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starhvney · 10 days

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can you do an angsty laurance mcd (romantically) where reader has been waiting for his return and they reunite after he was stuck in the neither?

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: mcd laurance x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: he can’t stay with you as long as the war underground calls to him. to stay with you he has to leave, not returning until three years later.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: angst, lots of resent and crying, but then hurt/comfort, malachi is reader’s adopted son with laurance cause i said so

𝐂𝐖: none?

𝐀/𝐍: omg the past two weeks have been so busy i actually thought i might have gone insane if i didn’t have this day off to write this. but i'm back from the dead(work) anyways this prompt has actually been in my mind a lot so thank you for the request! hope it hurts

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

“please come back with me. you don’t have to do this.”

your chest hurt. whether it was from the man in front of you or the unbearable heat, you weren’t sure, but you found yourself choking on the air, lungs constricting and heart rushing cold blood uncomfortably fast through your veins.

you could tell he was angry that you came here. not at you. no, never at you. but the fact you came alone and risked your safety for him again had him nearly spiraling, his jaw clenched and hands gripping uncomfortably tight against your arms.

it was still him, you reminded yourself, as you pleadingly looked up to the pools of blood red that pierced through you. it was an unsettling shade, the color startling against his face yet somehow dull and dark at the same time. it was so different from the steel blue before it, and the beautiful green before that.

yes, you’d seen him in many different ways, and though he was naturally taller, and the air around him sent an anxious wave down your spine, it was still him.

the same olive skin and caramel hair, though a duller shade.

the same shape of his face.

the same determination in his eyes.

the same urge to protect you, no matter how much this new form of his ached to do the opposite.

“i told you not to follow me. you shouldn’t be here—”

“i couldn’t just let you leave!”

he sucks in a breath, your name leaving his lips with a sense of urgency and irritation.

“…i can’t go with you. you know i can’t.” his voice is tight, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of your eyes glossing over. “it would be selfish. i put you at risk just by being next to you.”

you start to shake your head, but swallow down your next words at the way he says your name again, desperate for you to understand.

“he’s in my head when you’re near me. i can’t keep you safe when it’s just us, because it isn’t just us. that calling clouds my mind and—he almost got to me, and you know it. i almost killed you.”

you’re silenced by this, knowing he was right. the horror on his face when he realized his blade was raised against you had set forward the timeline that got him here. he’d forever feel chained to this place unless he broke the chains himself.

“if i ever want to have a future with you, i have to do this. don’t you understand? until this war is over you have to stay away.”

“no…” you shake your head, tears beginning to spill from your lashes.

it was out of your control. the salty crystalline that slipped down your face. it was the same as the man in front of you, each second left with him like trying to hold water in your hands, continuing to slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to grasp it.

his eyes close, face pained, looking like someone was about to end his second life right there where he stood.

“i love you. i always will. you have to know i’m doing this for you.”

he dips down, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that you couldn’t put into words. it’s not enough, too short-lived as his hands suddenly grip your waist, manhandling you up as he carries you to the portal.

“no, no! laurance, put me down! you have to come with me!” tears have turned into hysteria, your fists pushing and beating against him to no avail.

“i’m doing this for you.” his voice wavers shakily, contradicting his firm hold and long strides. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m hurting you again and i’m so sorry.”

“stop! i won’t go through that portal unless i know you’re coming with me.”

your name leaves his lips once more, pleading and desperate for you to understand. “i’ll return to you. i swear i will.”

his arms tighten around you, face shifting to rest in the crook of your neck and lips pressing against the skin for just a moment. you think he could’ve changed his mind, but the next second your feet are back on the ground, and his hands are gently pushing you through the portal in your disorientation.

you stumble through, cool air meeting your back as the nether fades from your vision and is replaced by the overworld. your feet trip over the other as you try to catch your step, falling back and turning to look back at the portal through your hazy vision. before you can scramble back the purple mist solidifies, shattering and collapsing to the floor into crystallized pieces.

you started in shock for who knows how long, curled on the stone beneath you as sobs wracked your whole body.

you don’t remember the trip back to phoenix drop after that. you only recall the horrid feeling that your heart had just been torn from your body, left behind in the fiery hell it’s owner had condemned himself to.

that emptiness never evaded you either. you went through day-to-day life completing your duties as normal. but at night when you were left with your thoughts, your mind wandered to him. the space in your bed felt bitterly cold, almost as if the emptiness was taunting you of the lack of his presence.

the boy the two of you had taken in as your own all that time ago was extra sweet on you, despite all the time you had missed with him. when you returned that night he had looked at you expectantly, only for his green eyes to fade in hope as he saw your puffy eyes and grieved expression.

soon a whole year had passed. then another. then another. it was what you had presumed to be another ordinary day, as you prepared a lunch for you and malachi to share on his break. you recognize his footsteps, but when you turn to greet him you’re met with a concerned expression and heavy pants from the boy.

“he’s back.”

you hate how you immediately knew what he meant, even after all this time. how your heart swelled tightly in your chest and rushed the adrenaline into your veins.

you can only stare blankly at the boy in the doorway, mouth open in shock and mind scrambling for some sort of reaction to give. he turns to look at something approaching him from out of sight, a protective frown forming on his face.

“mom, do you want to see him? you have to tell me now.”

a small part of you wants to say no, to resentfully send that man away for the loneliness he left you with. your head is nodding before your thoughts can resist, following the desperate tug in your chest rather than your brain screaming for the opposite.

your breath hitches when the taller man who had been haunting your mind for so long steps into view. you wonder if maybe you had fallen ill and this is all just a fever dream, but you know it’s not a hallucination or a memory as you take in his appearance.

he looks like a man returning from war, circles under his eyes darker than they had been all those years ago. new scars are littered across the skin that you could see, and his posture was that of extreme exhaustion.

him and your son stare at each other for a moment in the doorway, a silent and sort of awkward moment that you couldn’t decipher being exchanged. malachi gives you one last wary glance, before disappearing from your sight and leaving the two of you alone.

you want to scream at him, hit him, something. but you can only focus on the lump building in your throat, choking your airways as a painful sob threatens to break out from your chest.

he takes a step forward, then another. then another. soon he’s right in front of you, not in the haze of your dreams but tangible and real.

his hand, rough and scarred, lifts up to cup your soft cheek, fingers trembling as if you had sent a shock through them just by the contact. your name shakily leaves his lips, and you finally look up to his face.

you’re greeted with steel blue, glazed over with pain and guilt. something about them is much more hardened than when you saw him last, yet he still manages to look at you tenderly, full of a deep devotion he could never get rid of even through his years spent in hell.

his thumb brushes away the damp streaks from under your eyes, and you finally realize you had begun to cry. you had thought about this moment many times. how you’d call him a bastard for leaving you alone and kick him out to get a taste of his own medicine. or maybe you’d tell him all about the loneliness he’d put you through, watching his face drop with guilt.

instead of using any of the dialogue you had prepared in your moments of spite, you can only utter a few words, voice choked on your tears.

“is it over?”

he nods, eyebrows furrowing together and lip curling as if your voice had caused him physical pain after years of deprivation from the sound.

you collapse forward into his arms, years of raw emotion crashing down on you all at once as you begin to sob.

“it’s over. if you let me in i’ll never leave again.” his hushed voice speaks into your hair, the deep and roughened tone vibrating through his chest. “but if you want nothing to do with me anymore you only have to say the word and i will obey.”

you can only shake your head, chest heaving as you grip the linen shirt he wore and attempt to steady yourself on your feet. there’s not much need for your efforts though, when he picks you up into a tight embrace, holding you to him as he trembles at the feeling of your body once again pressing into his.

“i’ll never leave you again. i’m so sorry. my light in the darkness. please forgive me.”

he carries you to the nearest chair, fingers running through your hair like they were delicate strands of gold and continuing to hold you to him like you were the only thing worth any value in this life. as you continued to cry you felt tears that were not your own drip onto your skin, the shaky breaths and hitches in his chest proving you weren’t just imagining things as he too wept into the crook of your neck.

you two stay there for a long time, until the afternoon sun faded to a dim evening light, casting a warm haze into the room. it’s not until then that you feel composed, lifting yourself from where you had limply collapsed into his arms.

his hands gently hold your face, rubbing away the leftover tears and puffiness from your eyes. his own eyelids were red, eyes glossy. now that you’re looking at him you can see just how much his time away had changed him.

his once lovely olive skin had sallowed into a paler shade, leaving him sickly looking. his cheeks were thinner, and the lack of body fat wasn’t just on his face. he remained muscular, yet he somehow looked malnourished at the same time, his scarred skin stretching over his bones and muscles in a way that didn’t look healthy.

your fingers trail along healed over cuts that hadn’t been there before, gulping down the urge to cry again. how many times did he have to patch himself up, suffering in pain while fighting to get back to you?

“hey.” he gently pinches your cheek in his hand, noticing your eyes unfocus as your mind wanders.

you look up to him, taking in a shaky breath as you reach up to cup his jaw in your hand. immediately he leans into it, a deep sigh leaving his nose as he practically deflates at your touch.

“when did you get back…?”

he sighs, looking up at you through his lashes.

“i came here as soon as i came back through the portal… malachi was on patrol and spotted me at the gates.” his eyes grow distant. “he was… pretty angry with me. looked like he wanted to kill me as soon as i walked in the village.”

he chuckles dryly, looking at the wall behind you. “he cussed me out pretty good before leading me here. he had some good reasons for doing so, too…" he takes in a shaky breath. "i’m proud of him. i’m relieved to know he was watching over you when i wasn’t. that kid’s grown up to be a good man.”

“he is.” you agree, voice quiet in the moment, unable to come up with any words.

his hand drifts to brush your hair behind your ear, fingers trailing to brush along your jaw. “you have plenty of reasons to hate me, too.”

“he doesn’t hate you.” you quickly say. “and i don’t either.”

“i was scared you would. sure you would.”

your eyes drift from the guilty pull of his brow and the pain in his eyes, down to the slope of his nose and the curve of his mouth.

“i couldn’t.” you whisper, before leaning down and connecting your lips with his.

he wraps his arms tighter around you, breath stuttering as he returns the affection. very quickly it evolves to you being left breathless as he practically devours you, kissing you like a man who had been starved of his lover's touch for three years.

reluctantly he pulls away, gritting his teeth as he once again finds himself reigning his self control in with you. he doesn’t go too far though, his huffs of air meeting your lips as he whispers.

“it’s late. i should go.”

“go where?”

“just the inn down the road—”

“no. stay here tonight.”

he stares at you before closing his eyes, a low groan leaving his throat. “are you sure?”

“yes.” you quickly respond, hands cupping his face.

he gulps, before pulling you tightly to himself and lifting you in his arms, carrying you to your bedroom.

“okay. i’ll stay.”

©starhvney, 2024. please do not steal or repost my works as your own.

#☆ star's inbox!#aphmau #x reader #aphmau mcd #mcd x reader #aphmau minecraft diaries #aphmau laurance #laurance x reader #laurance zvahl x reader #mcd laurance #laurance zvhal x reader #minecraft diaries laurance

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c-e-d-dreamer · 1 month

Text

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 4

A/N: I'd say I'm sorry this chapter is so long, but I feel like no one actually wants to hear that. We've got a little bit of everything! Cassian getting his ass handed to him. Nessian banter. Mama A being the worst. And SMUT! Anyways, hope everyone enjoys

Additional note: I'm really sorry to everyone on my tag list. Tumblr won't let me tag any accounts for some reason. It won't let me select when I paste it in and it keeps saying "no blogs found" when I try typing manually which I know is a damn lie 😭

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Cassian

Cassian watches as Nesta works through the combination, fists hitting against Cresseida’s raised palms. Her hair is tied back in a braid that runs down her back, the strands swishing across her shoulder blades with each movement and glinting beneath the rays of the afternoon sun. She’s been at it for a while, pink coloring the apples of her cheeks and stretching down her throat to her collarbones, and even from where he’s standing, Cassian can see the beads of sweat speckled across her skin.

Before he can stop them, his thoughts start to spiral down and down. He still remembers the last time he saw that sheen along her skin. Still remembers exactly how far down that flush can go. His body still too keyed-up after sleeping beside her the night before. He has to tilt his head up toward the sky with a sigh, determined to cool the heat sparking and simmering in his veins.

