet would survive without.

Kitty left her room and stepped into the dark, deserted hallways of the mansion.

To be honest, the floors were colder than she expected and she had instant regrets, but curiosity pulled her onward nevertheless.

There was no one in the lounge tonight, and the TV was turned off.

She wandered on.

The door to Illyana’s bedroom stood ajar just a little, and Kitty stuck her head in through the gap without opening it further. Phasing in would have been intrusive, but this was surely fine. If not for the small pile of clothes in a corner, the guest room would have looked unoccupied. The bed was still made.

Kitty had avoided the question because of the hypocrisy of considering it, as she risked sleep deprivation herself every other night, but she wondered how much sleep Illyana actually got. Did she have nightmares often? Every night?

Witnessing her have one had stirred something primal in Kitty—whether it was leftover care for the little girl she used to tuck into bed or guilt over the frightening memories that had made her keep her distance from this teenager, Kitty just couldn’t stand the thought of her whimpering as she was being tormented by whatever she might have gone through during the seconds they had lost her in Limbo which had been seven years to her.

Kitty wished Illyana would tell them. She understood why she hadn’t. Illyana had only known her and the other X-Men briefly when she was so little, and they were probably mostly strangers to her.

With a sigh, Kitty moved on. Unsure of where else to look, she found herself heading towards the kitchen, the usual destination of her midnightly foraging.

When she phased in through the wall—a lazy shortcut good for the dark, because you couldn’t bump your toes into anything while you were phased—it didn’t register with her that the lights were on until she saw the figure sitting at the kitchen table. Although being phased muffled the sound of Kitty’s movement, Illyana must have sensed her presence, because her head snapped around the same instant that Kitty gasped.

“Oh...” she said. “Kitty.” There was still the hint in her eyes that she’d seen someone else at first, but this time she didn’t stumble over Kitty’s name. Perhaps they were both getting used to each other.

“Hi, Illyana!” Kitty replied, pretending with all her might that she hadn’t been startled, and pouring a glass of water from the tap to justify why she was here.

“Ever the restless, nocturnal creature, aren’t you?” Illyana seemed surprised that she’d spoken and quickly wiped away the smile that had formed on her face with the words, but Kitty caught it. Illyana looked like she hadn’t slept a wink since the last time they’d run into each other in the middle of the night, and perhaps her guard was down because of sleep deprivation. Once again, Kitty wondered about nightmares.

She turned to the Russian girl with her glass of water in her hand and pretended she hadn’t heard the slip. “Hey, if you’re up too, I was thinking of putting on a movie. The mansion gets too quiet at night. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

Illyana watched her for a full ten seconds before responding, until Kitty started wondering if she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. “Yeah, okay,” she said then.

* * *

Kitty hadn’t been planning to watch a movie until those words had come out of her mouth, so she had a bit of trouble picking one and just chose the first decent one that she came across. Maybe Alien wasn’t the ideal movie when you were hoping to get someone to open up about their nightmares, but it only needed to be background noise anyway, and a body could never get enough Sigourney Weaver being bad-ass.

Illyana had already settled cross-legged on the couch when Kitty went to join her, elbow on the arm rest, chin in her hand. Once again Kitty cursed whatever malignant spirit had stolen her slipper—she hadn’t lost it herself, how could you lose one slipper, she was supposed to be smart—because her feet were absolutely freezing by now. But when she shivered and did a cathartic little dance, Illyana had the gall to chuckle, and it felt so comfortably normal that it was almost worth it.

Still, when Kitty plopped down onto the couch, she drew up her legs and pushed her toes underneath Illyana’s leg to warm up in retaliation. It didn’t strike her how familiar she was being until a moment later, and she saw Illyana’s eyes widen at the contact. She was about to apologize and withdraw her feet, but then Illyana returned her eyes to the TV and almost seemed to lose a bit of the tension in her body.

So she left her toes where they were. They were just beginning to thaw.

“So, a space movie, hm?” Illyana said. “They tell me my brother was a cosmonaut. Not Piotr, our older brother. Although I guess Piotr has been to space now too.”

She hadn’t seen Alien? Well of course she hadn’t seen Alien. The last time Illyana had been in a world where TV’s were a thing, she’d been too young for Piotr to let Kitty get her anywhere near a movie like this. Getting Illyana to open up tonight had been a long shot anyway—perhaps that was better off as a long-term project, and tonight they could just watch a movie.

“I think you’ll like it,” she said. “You’ll love Ripley, the main character. I mean, you’d better. You don’t have to, but if you don’t I’ll judge you.” Kitty rested her cheek on her drawn-up knees, facing the TV. She felt Illyana shift, perhaps to look at her.

“I’ll trust your judgment,” she said, and it felt like a weighty promise.

* * *

“Meine lieben Mädchens, time to wake up.” A hand gently shook Kitty’s shoulder. She shook it off with a grunt, and it was the hearty laugh that followed that woke her properly.

“Kurt? Why are you in my...”

Oh. She was not in her room. Vague memories returned of being lulled to sleep by the screams of people being chased by the Xenomorph. Being an X-Man did strange things to your ideas of restful sounds.

“What time is it?” She looked up at the fuzzy blue elf, who was smiling like he’d caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Past breakfast,” he said, his eyes moving to somewhere above Kitty’s head. “Danger Room session in fifteen. Although... I could tell Herr Professor that you’re unwell and need to sit this one out. A little test to see if I can fool a telepath.”

“Thanks, Kurt.” She rubbed her eyes, still waking up. “But I’ll be there. Just give me... five minutes...” Too much effort to cover her mouth as she yawned.

“As you wish, liebchen,” Kurt said, and with a BAMF and a puff of sulfur, he teleported out of the room.

Kitty’s pillow shifted, and her eyes opened wide as she suddenly remembered she was not alone. Very carefully, she lifted and turned her head to look. Illyana was still sitting half upright, her head leaning forward. (There was a little drool.) She’d probably have a crick in her neck all day. Somewhere in the night, though, Kitty had shifted to lean against her with her head resting on Illyana’s chest, and perhaps most surprisingly, Illyana had put an arm around her.

It made it tricky to extricate herself without waking the other girl, but Kitty was not going to ruin her perfect attendance, so she did so. If reluctantly, because she’d really been sleeping quite comfortably.

Sleeping Beauty on the couch kept on sleeping, which was a small miracle, considering how aware of her surroundings Illyana always seemed to be. Kitty gave her a closer look. Despite her uncomfortable sleeping position, Kitty had not seen Illyana looking this peaceful since... well, since before Limbo. And there had been no nightmares to wake either of them that night, she was pretty sure.

Suddenly Kurt offering to help her play hooky made sense. Perhaps she’d not been the only one to notice how isolated Illyana had been. Perhaps she was just best equipped to offer a non-threatening hand, age and gender-wise. Something to think about.

But later, because right now, she had five minutes left to get dressed and get to the Danger Room. “Oh, crumbs!”

(Part four.)

#illyana rasputin #magik #kitty pryde #katyana #fanfic #they were roommates #writing

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