When Cassian focuses his attention back down, Nesta and Cresseida have moved on to sword practice. Wooden sword in hand, Nesta moves first slowly then with more speed through the steps Cresseida directs. Cassian keeps waiting for Cresseida to correct Nesta’s stance, but after the fourth repetition, he can’t take it any longer, striding across the training rings.

“Watch your foot.”

Nesta sighs at the sound of his voice, dropping her wooden sword to her side and turning to him with an unimpressed expression. “What?”

“Your foot. You’re turning it inward each time you lunge,” Cassian explains, gesturing down toward the foot in question. “You’ll lose strength and control doing that.”

Nesta glances down to her own feet, and Cassian wonders briefly if she intends to ignore the advice out of pure stubbornness, out of pure, witchy spite. Another way for her to pull one over on him while they’re trapped in this blazing wildfire burning around them, between them. But instead, surprisingly, Nesta readjusts her stance, shifting her foot so it faces forward.

“Thanks,” Nesta mutters, raising her sword again to work through the same sequence. “Did you need something else then?”

“Just trying to help, sweetheart.”

“And yet, I don’t recall ever asking for it.”

“Cassian!”

Cassian turns at the call of his name, finding Baz just outside the training rings. For once, there’s no smile on his third’s face, his brown eyes missing their usual, playful spark. It has cold dread flooding through Cassian’s limbs, crystalizing between his ribs until the weight twists and presses in. He breathes through the churning in his gut, but his muscles feel tense, his lips pressed into a grim line by the time Baz reaches him.

“What’s happened?” Cassian demands, skipping right past pleasantries.

“Alistair and Cormac have returned,” Baz explains.

Cassian sighs softly, squinting back toward the village and the rows of cabins, his mind reeling over this news. There’s no denying the relief that floods through him, the way it soothes the fear that always sparks within him every time they send out scouts. But what did they see? What information are they bringing back? It’s a stark reminder of the storm clouds looming just over the horizon, of the thunder shaking the ground beneath Cassian’s feet, beneath the pack’s security.

Nodding to himself, Cassian turns his attention back to Baz. “Gather the elders. We’ll meet immediately.”

“Already on it.”

Baz turns on his heels, jogging away, and Cassian watches him go before making his way toward the meeting hall with another sigh. Anxiety prickles across his skin at what they’ll learn, what will be discussed. He makes it a few steps outside of the training rings when the sound of a second set of footsteps reaches his ears, Cassian stopping short. He turns to find Nesta walking beside him, her brows furrowing at their sudden halt.

“What are you doing?” Cassian asks, gesturing back toward the training rings. “Go back to training with Cresseida.”

“It sounds like there’s important news, clearly an important meeting,” Nesta offers, peering up at him as if it’s obvious.

“And?”

“And? And I’m joining you.”

Cassian scoffs, crossing his arms. “You’re not attending this meeting.”

“What,” Nesta snaps dryly, her tone low and incredulous. “Why not?”

“I’m not having a witch in the room when we discuss pack business.”

Cassian is certain that the glare Nesta settles him with would cut down a lesser man where he stands. The blue of her eyes is pure ice, a fire burning in them and promising to swallow him whole in a blazing storm. She steps closer to him, her chest brushing against his own with every annoyed, heaving breath, lip pulled back in a sneer.

“I am your wife,” Nesta reminds him, words cold and clipped.

Cassian leans down until they’re eye to eye, offering a glare of his own. “I didn’t choose you.”

This close together, Cassian catches it, the way her mask slips for just a moment. He almost thinks he imagined it, that flash of emotion in her eyes, before the fury returns. He doesn't dare look down, look away from her gaze, but he can feel the sparks of silver flames prickling across his skin where their hands hang a hairsbreadth apart. He resets his stance, shifting his feet and preparing for the impact of her magic.

“You’re a godsdamned bastard,” Nesta seethes.

She doesn’t say anything else, surprisingly keeping a leash on her magic and her rage. Instead, she turns on her heel, stalking back toward Cresseida on the other side of the training rings. Cresseida meets Cassian’s gaze briefly, shaking her head, before holding out the wooden sword for Nesta to take again. But Cassian doesn’t have time for disappointment or other’s opinions on what he should or shouldn’t do.

On how he should or shouldn’t run his pack.

He winds his way through the village until he reaches the meeting hall. Baz and Emerie are already standing outside, and he offers them both a nod in greeting.

“Are all the elders gathered?”

“Everyone’s gathered and ready, yeah,” Baz explains, glancing behind him to the open doorway.

“Where's Nesta?” Emerie asks, looking pointedly over Cassian’s shoulder as though she expects the witch to appear.

“Hell if I know,” Cassian shrugs, moving to step forward into the meeting hall but Emerie is quick to step directly into his path, blocking him. He rolls his eyes. “Last I left her, she was at the training rings with Cresseida.”

“Should we wait for her before we start, then? One of us can go grab her,” Baz offers.

Cassian lets out a derisive snort. “Why would we wait for her? She’s not attending a pack meeting.”

The cold look Emerie settles him with rivals Nesta’s. “She’s your wife.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Did everyone forget that I didn’t choose her?”

“Did you forget that she didn’t choose this either?” Emerie demands, smacking him hard in the chest. “You were there. Her mother practically sold her and her sisters like cattle. I thought I already told your dumbass you need to respect her.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Cassian growls, side stepping around Emerie and into the meeting hall. “Let’s go.”

“Fucking idiot…”

~ * * * ~

The sigh that tumbles past Cassian’s lips is heavy, icy claws sinking into his lungs and drawing blood with the exhale. He digs his fingers through his hair, the strands already starting to knot with how many times he’s repeated the gesture. The map continues to lay splayed out across the wood of the table in front of him, and all he can do is stare at it, blink at it.

“We’ll have to inform the vamps and the Vanserras,” Baz’s voice draws Cassian from his quickly spiraling thoughts. “We can’t keep this information to ourselves.”

“A temple,” Emerie whispers, almost to herself. “What kind of evil do you have to be to attack and destroy a temple?”

“If Cormac is right, they got whatever they were looking for,” Cassian comments, leaning forward over the map and sliding his finger along the parchment, along the ink of the lines, the trees and the mountains. “Hybern’s even more dangerous now, and we need to be ready. We need to up our defenses along the western lines, make sure our warning system gives us as much time as possible.”

“You really think Hybern would try something? Attack the pack directly?” Baz asks, a hollowness taking over his usual sunny expression.

“Mother knows what Hybern is thinking or planning,” Cassian says, pushing back up to his feet. “But I’m not willing to risk it. Not willing to risk our pack.”

Emerie nods in agreement, the weight of what Cormac and Alistair described finding at the temple clearly still pressing on her even as she defiantly holds her chin up high. “I’ll make sure the new orders are delivered and implemented.”

“Tomorrow,” Cassian offers, giving Emerie’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “We’ll worry about implementing everything tomorrow. I think we all could use a night off after that.”

“And maybe a drink,” Baz mutters, the barest hint of a smile starting to return.

Cassian chuckles softly, unable to deny the idea sounds appealing. He has a bottle of whiskey back at his cabin that’s smooth and aged, and it might just be calling his name. “And maybe that too.”

Cassian rolls up the map and returns it the rightful place, following his second and third out the door the elders vacated what feels like hours ago. True to his teasing words, Baz heads for the pack’s favorite watering hole, Emerie vanishing toward her cabin to find her wife. It leaves Cassian to make the trek back to his own cabin alone.

The meeting lasted for hours, darkness having now blanketed across the village. The clouds shimmer and shift across the face of the moon, the silver light rippling like waves across the grass where it bleeds through, casting shadows over the trees and cabins. He just hopes it means that Nesta may have already retired for the night. The last thing he wants after that meeting is to rehash an argument with her.

He’s already dreaming of a tall glass of whiskey, of settling before the fire and relaxing at least for one night, as he makes his way up the steps to his cabin. He reaches forward for the handle of the front door, but a shock jolts through his fingertips, skittering up his arm and through his entire body. His eyebrows pinch, and he shakes out the pins and needles before trying again, only to earn the same reaction, his every muscle tensing in response.

“What the fuck…”

Cassian raises his hand, carefully, slowly, pressing his palm forward. The magic glimmers around his touch, spreading outward in silver swirls that Cassian suspects must be some sort of runes. They stretch all the way up and around the cabin like a shield.

A ward.

She’s put a ward around the cabin, locking him out.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Nesta?” Cassian shouts, loud enough she can hear him from wherever she is inside. “Let me in!”

Only silence answers Cassian, mocks him.

“Nesta, I know you can hear me! This isn’t fucking funny.”

Cassian growls in frustration when there’s still no response. He slams a fist against the ward, but the magic seems to give back whatever impact thrown at it, silver flaring around him and the force sending him stumbling back a few steps. He scrubs a hand through his hair and down his face, sending a silent prayer up to the Mother. He doesn’t know how long his stubborn witch of a wife intends to let him stew, but it’s clear that it’s going to be a long night.

~ * * * ~

Nesta

Nesta tugs on the strands of her hair, shifting them until they sit how she wants. She holds them steady in place, plucking the pin from between her teeth and sliding it between the strands. Examining her work in the mirror, she hums quietly in approval, finally stepping back and toward the door. She winds her way through the cabin and to the front door, but her steps stop short when she pulls it open.

Cassian is curled up on his side, his back to the door. One arm is tucked up beneath his head, cheek pillowed on his bicep, and his hair is a tangled mess all around his face. For a moment, Nesta can do nothing but gape, nothing but blink in surprise at the sight of him here in front of the door. When she’d warded the cabin last night, she assumed that he’d find somewhere else to sleep, perhaps crash with Baz wherever the third’s cabin is.

Guilt begins to spool in Nesta’s gut, but then she remembers everything that happened yesterday. She remembers how Cassian seems set on locking her out of everything involving this pack. As if being isolated from her family through this farce of a marriage wasn’t bad enough, she’s stuck being just as isolated here thanks to her dear husband. As if Hybern and its king aren’t as much of a threat to her as they are to Cassian and the pack.

All of the anger and rage from yesterday blazes back through Nesta’s veins like a wildfire, and she raises her chin, stepping right over Cassian’s still sleeping form. Hopefully, now, the alpha has learned his lesson. He wants to play games and shut her out of everything, then he can enjoy sleeping outside in the cold and being shut out of his own cabin.

“Nesta.”

Nesta sighs, pausing just two steps down from the cabin. She turns around just in time to watch Cassian scramble up to his feet. Despite not being in his wolf form, his eyes still glow golden, furious in the way they spark and blaze. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, brows pinched down low as he glares at her.

Nesta raises a sardonic brow, not giving him an inch with her cool expression. “Sleep well? Who knew you took your inner wolf so seriously that you take to sleeping outside now.”

“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Cassian growls, fists clenching at his sides.

“I don’t know. Did you think yesterday was a fucking joke?”

Cassian scoffs, but Nesta has heard enough. She spins on her heel and continues down the steps that lead away from the cabin and back toward the village.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Emerie is waiting for me with a carriage,” Nesta explains, not stopping or turning around. “I don’t want to be late for tea with my sisters.”

She can feel Cassian’s ire following her the whole way, burning a brand into her spine. The low sound of his growl practically echoes in her ears. It has a self-satisfied smirk tugging up Nesta’s lips the whole rest of the way, and if Emerie notices her expression, she thankfully doesn’t comment on it as Nesta climbs inside the carriage, as it carries them away from the village.

It feels almost strange to be back at the Archeron manor, to peer up at the dark red brick, the spires, and the climbing ivy through the carriage window. Almost subconsciously, her thumb slides across the slightly raised skin on the back of her left hand, tracing the scar back and forth. A deep breath in and out, and Nesta opens the carriage door, stepping out and into the misty morning light.

She walks up the front steps, the front door swinging open right before she reaches it. At least, the magic imbued within the wood and brick of the house still recognizes her. Nesta steps inside, instantly greeted by the familiar smells of fresh lavender, ginger, and basil, and follows the halls all the way to the sunroom at the back of the manor.

The round table in the room is already covered in a white, lace tablecloth, a steaming teapot placed at the center. Elinor sits primly in the seat directly across from the doorway back into the main house, hair neatly and harshly tugged back away from her face and chin raised high. As soon as Nesta steps inside, her mother’s cool eyes are pinning her in place.

“Mama,” Nesta greets quietly.

Feyre is already settled in the seat directly to Elinor’s right, so Nesta takes the seat across from their mother. She chances a glance toward her youngest sister, but Feyre has her eyes cast downward, staring intently at her plate. Nesta doesn’t miss the way Feyre chews on her bottom lip, the way she aimlessly pushes around her eggs, even as her grip on her fork is white knuckled.

Giving her hands something to do, Nesta reaches forward for the teapot, pouring herself a cup. Thankfully, just as she’s taking a sip, Elain steps inside the sunroom, brown eyes wide and almost nervous as they flit around the table. She’s quick to settle into the final seat beside Nesta, fingers twisting and fisting into the skirts of her dress.

“My girls,” Elinor begins, taking the time to look at all three of them. “Back together again. Have you all been well?”

Feyre’s eyes flash up at the question, but Nesta is quick to jump in. “I’m sure we’re all still adjusting, Mama.”

Elinor hums, Nesta’s fingers twitching and tensing in response to the disapproving sound. She has to shake the urge to trace that scar on the back of her hand again, that sound and what typically followed it still haunting and prickling in the back of Nesta’s mind.

“And what have we learned, hm?” Elinor continues, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “The rumors say that Rhysand’s numbers are beyond what we’ve been led to believe. Is it true? Are there more vampires than we know?”

“How would I know that, Mama?” Feyre sighs softly.

“You’re his wife now, are you not? And what about the wolves?” Elinor asks, her attention snapping to Nesta. “There’s long been stories of their training, of their strength.”

“I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary with the pack,” Nesta explains, trying to hold her mother’s gaze but dropping her eyes to the dark swirls of her tea.

“And how about the Vanserras? And their coven’s spellbook?”

“I… I haven’t seen any spellbook, Mama,” Elain murmurs, her voice quiet.

Elinor sighs, and Nesta tries to brace for whatever is coming. “I give you girls everything that you need, set you and this family up, and this is what you offer me?”

“Mama…” Nesta starts, prepared to place herself in front of her sisters and in the line of fire with their mother if need be.

“You all have to be better. You’re Archeron women for the Mother’s sake.”

“Are we? Since you married us off,” Feyre mutters under her breath, but not quiet enough that their mother doesn’t hear.

“You insolent child,” Elinor seethes, turning her ire on her youngest daughter. “I am making you all stronger, ensuring you can take your birthright. And you’re ungrateful?” She takes a calming breath, smoothing out the lines of her skirts. “I expect you all to be better than this moving forward. At least I see you haven’t allowed the vampire bite, nor the wolf mating bite. That’s good. Elain?”

Elain’s grip on her skirts is near white-knuckled beneath the table, pink beginning to spill through her cheeks. With each second of silence that stretches around them, Nesta frowns in confusion, trying to surreptitiously reach toward her sister in comfort without their mother noticing.

“Elain,” Elinor repeats, her voice clipped.

Another tense moment passes, but then Elain slowly lifts her hands, placing them palm up on the table. The pink line across her left palm is unmistakable, still slightly puckered and not fully healed. A bonding spell, a witch’s equivalent of tying two souls together through blood and magic.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Elain whispers, wincing when Elinor’s fingers curl around her wrist in a tight grip. “It was Eris. He insisted that Lucien and I do it.”

The response has Nesta even more confused. Elain has never been a particularly good liar, neither when they were girls and she was stealing cookies and sweets from the kitchen nor when they were teens and she was sneaking out to meet Graysen Nolan in town. And Nesta knows that Elain is lying now; although, she has no idea why.

“What were you thinking, Elain? This type of stupidity is beneath you.”

“Please, Mama. You’re hurting me.”

“Do you have any idea what this means? What you’ve done? You’re an Archeron, dammit, not some Vanserra’s tramp. Marriage or not, I will not have you tarnishing this family’s name.”

Elinor releases Elain’s wrist, crescent shaped indentations embedded in the skin from her nails. Elain clutches her hand back to her chest, cradling her wrist. Anger sparks and flares in Nesta’s chest in her sister’s defense. She glares across the table at their mother, but Elinor’s focus stays glued on Elain. The biting words sit heavy on the tip of Nesta’s tongue, poised and ready to fire without a second thought for the consequences, for what she knows it would mean to bring Elinor’s ire back her way.

As long as it’s off Elain and Feyre.

But before Nesta can say anything, Elinor pushes up to her feet. She looks down her nose at all three of her daughters, a cruel queen and her subjects. “Remember your place, remember what is expected of you as an Archeron, and do not fail me again.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta is quiet the entire carriage ride back to the pack’s village. She can feel Emerie’s curious gaze watching her from the seat across from her, but Nesta keeps her eyes firmly out the window. She watches the leaves and the trees shift and morph as they move past, her mother’s words, the whole morning, still playing over and over in her mind.

She’s an Archeron woman. A witch who comes from a long line of proud, powerful women. One of three sisters said to be blessed by the Mother herself. No matter that she’s a married woman now. No matter that she and Cassian may one day be amicable. No matter what the pack might one day mean to her. An Archeron is what her mother expects her to be, and Nesta will not fail her.

She will not be a failure again.

“Are you alright?” Emerie finally dares to break the quiet to ask. “You seem… tense.”

“I’m fine,” Nesta dismisses curtly. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“You’re the alpha’s wife. You might be surprised, but that actually means something to me.”

The words take Nesta by surprise, and she turns her attention to the second, blinking a few times before remembering herself. “Thanks.”

Emerie shrugs like it’s easy, like it doesn’t mean anything, but it does to Nesta. It makes her feel like she may be less alone in the pack after all. She’s about to ask Emerie if she likes to read, to see if they may share any interests, but the carriage pulls to a stop. Emerie is quick to hop out, holding the door open for Nesta to step down as well.

“I promised Cresseida I’d relieve her from shop duty as soon as I got back,” Emerie explains, waving off the carriage. “You’ll be alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Emerie’s gaze sweeps over Nesta, like she doesn’t quite believe the words, but she doesn’t comment or say anything else. With a nod of her head, she heads toward the market square. Left alone, Nesta takes a moment for herself. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in, allowing the scent of the trees and the moss around her to fill her senses. The peace this deep into the forest licks at her wounds in a soothing way she doesn’t expect, has that magic within her settling like a beast returning home.

Home.

Is that what this place is now? Between her grandmother and her mother, the Archeron manor certainly never truly felt like a home. Nesta has never really felt like she had a home, not a true one,at least. When she was younger, she used to read stories of sweeping romances and believed that she could find one just like the women between those pages. Her mother always said they were nothing more than fairytale dreams, always chastised her when she had her nose in those books.

Maybe that was one thing Elinor was right about.

Sighing softly to herself, Nesta rolls her shoulders and starts along the winding path through the village, back toward the alpha cabin on the top of the hill. When she pushes through the front door, she’s surprised to find Cassian standing in the kitchen. He looks just as surprised to see her, but then his expression changes, morphs into rage with the way his lips pull back in a snarl, the way his hazel eyes flare and narrow.

Nesta had almost forgotten about Cassian, certainly forgotten about their previous argument and the ward she’d placed around the cabin last night. She’d been too caught up in her mother and her sisters, between the disaster that was tea this morning. But it’s clear that Cassian hasn’t, and it all comes crashing back to Nesta as she takes in the way he’s glaring at her.

It’s the perfect distraction.

“I see you got yourself back inside after all,” Nesta comments idly, turning her back on him and removing her shoes and her cloak.

“We need to talk about last night.”

“What’s there to talk about? I thought it was rather fitting. Perhaps, we should build you a dog house.”

Nesta turns back around, offering her best saccharine smile, knowing it’s exactly the thing to get under his skin and fuel the fire. To draw out the pull to her push until they’re burning together and everything else fades away with those flames. But Cassian merely tilts his head, watching her in that unnerving way of his as though he can see right through her. It has Nesta’s hackles raising.

“Do you want to play, Nes?” Cassian drawls, taking slow, measured steps closer to her.

“Play? There’s no playing. You’re insufferable.”

“Insufferable? That’s weak, even for you.”

Nesta scowls up at him, daring to close that final step between them until they’re toe to toe. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. Is that the worst you’ve got? I’ve been called much worse than that, sweetheart.”

“Like what?” Nesta asks, any other cutting words dying on her tongue.

“Offended on my behalf?” Cassian fires back, reaching a hand up between them to cradle her jaw, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip.

The teasing tone has the scowl returning in an instant, Nesta smacking his hand away. “Perhaps, I want to shake the person’s hand. Exchange ideas.”

“Ideas?” Cassian continues to tease, walking Nesta back until her back hits the wall.

“Yes. Ideas I could have shared in the pack meeting yesterday.”

Any teasing drops away completely from Cassian’s expression as he rolls his eyes. “Back to that, are we? It’s my pack, remember? Did you forget who the alpha is?”

“Did you forget I’m your wife? I should have been in that meeting.”

“Oh, you want to be my wife, now? How about you be a good little wife and get on your knees and suck my cock?”

The words are crude, all but snarled in her face, but that doesn’t seem to stop the way Nesta’s body responds. She still remembers that cock all too well. Remembers the way it had felt fucking into her. Remembers the way his knot had stretched her. Remembers the delicious ache between her thighs that remained for the entire next day.

But she’ll be damned if she lets Cassian know all that.

“Fuck you,” she snarls instead, shoving at his chest, but of course his large frame in unmoving.

“You’ve certainly forgotten how good a wolf’s sense of smell is,” Cassian tells her, leaning down over her with a cocksure smirk. “You think I can’t notice the sweet scent of your arousal? Do you want to suck my cock, sweetheart?”

“It’s clear you certainly want me to.”

Nesta shifts her hand, reaching down to grip Cassian’s cock through his pants. He hisses at the contact, but she can feel how he’s already half hard, can feel the way he twitches against her palm. It’s clear he’s getting off on their back and forth just as much as she is. She rubs her hand up and down, squeezing when she reaches the head of his cock.

Cassian continues to swell beneath her ministrations, and Nesta can’t help but lick her lips. How would the weight of him on her tongue feel? How would he taste? Just the thought has her clenching her thighs, desperate for friction, for relief, beneath the skirts of her dress. There’s a hunger yawning in the space between her ribs, clawing and gnawing at her chest, and she sees that same hunger echoes in Cassian’s own burning gaze, in his darkening hazel eyes.

“The no kissing rule still applies,” Nesta tells him, pulling her hand away so she can focus on the laces of her dress. “This is just sex.”

“Just sex,” Cassian agrees, reaching a hand back to fist in his shirt, tugging it up and off.

Nesta’s dress has barely hit the floor in a crumple of fabric before Cassian is pressing fully into her space. His hands find her thighs, fingers spread wide and digging into her skin, and he hauls her up off the ground with ease. He turns on his heel, only taking a few long strides before he deposits Nesta on the kitchen table, the wood pressing against her back.

Cassian takes his time roving his eyes over her, tracing down her throat and collarbones, lingering on her heaving chest and her peaked nipples, following down her stomach and between her spread legs. He dares to reach his hand forward, shadowing that same path with two fingers. It’s a spark catching, goosebumps erupting across Nesta’s skin as she arches up against that touch.

“So pretty flushed like this,” Cassian comments idly, using those same two fingers to toy with the waistband of her undergarments. “Good enough to eat.”

Cassian gathers up his hair in his hands, tugging it away from his face and securing it with a leather band, before he slowly drops down to his knees. His fingers curl around Nesta’s ankles, calluses along his palms sliding up her calves, over her knees, up her thighs. He pries her legs further apart, leaning in until even through the fabric separating them still, Nesta can feel the ghost of his hot breath against her cunt, until he can lick a thick line over the dampness that’s already gathered there.

Cassian groans softly, giving her cunt another lick. “And oh so sweet too. Who knew just the thought of sucking my cock would have you dripping already?”

His hands slide up over her hips, and Nesta can feel the heat of them scorching her skin. She can feel the hint of claws too, teasing and drawing a shudder up her spine. Would he fuck her with those claws? What would that feel like?

The sound of tearing fabric is almost too loud, even over Nesta’s panting breaths. She snaps her attention down just in time to watch what remains of her undergarments fall away. That cocksure grin of his is out in full force, hazel eyes glinting from between her thighs. Normally, Nesta would want to wipe that smirk clean off his face, but right now, all she can think about is the sight of him on his knees before her, about the blissful release that sight promises.

“Cassian,” Nesta whines instead, trying to buck her hips up against his hold. “Please.”

“What a good girl,” Cassian praises, mouthing along Nesta’s inner thigh and drawing a soft whimper from her lips. “Now, keep those eyes on me and keep moaning my name.”

The first slide of Cassian’s tongue against her cunt has Nesta gasping, thighs squeezing instinctively around the alpha’s head. Cassian groans against her, his mouth moving to her clit and tracing slow, tortuous circles over it. Nesta tries to keep her gaze firmly on him, but it feels almost unfair. His wide shoulders bracketed between her thighs, the shorter strands of hair falling out of his updo and along his temples, and his eyes…

His eyes glow golden as though the wolf within him has decided to join as well. As though Nesta truly is the prey caught in the predator’s trap. But she’s not sure she’d rather be anywhere else.

Cassian groans again, and then he really starts to devour her. He fucks his tongue up into her, curling and flicking it along her walls. Nesta feels like she’s burning, every nerve ending blazing and focused on where Cassian’s mouth works her higher and higher. Her feet scrabble desperately for some sort of purchase, against Cassian’s shoulders, against the edge of the table.

“Cass… Cassian… fuck.”

Nesta knows that she’s babbling, knows he’s turned her into a puddle of moans and canting hips, but she can’t find it within herself to care, not with the way he plays her body so well. She slides a hand down to Cassian’s head, holding him right where he is, the other finding her own breast to pinch and tweak her nipple in time with the movements of Cassian’s tongue.

Cassian focuses his attention back on her clit, and that fire blazes hotter until it swallows Nesta whole. Her back arches up fully off the kitchen table, fingers curling tight enough in Cassian’s hair that her nails bite into his scalp. She moans loudly as her release carries her right over the edge, trailing off into a whimper when Cassian continues to lap at her still fluttering cunt until he’s had his fill.

When Cassian finally pulls back, Nesta is forced to release her grip on his hair, her hand falling back to the table with a soft knock. His lips and chin glisten, and he makes a big show of sliding his tongue around his mouth and gathering up the excess. Nesta watches from beneath hooded eyes, that heat in her blood still simmering.

She pulls herself up into a seated position, reaching for the laces of Cassian’s pants. She makes quick work of the knot, pushing the fabric down until it slips from his hips and falls to his feet. Just the sight of his cock bobbing free has her thighs clenching again, has her swallowing hard and licking her lips. She eyes the vein that runs along the underside, the already weeping head, remembering exactly it’ll feel when she sinks back onto it.

Her legs are shaky as she slips off the kitchen table, but she’s able to guide Cassian back until he’s falling into one of the kitchen chairs. She sinks down onto her knees between his spread legs, sliding her hands up over his knees and along his thighs. She drags her nails along the skin, through the coarse hair lining his strong thighs, before finally curling her fingers around his cock, squeezing the base.

“Now this is a sight I could get used to,” Cassian comments, his hips bucking up against her grip. “A good girl on her knees before her husband, ready to take his cock so well.”

Nesta wants to roll her eyes at the words, but there’s no stopping the way her body responds to the praise. She decides to focus on the task at hand, leaning in and licking at the arousal dribbling from Cassian’s cockhead. She moans softly at the salty taste blooming across her tongue, opening her mouth wider to swallow him down. She slides her tongue along the underside, relaxing her throat to take as much as she can and working what she can’t with her hand. The weight of him in her mouth is exactly as unparalleled as Nesta imagined, and she moans around his cock as she starts to bob her head.

Tears start to prickle Nesta’s eyes, but she doesn’t let it deter her, blinking and peering up at Cassian through her eyelashes. His gaze is already pinned on her, lips parted and expression nothing short of enraptured. His dirty mouth is silent now. Nesta almost wishes she could smirk around the way her mouth is stuffed full. She may be the one on her knees, but it’s the pack alpha rendered powerless.

It goes right to her head and right to her cunt.

She widens her stance and dips her free hand between her own thighs. Her fingers slip through the wetness, and she teases her clit briefly before sinking two fingers into her cunt. She tries to match the pace of her fingers with the movements of her mouth, curling her fingers every time she swirls her tongue over the head of Cassian’s cock.

“Gods, look at you,” Cassian’s voice draws her attention back to him. “Go on, sweetheart. Add a third finger. Get yourself nice and ready to take my knot.”

Nesta whines around Cassian’s cock, but she does as she’s told. She presses in a third finger, fucking her cunt hard and desperately. Heat coils low in her gut, her thighs beginning to tremble, and when she dares to press her thumb against her clit, Nesta has to finally pull back from Cassian’s cock. She drops her forehead to his thigh, letting out a high pitched cry as her walls clench around her own fingers, her release making a mess of her own hand.

But still she wants more.

She’s not sure how she manages it, but she pushes back up to her feet. She moves to straddle Cassian’s lap, to finally take what she wants, but she barely gets a single knee up onto the kitchen chair. Cassian’s hand snaps to her throat, fingers pressed hard against her thundering pulse. Her cunt echoes the squeeze of his fingers, clenching around nothing desperately.

“Nice try, Nes,” Cassian leers up at her, keeping his hold of her as he stands up. “But I’m still the one in control here.”

He tightens his grip around her throat briefly, Nesta’s breath catching with the squeeze, before releasing it entirely. He spins her around, her back pressed firmly to his front and her hips digging into the edge of the kitchen table. She can feel his cock still hard and waiting, and Cassian shifts his own hips so that it slips between her thighs, dragging teasingly through the mess of wetness there, along her clit.

Cassian presses his lips to her ear, hot breath skittering across her skin. “Beg for it.”

“Please. Fuck me, please.”

Cassian groans at her words, but still, he doesn’t give her what she wants. His hand slides down her stomach, down between her thighs. He sinks two fingers into her dripping cunt, spreading them and stretching her wide, but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. It’s nothing compared to the real stretch she knows he can give her.

“Do you want my cock, Nes?”

“Yes,” Nesta moans, tilting her hips back to grind more firmly against his cock. “And your knot. Please.”

Cassian’s teeth snag on her earlobe. “Good girl.”

Cassian pulls his fingers free, but Nesta barely has time to whine at the loss before he’s replacing them with his cock. Already, just the stretch of him has stars popping in Nesta’s vision, her cunt fluttering and clenching down around him as though desperate to draw him deeper still, to keep him right there. She feels so incredibly full, her toes curling against the hardwood of the cabin floor.

“Two orgasms already and you’re still so tight around me,” Cassian sighs, pressing between Nesta’s shoulder blades until she’s bent in half over the table. His hands find her ass, fingers digging in against the flesh. “But Mother save me, look at the way you take me so well.”

Nesta whimpers as Cassian pulls his hips back, the slow drag of his cock, but then Cassian is snapping his hips back forward. Again and again he drives into her, setting a hard and fast pace. It’s everything that Nesta needs. Every thrust that has him pressing deeper still, every slap of his hips against her ass, has Nesta keening. She claws at the kitchen table, desperate just for something to hold onto.

As that heat starts to lick up her spine again, her body coiling tighter and tighter like a bow string, Nesta reaches a hand between her hips and the table edge, fingertips trying to catch on her clit despite the jostling. A growl sounds from behind her, fingers curling around her wrist. Cassian yanks her hand away, pressing it to the table and holding it firmly there.

“You’ll come on my knot or not at all.”

It’s a threat and a promise.

Her entire body feels wrung out, but she doesn’t want him to stop. She hopes that he doesn’t stop. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows she should feel embarrassed at this hunger that cloys in her gut, that flares through her chest, but she can’t find it within herself to care. She wants this. Wants him. Wants his knot.

Her throat feels hoarse with how much the male behind her has made her scream, but there’s no stopping the litany of moans that tumble past her lips. Especially when she starts to feel the swell of Cassian’s knot, feels it catching against the lips of her cunt with every forward thrust.

But he only seems to keep teasing her with it.

The next time that Cassian snaps his hips, Nesta presses her own back to meet him, forcing his knot to sink into her, to properly notch and lock them together.

“Fucking shit,” Cassian groans, dropping his head to her shoulder.

His hands grip Nesta’s hips hard enough to bruise, his cock twitching and flooding her core with warmth. The stretch of his knot, the feeling of being so completely and utterly full, is indescribable, and Nesta clenches down, milking his knot and his cock with a soft moan.

“Still want to be a good little wife, Nes?” Cassian asks, grasping her jaw and pulling her head back against his chest. “Then come all over your husband’s knot.”

His free hand slips down between her thighs, pressing hard against her clit. It’s all it takes for Nesta’s third release of the afternoon to tear through her. She all but screams Cassian’s name, her body trembling through the way his knot still presses against the walls of her cunt, the way she can still feel his cock twitching and filling her deep, the way he doesn’t relent with the rough circles he traces against her clit.

When Cassian releases his hold on her, Nesta is like a marionette with her strings cut, slumping down against the kitchen table with a soft whimper. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, tries to calm her thundering heart and come down from her high. With her cheek pressed to the table, breath puffing against the wood, Nesta allows her eyes to fall shut.

She and Cassian may never be the sort of husband and wife Nesta often dreamt of as a girl, will certainly never have the sort of love she read about in books, but at least they can have this.

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies @freakingata

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #When We Howl #my fic

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clubdionysus · 2 months

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[BAD DECISION #4] The Gym

warnings: a gym. no further warning. oh and jk is sexy but what’s new?

soundtrack: 20 something - sza, angostura - keshi

wc: 4.1k

bd total wc: 540k (on-going)

minors dni | AO3 | series masterlist

Glancing down to the address that Hoseok had hastily scribbled on a piece of scrap paper, you sigh. It's a hearty one. Clears your lungs. Gets your blood pumping a little swifter. There's a weight to staying alive, and it feels like it might just crush down on your windpipe and suffocate you altogether.

Okay, so maybe you're being dramatic. Maybe this is fine. You tell yourself to 'get a grip', but you know it's useless.

It's not that you're nervous - except for the fact you completely are - you just don't like the idea of gyms. They remind you of your ex a little too much.

More specifically, how he'd force you to go along with him, and how you'd whine and moan, but spend the entire time laughing with him. How he'd lift you instead of weights. How he'd tell you that you look 'far too hot' in a pair of leggings and sports bra, and the way you'd keep them on until you got home just for the simple pleasure of him being the one to take them off.

So, yeah. You don't like gyms. Avoid them when you can.

Partially because you don't know which one he goes to anymore, but mainly because it feels like you can't breathe whenever you see a pair of shoulders almost broad enough to be his. There tend to be a lot of jacked guys in gyms. Makes it a more common occurrence.

Still, you've been trying to remedy that. Trying to face fears. Failing, but trying at least.

You swallow back the lump in your throat. Bite the bullet. Open the door. Easy.

The girl at the front desk is potentially the most drop-dead gorgeous woman you've ever seen. Blonde, petite, a smile that could end wars. She's laughing with another member of staff - a trainer, you think - before he goes into a backroom.

You're a little unsure of yourself still, but she's glowing in such a way that it feels like maybe this could be okay. Nothing to fear. Plus who would even bother looking at a man's shoulders when someone who looks like she does is around? Far more captivating. Endlessly more appealing.

Her smile focuses on you as you walk towards her, brows lifted, eyes wide and open as if to say 'hiya! welcome!'. Her voice is just as chirpy as you imagine when she greets you.

"I don't think I recognise you," she says, questioning herself before she makes an introduction. "My name's Jiyeong, I'm a trainer here. Are looking to sign up for a membership?"

You shake your head and laugh a little awkwardly. You're not really dressed for the gym - a pair of sweats and a slouchy Carhartt tee. It's not sports gear appropriate for a place like this. Everyone's in skin-tight lycra, and they all look great wearing it. Makes you think that maybe you should try and get over this fear for good. Become one of those people.

"No, actually," you grimace a little awkward, voice sweet. You know you're gonna be asking for a favour, so try and fail to keep it short. Instead, you ramble a little. "I'm meeting someone here, but I don't have my phone - he's got it actually. Dumb accident. Long story actually, completely my fault - anyways, I was wondering if you'd be able to buzz me through so I could just grab it quickly? I'll be five seconds, in and out. Please."

It's at this point the corners of her mouth drop a little. Her lips press together. She's still smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes anymore. "Hmm?"

"His name is Jeongguk," you begin to explain further - but then she smiles again and cuts you off.

"Oh, I don't think I know a Jeongguk?" She pouts a little. "Anyways, I'm really sorry but I can't let you through without a membership. Company policy. I really wish it wasn't the case, but they track the entry process."

You don't want to put her out. You've worked in customer service for long enough to know not to push company protocol. It's not worth getting fired over just to make a customer's life a tiny bit easier - and so you nod.

"Of course, totally understand," you say as you glance over to the gate that allows access into the workout area. It needs a passcode. Can't even make a dash for it - although you're half tempted to when you see a couple come through the gate without a care in the world. It takes an absolute age to shut. "Do you guys do day memberships here? I literally just need to get in and out, but I'll pay for a day pass if I need to."

Something about Jiyeong is really throwing you off. She's smiling, and she looks like butter wouldn't melt, but there's a sourness to it all. There's no butter. Just curdled milk.

She winces apologetically. Shrugs. Brings her shoulders to her ears in a way you would have found sweet maybe five minutes ago. Shakes her head.

"They're referral only. You'll need someone with a preexisting membership with you. But!" She chirps up. "We have a month pass you can purchase instead."

For all of your common sense faux pas, and the bad decisions that have led you here, you're not actually stupid. No gym in their right mind would actively try and sabotage their own earnings. She's spewing bullshit, but is somehow managing to make it smell like roses.

"A month?" You question, trying not to let your frustration show.

"Mhhm," she nods.

Her beauty seems to fade with every smile. Ironic, really. Her friendly demeanour is what had made her so attractive, and now it's shattering the illusion.

In any other circumstance, you'd say fuck it, and head home - but Jeongguk has your phone.

You said you'd meet him here. You could wait until he finishes his workout but you have no idea when that will be, and you're still suffering from your hangover. You just want to get it over and done with, so you say, "Alright, I'll sign up for a month. No rolling contract."

"No rolling contract," she nods. "Okay. Just need a few details from you."

There's a form to fill out; payment details to be given. A box to tick: which trainer helped you sign-up? Small print: Trainers earn a small commission for every sign-up. Please ask for their name.

You're half tempted to check another trainer's name, but she's watching you like a fucking hawk.

Should have just chosen the club. Would have been easier. Could have even made a night of it - it's a Saturday after all. But no, you and your tiny marble brain thought that the gym would be easier? Better?

Ridiculous. Hoseok had been right all along. It was the worst choice you'd made all week.

"You're all ready," she smiles as you lament the choices of your past self. She says a goodbye that sounds friendly but feels like a fuck you. You're not sure what exactly you've done to rub her up the wrong way, but you'd quite like it if you never rubbed shoulders with her again.

There's a mechanical whir as you enter a pin into the gate. It opens for you with a small beep, and you feel like your throat is closing up a little bit. There's a wrought iron staircase leading up to the weight area, the bottom level focused more on machines and cardio. A third floor is reserved for studios and private classes according to the signage, so you decide he's probably not there.

You don't know much about this man, but you have seen him without a shirt on. The weight area seems like a safe bet.

There's an uncomfortable discord in your chest as you head up to the second floor, your black high-top chucks padding against the metal gently. Hair up, not even trying to pretend like you're not still hanging, part of you regrets dressing so casually.

Your skin feels all hot and clammy, and you know exactly why, but you try and convince yourself that it's just the hangover. That's all it is.

It'll pass, you tell yourself. In and out. You're alright.

Jeongguk notices you before you notice him. He's by the mirrors. Caught sight of you, your eyes all wide and worried - presumably in search of him - as he was checking his form. Putting his weight down, he turns to face you a little more straight on, which is what draws your focus to him.

"Hey," he says a little breathlessly, a tone of surprise evident. He whips a towel over his shoulder, and you're reminded of how he looked behind the bar of Dionysus. Dabs at his face a little. Shakes his head to adjust the hair that is stuck to his forehead from his workout.

"What are you doing up here?" He asks tenderly, conscious of the fact you look like you've seen a ghost. He's aware he probably doesn't look his best, but he didn't think he looked that bad. "I told Jiyeong to let me know when you arrived. Was just gonna bring it down, save you the hassle."

"Oh," you reply, a little stuck on your words. The burning in your throat is subduing. The pressure on your chest feels a little lighter.

"Sorry, I -" you begin, and then you remember who the fuck you are. You hate being like this. Hate when you get panicked. Hate that he seems to be looking at you with concern. Also hate that Jiyeong is apparently a massive dick, but you'll choose to be frustrated about that later. "I actually have a membership here."

Joy.

Jeongguk hums in surprise, head tilting, mouth forming a cute little 'o'. "You do? Never seen you here before."

Wonder why.

"Oh yeah, here all the time," you nod, because apparently Jiyeong isn't the only one who fancies being a big old liar today. And then you smile. Flirt. "Like, maybe even more than you."

Now, this he does raise a brow at. Smirks. Picks up his weight as he moves to straddle the bench beside him. He sits down and places the weight beneath his arms for something to lean on. "Not so sure about that."

He's wearing black chucks, too. Slouchy black tee. The only real difference is that he's in shorts. Your lips curve upwards, but you catch them before he notices.

"I'm just always downstairs," you shrug, playing off your little white lie like it's no biggie. "Surprised I haven't seen you about here, either."

You don't mean to be such an egregious liar, you're just embarrassed. Ashamed. Disconcerted by the fact you know you looked like a lost puppy when you arrived, and also how you know Jiyeong totally played some weird power move on you. You're not sure what to make of it. Don't like it, but also will likely never see her again. Not worth it. Not over some guy you don't intend on ever seeing again, either.

The logical assumption to be made is that she's involved with him in some capacity. Makes sense. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to get lonely in the early hours.

Jeongguk accepts your bullshit. He knows it's bullshit because he does cardio as much as he does weights - anyone with an inkling of gym knowledge would be able to tell. He's sure you have your own niche, things that would win you points on a pub quiz, but the gym? Doesn't seem likely.

"Phones just in my locker," he tells you as he gets to his feet again, lifting his weight like it's a cup of coffee. You've no idea how much it weighs. Doubt you'd be able to make it look that effortless. "I'm just finishing up. Can you wait, like, five minutes? Or do you have places to be?"

His skin is dappled in rivulets of sweat. There's too much to take in visually, so you focus on his voice, instead. It's soft. Tender. Kind, you think.

And so despite the fact there's no place you'd rather be less, you smile. Nod. "I can wait."

He nods back, says thank you, and gets back to his weights. He does a few more reps just to get to his daily goal, and then sets about clearing his area; puts the weights back on the rack, wipes down his bench. Runs his hand through his damp hair. Exhales a deep breath before turning to face you with a smile.

You wonder if he can notice the drool you've been trying not to let slip.

He can't - but finds it curious how he didn't catch your gaze a single time during his final few reps. The gym is relatively quiet at this time of day, so there's no one in the immediate vicinity. Whenever he'd glanced in the mirror, your eyes were elsewhere.

One place in particular.

The other mirror; one that's angled in such a way you can see his side profile. Jeongguk's aware of it. Had kind of positioned himself in line with it on purpose.

"What's so interesting?" he asks and is met with a confused hum. Does he really think you're gonna admit to checking him out? Dream on. "You were just like... absorbed by that mirror. Good reflection?"

"Oh," you mumble, cheeks deepening in tone - and yet your poker face is just so good. "Was zoned out. Didn't notice."

He doesn't call you out on it any further. For all he knows, you could be telling the truth.

You wait for him by the entryway gate as he gets changed. Jiyeong watches you from the corner of her eye, being as discreet as she possibly can - but you can feel her eyes on you. In fact, she's as good at discretion as you were when you were watching Jeongguk work out.

When he finally emerges in a pair of grey shorts and hoodie, you smile. So does Jiyeong.

He greets you. Ushers you through the gate. Says hi and bye to Jiyeong. Puts a hand on the top of your back as he opens the front door of the gym, but insists you walk through first.

"How are you feeling today?" He asks as you make your way down the path that leads to the subway station. "Still rough?"

"That obvious?" You laugh. "Ouch. Thanks, dude."

"No," he laughs back. "You're forgetting I was the only sober person in my apartment last night. You drank enough to kill a person."

"That's not true," you accuse, before deflecting the blame. "Was all you and your Purple Starfuckers. Bloody lethal."

"Bloody brilliant," he counters. There's an ease as you walk side by side. You chalk it up to finally being out of the gym. Feels like you can breathe again. "Tell me you didn't keep coming back for more."

He has a point. You're surprised you didn't all drink the bar dry. But you simply laugh. Tap the crease of his elbow lightly with the back of your hand.

He's smiling, too.

"Tell me you didn't keep giving me them for free! On the house! What kind of maniac turns down free drinks?!"

You've got a point. He can't argue against it - so instead he just gets a little argumentative. It's all in good fun. Shared humour.

"Well then next time, you'll get nothing on the house, how about that? Not even water."

You snort a little, pushing your head back as you do so. You pass the first subway exit, with no idea if you're heading in the right direction for one another. Neither of you asks; neither of you declares.

"Next time?" You scoff, still hanging. "I'm never drinking again."

"Heard that one before."

"I mean it. This hangover has written me off. Work almost killed me."

He wonders where you work. Wonders if the work is gruelling, or if you'd been able to recover in peace. He hopes for the latter. Would tease you if it's the former.

"You working tomorrow?" he pipes up. There's curiosity in his tone, but not enough for you to realise just how intrigued he is by you.

He's never seen a girl walk out on Jimin before. Ever. It's kind of remarkable. He wants to know why. Doesn't want to ask why, though.

You shake your head. "Day off."

Thank god.

Jeongguk considers his options. He knows full well, walk-out or not, that you fucked Jimin last night. It adds complexity. Makes him unsure of his next steps.

It's not like he's trying to get in your pants - he'd never hear the end of it from the boys if he went for Jimin's leftovers - but he'd be a liar if he said he didn't like your presence at the bar last night.

Not just you. All three of you. You've good energy. He enjoys the nights when punters are actually fun. If tonight is gonna be busy, he'd rather it be busy on his own terms.

"DJ's are doing a throwback theme tonight," he hums, and the way you stop in your tracks is beyond satisfying for him. He loves it when a plan comes together.

"Throwbacks, you say?"

He stops too, and turns to look at you with a slight air of nonchalance. There's a shrug to his broad shoulders, which remarkably don't remind you of your exes, his wide eyes soft as a subtle smile graces his lips. "All bangers."

"Define bangers," you challenge.

And oh, how Jeon Jeongguk loves a challenge.

"Well," he says as he begins walking again. You follow. "Last time there were a LOT of old-school Taylor Swift songs."

"Keep talking."

"Timbaland, Rihanna - I'm talking proper noughties classics."

"I'm listening."

"Outkast, Coldplay, Arctic Monkeys-"

"Offt."

"-Kanye, Mika, you name it. One Direction, fuckin' anything. They'll play it."

"Do they take requests?"

"Well, no I didn't mean they'll literally play anything you name," he laughs. "But you've got an in." He points at himself, seemingly proud of that fact. "I can get them to play whatever you want."

"Offt, I love having friends in high places," you muse, to which he tells you to 'fuck off' with the biggest grin on his face you've seen all day. "I'll think about it. You on the bar?"

He nods. "I am indeed."

"Hmm. Makes it less tempting."

Jeongguk wants to fight back, but knows that he'd probably end up flirting, and it's not his intention - so he changes the topic.

"Jimin might be there, too. A friendly face."

He doesn't notice the way your face scrunches up a little uncomfortably.

"I'm not really sure that'll sway me," you tell him. "Was a one-time thing. Sorry about that, again. Waking you, I mean. Not cool."

You really do believe your words - after all, Jeongguk had been the one to return your phone, not Jimin. Chivalry is dead, and apparently men get their housemates to return glass slippers, these days.

It's kind of Jeongguk's own fault.

Jimin doesn't know you've lost it. Jeongguk hasn't told him. Isn't sure why. Didn't really think about it at the time.

"It's fine, really. And I've lived with Jimin long enough to know it's never just a one-time thing."

"I'm an exception."

"Believe it when I see it."

And suddenly you feel challenged now - but you're by the final subway entrance. You've walked past three exits already. Should have really taken the first. Couldn't bring yourself to end the conversation earlier.

However, now that the conversation has turned towards the topic of Jimin, you find yourself less inclined to continue it. You'd rather not be reminded of your questionable drunk decisions in the cold, sober light of day.

"This is me," you tell him.

"Ah." He stops walking. Pauses. Looks at his Chuck Taylor-clad feet as he stands in front of you. He's holding onto the strap of his rucksack as he asks, "So you'll be at the club tonight?"

When he looks up, he's nibbling down on his bottom lip—toying with his lip ring. There's a hesitancy to his words, as if he's afraid you might say no.

You pretend as if you're weighing up your options, shifting your weight from foot to foot, lips pursed. You know if you propose the idea to Hoseok he'll jump at the chance to get shitfaced again, and where the pair of you venture, Danbi will surely follow. It's inevitable that you will end up at Dionysus tonight.

But you simply smile and say, "Maybe."

He rolls his eyes, and it makes you laugh. He laughs, too. It's sweet, the way his energy matches yours. There's an ease to your rapport. You think it must be incredibly easy to be his friend.

"Promise me a free Purple Starfucker, and I'll consider it a little bit more," you bargain.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, as he readjusts his bag over his shoulder, shaking his head a little. His eyes are glossy, and dark, and you think they look just like black treacle.

"Maybe."

"Okay then," you nod. "See you maybe, Jeongguk."

He nods back. "See you maybe, Disco Ball."

"I won't come if you call me a disco ball again," you shout back as you descend down the stairs, leaving him by the exit.

He chooses not to banter back, scared he could ruin the moment; make things awkward, somehow. Instead, he turns on his heel, and begins retracing his steps.

His turning was three junctions ago. He'd carried on walking just to talk bullshit with you. He chalks it up to him being too awkward to cut the conversation off.

See, he might like a challenge, but he's plagued by the realities of them, too. Hates the idea of people not liking him. Wants to be loved universally, so refuses to embark on endeavours that could prove otherwise. He's Mr What If, and he's quite content that way.

Jeongguk's nearly by the first crossing when he hears you shouting after him. You're a little breathless. Panting. He knows there's absolutely no way you do cardio.

"Wait, wait!" You call all flustered and hurried. "Jeongguk! Wait!"

He's already waiting. The lights are still red. You're too concerned by your own internal panic to notice.

"Phone!" You almost wail, before you laugh. Inhale. Rest your palms on your knees. Exhale. Look up towards him. "My phone, Jeongguk! You still have my phone."

"Oh, shit," he laughs, pulling off his rucksack and fishing about for it. Seems so stupid to have forgotten about it. His cheeks are hot.

It's returned promptly, apologies tumbling from his lips like laughter is falling from yours.

"This was all part of your plan, wasn't it?" You narrow your eyes accusingly. "Was gonna keep it so I had to go to the club."

He raises his arms, hands next to his ears, palms spread open, as if he's holding a white flag. "You caught me."

But it'll be Jeongguk catching you later - or at least your gaze, as he reciprocates a knowing smile when you inevitably end up in Dionysus, ready to make all the wrong choices all over again.

AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT

#by holly #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #jk #jungkook x reader #jeongguk fanfic #bangtan #jungkook fluff #bartender!jungkook #non idol au #bts fanfic #jeongguk fic #bad decisions #dappleddaisies

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Designated Person | Chapter 7

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 7: Dirty Laundry

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.5k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, angst, food, AA meeting mention, alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, female masturbation, unprotected piv sex, send nudes pls, hold the moan/secret sex, text message chains, movies, fluff, awkwardness, praise kink, daddy kink

Notes: I don't really have any notes! Just excited to share, I hope you like it.

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The first time you wake comes a result of Frankie clomping around the house as he gets ready.

It used to annoy you, how loud he can be in the mornings. But you’ve come to find it kind of comforting. Each cupboard slam and heavy footfall serves as a reminder that you’re not alone. That you’re safe.

You stay cocooned in your sheets while he goes about his noisy routine, eyes closed, cradled in that warm, fuzzy space between awake and not. Content.

When he leaves, a high-contrast silence takes his place. The slow rhythm of your automatic breathing lulls you back to sleep.

You’re surprised when your eyes flutter open at 10:34 AM.

Thanks to your opaque curtains, the room is drenched in darkness, despite the daylight trying to sneak in through the cracks. You squint into the brightness of your phone screen and read the text messages that came in while you were sleeping, all about a half an hour apart starting at 7:00.

> RORY: > Good morning beautiful > How are you today? > I get off work at 3 today, wanna do something? > I miss you

“Oh my god dude, chill out,” you scoff under your breath while typing a reply.

< ME: < Sorry, just woke up. < Yes! I’m cleaning today but that’s all I have planned. What’re you thinking?

He reads and responds immediately.

> RORY: > We can check out that trail by the lake? Grab a bite to eat afterwards?

< ME: < Sure

> RORY: > Pick you up at 3:30?

< ME: < See you then 😘

You toss the phone aside and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face. Your eyes burn when you grind your fists into them and welcome a big yawn that stretches your lungs’ limits. A spasm catches your breath, shoving out a fit of coughs that leave you a little winded.

Yeah, go on a hike today, that will be fucking fun.

When you tiptoe through the kitchen, you find the coffee pot still on from when Frankie ran it this morning. Your nose wrinkles at its contents. The stale brew will be muddy and unsatisfying, but you pour it into a mug with some half & half anyway.

You settle into your spot on the old couch in your living room and pull the notebook out from under your arm. Between sips of terrible coffee, you jot down the nighttime thoughts still floating around your head.

Hard time falling asleep. Kept thinking about puppies, thinking I should have adopted that dog last year. Regret. No nightmares I think. Woke up at 10:30, feel tired still. Don’t want to go on a hike with Rory, but I am an idiot who can’t say no to people. I would rather stay home and be alone. I want it to be

You pause here, staring at the passage.

A jolt skitters across your ribcage. Blood rushes to your face. You glance around self-consciously, then cross out the last two and a half sentences. A few moments go by before you decide it doesn’t seem like enough, so you cross it out again and again, scraping dark lines into the notebook paper until the sentiment beneath is unrecognizable.

Then you drop the ballpoint of your pen a few lines below the redaction and start writing out your to-do list for the day.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself.

Frankie’s damp clothes stick to the circumference of your washer’s stainless steel drum. The rank scent that emanates from the machine reminds you of your grandparents’ house in the summer.

With a sigh, you empty your dirty laundry on the floor of the mudroom and pull his clean clothes from the dryer into your basket, replacing them with the damps, then replacing those with your dirties. En route to his bedroom, with your laundry basket propped on one hip, you text him.

< ME: < I stg you leave your clothes in the washer dryer on purpose so I’ll fold them

He must be on his lunch break, because he texts back right away.

> FRANKIE: > I would never 😉

The door opens with a creak when you step through the threshold, dropping your basket on the floor next to his bed. You take a selfie from the middle of the room and send it to him along with your response.

< ME: < K well I’m gonna lick all your stuff after putting away your clothes

> FRANKIE: > Promise?

< ME: < Shut up lol

> FRANKIE: > You look cute btw

Heat floods your cheeks. A smile spreads across your face as you fall back into his bed. The musk woven between the threading of his sheets tugs at you. Your skin tingles with want, and you find yourself pulling the covers over your body and burying your face in his pillow.

The phone buzzes beside you.

> FRANKIE: > Feel free to take a nap or do whatever you want in there

You sit up and whip your head around, then text back.

< ME: < Are you watching me

> FRANKIE: > Are you in my bed?

< ME: < … what if I was?

> FRANKIE: > I wouldn’t mind one bit > What are you doing in there?

< ME: < It’s comfy, I’m laying down

> FRANKIE: > Can I see?

Your stomach flips. The warmth in your face spreads, sprouting up all over your body. You lick your lips and smirk, then open the camera and take a picture of yourself and send it to him.

> FRANKIE: > Wow 😍 > I’m going back to work. See you later tonight, sweetheart

You start and erase about five variations of a response before just locking your phone screen and slamming it down at your side. Your hands fly to your face. All your organs melt and pool hot between your thighs.

Fuck, you hate that he can make you feel like this.

… but you love it, too.

It’s intoxicating.

You know him well enough to know that, throughout his day, whether he’s tinkering around in some commercial airplane, or running diagnostic tests, or chatting with coworkers, he will be thinking about you. Wondering what you’re doing. Hoping that when he arrives home there will be a spot in his sheets marked unmistakably yours.

He always held a particular fascination with you touching yourself, a fact proven true last week when he got off watching you masturbate.

The memory pricks your skin. Your squeaky mattress. The exchange of gasps and whimpers and moans. His lust-blown eyes, all wild and black as they watched you.

Even before that, though.

When you were working for him, he would sometimes text you specific locations in his house, asking you to masturbate there, send him pictures, and leave your panties. Of course, you were happy to oblige.

There were a few times when he had you choose a place to fuck yourself. You gave him three clues, and if he guessed the location correctly, that’s where he would fuck you when he got home.

One Saturday night, you were watching Sarah while he and Angie went out on a date. He texted you exactly one minute after Sarah’s bedtime.

> FRANKIE: > Baby in bed?

< ME: < Yeah

> FRANKIE: > Good > Can you do something for me?

< ME: < Maybe, what?

> FRANKIE: > Go in my upstairs bathroom and take off that pretty dress > Film yourself getting off in the mirror > Then send it to me

< ME: < Where are your manners sir

> FRANKIE: > Pretty please 😘

So you did. You tiptoed into the bathroom and pulled your dress off over your head, which is all the effort it took to strip down to a red thong. You stood in front of the huge vanity mirror and pressed record.

When they came home, Frankie ushered an extremely inebriated Angie to their bedroom. He emerged a few minutes later and coaxed you into the bathroom. Between heated, whiskey-soaked kisses, he told you, “We have to be quiet.”

You nodded and raked your fingers through his hair, responding to his urgent mouth with your own. He locked the bathroom door and dug his phone from his pocket, propping it up on the bathroom counter before he pressed play.

You pulled your dress off, watching his reflection in the vanity mirror for telltale signs of him being shitfaced. A stumble or slur. Compared to other nights where he spent hours at the bar, he seemed fine, which was a relief.

From his phone, you heard your own whimper. You looked down and watched the past you, video you, flick your wrist beneath the cover of your underwear.

His belt clanked as he undid his pants, pulling your attention back to his reflection. You met his eyes through the mirror and watched the darkness in them churn. He slid your thong aside, head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

A rasp tickled your ear, “Look at you, the dirty little movie you made me—what were you thinking about?”

Your gaze dropped to the video. To video you grabbing your tits and biting your lips. He plunged forward, splitting you open, pulling a gasp from your lips, “Ffffuck—”

“Thinking about fuck?”

He started to roll his hips, driving his cock into you, slow and deep. Pleasure rippled up your spine. Video you slid your thong off and showed the camera your pussy.

Your lips parted to answer his question, but the words caught in your throat. It felt so wrong to tell him. He grabbed your shoulder and pulled your body against his, snapping his hips, pumping into you with sharp, hard movements.

“Holy fuck, Frankie—”

“Tell me what you were thinking about when you were playing with your pussy.”

“This,” you breathed, arching your back into his thrusts, each one a heatwave across your body, “You fucking me—trying to be quiet—trying to be a good girl—”

“You’re doing so fucking good, baby,” he purred, “Can’t get enough of this sweet pussy—drives me fucking crazy, Jesus Christ.”

Little whimpers and gasps started wriggling up your throat. Your eyebrows threaded together and lips parted with a croaked, “Frankie—”

“Fuck yes, baby, take it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, fucking you harder, faster, repeating under his ragged breath, “Take it, take it, take it.”

His cock rubbed along all the right parts of you, sending your pulse racing, adrenaline spiking when you remembered Angie asleep in the other room while he was there with you, dark gaze flicking between your video playing on his phone and your body bouncing off of him.

Your whimpers morphed into moans, immediately muffled by his warm, rough palm.

“Gotta be fucking quiet, sweetheart,” he panted in your ear, “I know it’s hard but you gotta do that for me, ok? Can you be a good girl for me, be quiet?”

You nodded. Calmed your moans into frenzied breaths. Lowered your gaze to the phone screen, where video you sank two fingers into your cunt and moaned, fucking yourself, just for him.

“That’s it,” he panted, wrapping his arms around your torso to hold you in place as he fucked up into you, hot breath heating the crook of your neck, “Fuck, that’s it, such a good girl for daddy, hmm?”

You couldn’t help the choked moan that escaped you.

“Say it, say you’re such a good girl for daddy—”

“I’m such—such a good girl for daddy.”

“Fuuuuck yes,” he groaned, one hand finding your clit, drawing frantic circles that flooded your body with a gooey, electric, pulsing energy, “Pussy so tight, feels so fucking good, fuck—”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, pushing against his thrusts, nodding your head, “Daddy I’m gonna fucking cum—”

“Holy fuck—that’s it, sweet girl, cum on daddy’s dick, you can do it.”

You lost yourself, forgetting all about the concession to be quiet—whining and moaning as your bodies slid together with this sick, wet, sucking noise—consumed by the throbbing fire at your center, amplified with each snap of his hips, with his dirty little praises whispered in your ear, cock filling you again and again until you couldn’t fucking handle it anymore and your pleasure reached a fever pitch.

Frankie released a deep, guttural moan as you clenched down, pussy fluttering around his length, white hot static vibrating across your body.

He plunged into you once, twice, three more times with a shudder, spilling inside you.

“Holy shit,” you panted, collapsing forward onto the bathroom counter. His grip softened and he went slack against your back. A few blissful moments went by like this before the spell broke.

“God, I wish you could stay,” he told you in a breathy murmur, pressing a kiss into your bare shoulder, “Wish I could wake up with you.”

And it sounded sweet on the surface, but you knew it was your cue to leave.

You think about it now.

About Frankie, and the video that you sent him while he was on a date with his wife. How she was under the same roof when the two of you fucked in the bathroom. How he had you call him daddy, and how you were such a good girl for him.

You think about how it is between you now, how good it would feel to give in to those reckless desires and fuck like you used to.

Your touch trails down between your legs as you imagine him here in the bed with you, cooing filthy things in your ear, rubbing your clit, laying heated kisses on your neck.

You grab your breast and pretend it’s him squeezing your flesh. Imagine his soft lips around your nipple, the roll of his tongue against it.

“Fuck,” you breathe, rolling your hips into your hand.

A whimper bubbles through your lips and the brazenness of it stokes your insides. Another whimper, this one louder. Tingles shoot up your middle.

You drag your fingers along your slit, moaning at the puddle of arousal pooling at your entrance, spreading it, coating your pussy in the slick substance.

“So fucking wet,” you gasp, gripping your tit harder, imagining Frankie there, touching you, watching you with awe, telling you how fucking good you’re doing.

Your fingers move faster, sliding easy against your lubricated nub, and you release a throaty moan, “So fucking good, daddy, you make me feel so good.“

The words out loud jolt your insides. You think: What if he saw me like this? What if he heard me? What if he knew I still fantasize about him?

A burst of feral energy overtakes you and you crawl up onto your knees, pulling your loose cotton shorts and underwear aside so your cunt is exposed to the room. You work one hand hard and fast against your clit. The other sinks two fingers inside you.

You roll your hips, fucking your hand, moaning out, “Fuck yes, Frankie, fuck me just like that, so fucking good, daddy, you’re gonna make me cum—”

Uttering the words out loud electrifies you. Heat churns beneath your touch, growing brighter and hotter as your wanton moans hit his bedroom ceiling. Pleasure starts to swell and your movements grow frantic, desperate, chasing that feeling as you whine, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You convulse around your fingers and gasp, twitchy prods of pleasure gushing at your center each time your slick fingers graze your clit, slowing as the waves ebb into a fuzzy kind of bliss that occupies your whole body.

You fall back in his bed, chest heaving, and try to gain your bearings.

Shame starts to creep at the edges of your post-orgasm fog. Without prompting, your brain tells you: I hate myself.

It stings.

You gulp and shake your head, whispering out loud, “I love myself.”

The correction soothes your hindbrain’s outlash enough for you to release a content sigh. A smile creeps across your face. You blink over at Frankie’s dresser, then rise to your feet and start folding his clean clothes.

As you tuck the folded clothes away in his dresser drawers, you find the underwear he snatched from your bedroom last week. Teal lace, all stiff with his dried cum.

You chuckle to yourself and shake your head. That familiar, reckless kind of satisfaction spreads through your veins.

It’s fucked up, but the thought of him getting off on the scent of you fills you with pride.

This is rocky territory. More than rocky, honestly. It’s dangling-off-a-cliffside-while-your-grip-is-slipping territory.

You both know it. It’s like neither of you can help it. Over and over, you fall back together like opposite poles of a magnet.

Are you drawn to each other because there’s something real? Or is it because of the thrill?

You remind yourself that there is something more between you and Frankie than sexual desire.

You laugh together, support each other, and enjoy your shared time. The bond you’ve formed is genuine. He has come to be one of your best friends. Second only to your sister, Leah.

There’s a softness when you’re with him, too. A saccharine kind of intimacy that curls around your body and makes you feel at home. It has always existed between you, even if he never admits it. He used to push it away, but more and more, it’s become commonplace when you’re together.

You swallow hard and shake your head, finding that you’re still staring at these cum-encrusted panties. You know Frankie won’t be able to bring himself to throw them in with the rest of his laundry. That would mean washing your scent, throwing your gift away.

A little flint of arousal sparks at the base of your spine.

After dropping the teal lace into your laundry basket, you shimmy your shorts and underwear down your legs, then wipe yourself off with the gusset of your floral cheeky bikini. You shove them into his dresser drawer in place of the spent pair.

Two flimsy cardboard boats slide out onto the "PICK-UP HERE” window’s ledge. A booming voice follows, “Order number 32!”

Rory glances down at his receipt, then tucks it in his pocket as he steps through the crowd of hungry onlookers and approaches the rusted-out food truck. He returns holding one basket in each hand, a victorious smile dawning on his face, “Where should we sit?”

You squint around your surroundings and spot a shaded patch of grass beneath the gnarled trunk of a buttonwood tree, then point to it, “Ooh, over here!”

“Got it!”

Rory jogs ahead and lands on the grass before anyone else can claim the spot. You catch up a few seconds later and sit down next to him, crossing your legs. He hands you your shrimp tacos and you murmur a thanks to him while balancing the basket on your knee.

Under the eaves of the buttonwood tree, you find relief from the unrelenting sun. Your skin, all heated and gleaming with sweat, thanks you profusely. The cool earth somehow feels icy against your palms when you lean back and stretch out. You pull your sunglasses up on your head and tilt back to look up through the twisted branches of the tree, “Fuck, it’s hot out.”

You’re never really sure how to start conversations with him.

“Yeah,” he follows your gaze up into the tree, quickly losing interest. A deep breath expands his lungs as he looks around the park, finally settling his gaze on a playground, “You ever take the kids you babysit out here to play?”

Your nose wrinkles a bit when he calls you a babysitter. You follow his line of sight to and watch hordes of squealing, laughing children crawl all over the playground.

“Not this park, but I take them to the one by their house. It has a splash pad and this playground with water features. They love it, it’s pretty cool.”

He nods.

“When I worked for Frankie and his wife, I took their daughter, Sarah, here a lot. She was still just a little squish, but, you know, there are all these trails with cool trees and there’s the lake, and another playground further down that-a-way.”

You point to your left. He doesn’t seem to care much about what you’re saying, but asks, “Is that a job you see yourself having long-term?”

It’s a question you’re familiar with answering. Always tainted with judgment, insinuating that your job is that of bored teenagers trying to make a buck over the summer.

“Yep,” you tell him with a close-lipped smile, tilting your head as you wait for him to say more.

“How will that work when you have kids? Do you want to be a stay-at-home mom, or will you bring the kid with you, or what?”

With a shrug, you tell him, “Figure I’ll see where I’m at when the time comes and go from there.”

Rory hums and nods, brow furrowing at the ground like he’s soaking this in, then he says, “It’s nice that you do that. I like that you’re a caretaker.”

It takes you by surprise. His gaze meets yours and you smile at each other for a moment.

“Thanks,” you say and bring your attention to the boat of shrimp tacos resting on your knee, finding them cooled down enough to eat.

After finishing your food, you and Rory start off towards his vehicle, hand-in-hand. The trail winds by the playground you were watching from afar. Like playgrounds often are, it’s total chaos. Children screaming, running, climbing, crying.

You spot one little girl sitting in the sand, digging a hole between her splayed legs. She seems oblivious to the world around her. The dark ringlets dangling around her cherub face wiggle as she talks to herself, eyebrows raising expressively like the one-sided conversation is intensely interesting.

She must feel you watching her, because her spine straightens and she looks around. When her dark brown eyes meet yours, her face lights up in recognition, and she squeals your name.

You stop in your tracks and can’t restrain the wide smile from spreading across your lips, “Sarah!”

Aside from the brief glimpse you caught of her the day Frankie moved in, and the grocery store shortly after, you haven’t seen her in over a year. She’s grown so much. Her chunky, wobbly baby legs have elongated and grown more capable, allowing her to run towards you, arms outstretched.

When she reaches you, you scoop her up, twirling her around as you give her a big hug, “How are you, sweetheart? I missed you!”

Sarah squeals with delight and says, “Missed you!”

A cool rush of panic spreads across your skin when you look around and ask, “Where are your parents, sweetie?”

“I’m digging a hole!”

“Oh wow, you’re digging a hole?” you laugh and shift her onto your hip as you continue to study the sea of faces, ears growing hot when you remember Rory standing behind you. The last time you saw Angie, she insulted you in broad daylight. How the fuck would you explain that to Rory if it happens again?

“Hey!”

The familiar voice is sharp with outrage. Frankie’s hand grips your shoulder and spins you around to face him. His chest is heaving, jaw clenched, eyes aflame with fury.

You have never seen him like this.

Your eyes widen and you hold your palm up to him, “Just me, sorry!”

He studies your face, still red-hot anger, then it seems to come into focus for him. His shoulders relax with a relieved exhale, then his features soften and grow apologetic, “Oh, hey.”

You bring your hand back to your hip to support the weight of Sarah and chuckle, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“No, no, it’s ok.”

“We were just walking, and, umm,” you gesture back at Rory, trailing off when you see Angie approaching, arms crossed, beautiful face squared off in a stern expression.

Frankie’s gaze flicks to Rory and he gives a nod of recognition before returning his attention to Sarah, “Did you see your friend and go to say hi?”

Sarah smiles sweetly and nods, then starts wiggling to be put down. You grant the request, lowering her to the ground and letting her go. She gallops back to her hole in the sand, while you call behind her and wave, “Bye, Sarah!”

Your face scrunches up into a wince when you meet Frankie’s eyes again, and you shrug, “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he waves you off with a smirk.

“Hey,” Angie greets, surprisingly calm. Her fingers curl around Frankie’s bicep and she blinks at you.

“Hi, Angie,” you give a nervous nod, plastering on a smile that’s too eager, “I was just passing by with my, um,” you swallow hard and turn to Rory, waving him forward, “My boyfriend, Rory.”

Your voice is shaky. This is a nightmare.

Rory’s arm wraps around your waist from the side and he gives a polite wave, “Hi.”

“This is Angie Morales, Frankie’s wife,” you tell him.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rory smiles and extends a hand to her. Angie says nothing, just shakes his hand while wearing this Mona Lisa smile and steps back beside her husband.

The silence that follows is painful.

“Ok, well, sorry again for the scare,” you sigh, looking down at your feet, “It was really nice to see Sarah, I miss her a lot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frankie says, and you look up to see his brow knit together, dark eyes all apologetic, “I’ll see you at home, yeah?”

You nod at the ground, then tell Angie, “Good to see you.”

She raises an eyebrow and laughs at this. It feels like a slap. You suppose it’s better than her screaming insults at you, though. Or, like, a real slap.

When you turn and walk away, Rory’s hand finds yours again. His grip is warm and steady, and he frowns over at you, “You ok?”

You forgot to adjust your face. The pain bubbling up inside you must be obvious. Traitorous tears spring to your eyes, thankfully hidden behind the dark of your sunglasses. You clear your throat and nod, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

It sounds watery and false.

“Hey,” he stops walking to turn towards you, “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head and sniffle, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

He raises his eyebrows, searching your face, “Really?”

Your teeth catch your tongue. Dull pain wells up in each section of the soft muscle you clamp down on, providing a microscopic release. With a deep breath, you look down at your feet and shrug, “I just—I guess I missed her more than I realized.”

“Come here,” Rory murmurs, ushering you into a hug. You oblige. His body seems to awkwardly wrap around you, but it brings you a small dose of comfort. Even if he doesn’t feel or smell like home.

“What’s the deal with his wife, why did she seem mad?”

Fuck. You were hoping he wouldn’t notice, or ask.

“She, um… she thinks I stole something from her,” you tell him, “That’s why I don’t work for them anymore.”

Misleading, sure, but not entirely a lie.

He hums, rubbing your back, “You care about her a lot, huh? The little girl?”

“Yeah,” you croak. A few tears spring from your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut and wish them away.

Rory kisses your hair and gives you a tight squeeze, “Should we keep going?”

You sniffle and pull back from his embrace, flashing him a tight smile as you nod, “Yeah.”

When Frankie comes home, you’ve already resigned to your room for the night, content to wallow in self-pity you have no right to feel.

His footsteps creak against the floorboards as he makes his way through the kitchen, into the hallway outside your room. A knock comes at the door.

You sigh and pout to yourself, then call out, “Come in.”

Frankie opens the door and hovers in the threshold. You pause Stardew Valley and look over from your laptop, raising your eyebrows in question.

“Hey,” he says, puppy dog eyes in full force, crossing his arms, “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know.”

He hums and studies you for a moment, shifting his weight into the doorframe, “Earlier was… It was weird, right?”

Your eyelids flutter. You shrug, “She didn’t call me a slut this time, which was… nice.”

He chuckles at this. You don’t crack a smile.

When your lack of amusement registers to him, he clears his throat and pushes off of the door frame. He makes his way around the bed and sits down on the opposite side, scooting close to you. You roll your head on your shoulders and watch him reach out to touch you, then decide against it, fingertips curling onto his lap instead.

“Look, I’m really sorry,” he says finally, but doesn’t look at you.

“For what?”

“I know you miss Sarah. And I know my reaction earlier was—was,” he sighs and shakes his head, “It wasn’t great.”

“Frankie, you thought I was a abducting your child—”

“I mean after that,” he turns to you now, sincerity etched in his features, “I could have let you hang out with her, or been nicer or something, I don’t know. I just—I know, in my gut, that I could have done better. And… I’m sorry.”

An ache of affection spreads across your chest. You reach out and rest your hand on his forearm, thumb grazing his skin as you search his face, “I appreciate that, thank you.”

A small, relieved smile graces his lips. He nods, “Of course.”

Then he seems to relax a little, leaning back onto one elbow as he squints at your laptop screen, “Whadda you have going on here?”

“Exploring caves, fighting monsters.”

“Sounds nerdy,” he teases, “Figures you’d like it.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” you laugh and give him a playful shove, “You think I’m a nerd?”

“Maybe,” he grins.

You scoff and shoot him a mock glare, “On what grounds?”

He frowns, looking up at the ceiling like he’s thinking about it, then shrugs, “Basically just this, but you’re cute when you’re all riled up.”

“Wow,” you laugh, covering your face as it heats up, “So rude.”

He grins and lays back in your bed like he’s making himself at home here, so you join him, resting your head on his shoulder. His cheek presses into the crown of your head. You resume playing Stardew Valley.

Some time passes like this, cuddling with him while he idly plays with your hair, asking you questions about the game like he’s interested. When the sun sets and you both start yawning at regular intervals, you tuck the laptop away in your nightstand. Frankie doesn't move.

You return to your pillow and roll on your side to face him, tucking your hands under your cheek. He mirrors the action, just a foot or so away. His warm gaze works around your face and he murmurs, “Do you want me to go?”

It’s so quiet you can hear your pulse pounding through your arteries.

“Not really.”

A small smile flicks across his lips. He looks down at his clothes, “Do—do you mind if I, um…”

“What, you don’t wanna wear jeans to bed?” you snort.

He chuckles and shakes his head, “They’re not great pajamas.”

“Go change, I gotta wash my face and stuff anyway,” you yawn, rolling onto your back, stretching your arms into the air.

The two of you go about your bedtime routines. When you return to your room, Frankie is laying on top of the covers, arm tucked behind his head as he scrolls on his phone. He changed into gray basketball shorts and his old, worn out Metallica t-shirt.

“That shirt is gonna crumble into dust one of these days,” you tease while plugging your phone into its charger.

He sets his phone down and looks at his shirt, then grins up at you, “Until it does, I’ll be wearing it.”

You shake your head at him, peeling back the covers with shaky hands. He sits up and wriggles between your sheets as you turn off your bedside lamp and crawl in beside him.

For a few moments, it’s just quiet in the dark. Neither of you move or say anything. You imagine he’s staring at the ceiling with tingling nerves just like you, filled with uncertainty and fear and want. Not sure what the “line” even looks like anymore because it’s been blurred so much it’s indistinguishable.

Every other time you’ve fallen asleep together since he moved in, it could be chalked up as either accidental or, like when you were sick, necessary. Excusable if brought forth as evidence by others, or each other, or yourselves.

But this is different.

It’s intentional. No plausible deniability in sight. Heat blooms in your chest and between your legs. He feels so far away.

“Frankie.”

“Hmm?”

“Would it be weird if I asked you to hold me?”

He lets out an amused scoff. The bed squeaks and shifts as he rolls on his side as you scoot closer to each other. His hands find you under the covers and he pulls your back to his chest, tucking one arm under your head while the other wraps around your belly.

“It’s not weird,” he murmurs, pausing for a second before saying, “It should be, but it isn’t.”

This makes you smile. It’s a relief to hear him say it. You relax into his embrace and rest your arm atop his at your waist.

The darkness surrounding the two of you seems to hold space for honesty. It’s that sort of feeling you got at sleepovers when you were younger, when you and your friends would whisper secrets to each other in the dark.

“I have nightmares sometimes,” you tell him.

“I know.”

You know he knows. He’s been there to wake you from them and calm you down in their wake at least a dozen times. Regardless, there’s this buzzing under your skin like you need to tell him.

“I can never remember what happens except—except, um,” you blink your eyes open and swallow the thickness in your throat, shaking your head, “There’s this feeling, like… I know that he’s chasing me, and if he catches me, I’m never going to escape.”

His body seems to tense a little. He looks down at you, “Who?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

You can feel the question occupying his tightened muscles, and say, “It’s not you.”

“But if you don’t know—”

“It started before you,” you lace your fingers with his, letting your eyelids drift shut, “And, besides, I don’t feel like that with you. I feel… safe.”

He relaxes around you with a sigh that sounds like relief.

“When I lived alone it was hard. I’d wake up alone and scared, and I couldn’t fall back asleep,” you murmur, “But it’s been better lately.”

He hums. The noise vibrates against the nape of your neck. His thumb brushes against your midriff.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you admit, “I guess… I just want you to know it’s nice having you here.”

The wet swallow of his throat makes you start to worry you said too much, that you showed too much belly. You brace for him to pull away. But when his voice breaks the silence, it sounds raspy and damp. Heartfelt.

“You don’t think I’m a burden?”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s ridiculous.

“Not even a little. I’m happy to have you.”

“I’m happy to be here, mariposa.”

The nickname stings a little. A sharp, precise prick to the center of your chest. But his arms squeeze around you tighter, bringing you closer to his warmth.

Your lips curve into a slight smile and you feel the tug of drowsiness on your limbs.

“No funny business back there tonight, Franklin,” you mumble out, your words fuzzy with fatigue.

“Yes ma’am,” he nuzzles into your hair, his own voice groggy and low, “Best behavior.”

That warm, soft intimacy settles deep in your bones and makes you feel at ease. Safe. Loved. And it’s not long at all before sleep overtakes you.

Your Friday nights used to be synonymous with drinking.

It meant going out to the bar to get drunk and dance and maybe find another lonely soul to spend time with. It meant blackouts and bar tabs and spending your Saturdays absolutely fucking miserable.

Truth be told, you much prefer your new Friday night ritual: Movie Night.

You and Frankie each get to pick any movie you want and stuff your faces while watching them back-to-back. After work, you pick him up from his AA meeting and load up on junk food, then head home.

Tonight, the two of you walk side-by-side down aisle 5 of your neighborhood grocery store, moving at a leisurely pace across the glossy white tiles. A country music station broadcasts softly over the store’s speakers. From the cash registers up front, you hear the rhythmic beep of customers being rung up. Probably the only other people in here, honestly, it’s fucking dead.

“What’s your movie pick?” Frankie asks while tossing a bag of classic potato chips into the red basket hanging from the bend of his elbow, “And I swear to god if you say Moulin Rouge! I’m instituting a no-repeat policy.”

Your laughter ricochets down the aisle and you shake your head, “Don’t act like you don’t like that movie! I know you do.”

“I mean yeah, but… there are other movies.”

“Other… movies…?”

He snorts and shakes his head at you.

“Actually, I wanna watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” you tell him, slowing to narrow your eyes at a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, “Do I want pretzels or salt and vinegar chips?”

“Why not both?” he shrugs.

You scrunch your nose up, tossing your head from side-to-side, then grab the kettle chips and drop them into your basket, “What’s your movie pick?”

“I’m between Dazed and Confused and The Wolf of Wall Street,” he says, glancing over at you.

Your face lights up and you coo, “Ohhh Dazed and Confused, please!”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He grins at you and shrugs, “I will take your opinion into consideration.”

“What, I can’t help you choose?”

“It’s my pick,” Frankie chuckles, “You can’t pick my pick!”

You roll your eyes at him. The two of you round the corner, merging into the vacant main aisle, and you say, “Fuck, I want ice cream.”

“I want a fucking drink,” he mutters offhandedly, then notices your concerned stare and says, “Sorry.”

“Do you really?”

His brow furrows as he considers this, eventually admitting, “In a way, yeah.”

You know you shouldn’t take it personally. He’s an alcoholic. But that rationale doesn’t stop the ache that spreads across your chest.

Frankie must recognize your hurt, because he nudges you and adds, “Not because I don’t like this or anything.”

You give him a warm, reassuring smile as you turn down the freezer aisle. He continues.

“It just lingers, I guess. Like I think I could drink and be fine,” he comes to a stop in front of the ice cream, glancing around before staring forward into the freezer like it holds all the answers, “Everything is just so… raw without it. All the feelings I’ve never dealt with, they keep bubbling up and it’s—I don’t know, it’s a lot.”

It surprises you that he’s talking about this so openly, in a public place and everything. Two months ago you could not have dragged these words from his mouth under any circumstances.

You nod as you study him, “Well, um… I know it’s hard, but I’m glad you’re doing it.”

He doesn’t really react, just continues to look at the ice cream. His eyes are a million miles away, though. Lost in thought. You lay your hand on his shoulder and graze your thumb against him, “Francisco.”

His jaw tightens.

“Hey, look at me.”

He blinks a few times, then swings his gaze to meet yours.

“I mean it. It’s been a pleasure getting to know the real you, in all your, uhhh,” you stop and try to come up with something eloquent, landing on, “sober glory. I know it’s a lot. But I can see that it’s making a huge difference. You’re so far beyond where you started. It’s… it’s really brave to choose sobriety. I’m proud of you, Frankie.”

It all kind of spills out of you. A collage of sentiments you’ve been keeping to yourself thrown crudely together here in the middle of the freezer aisle.

His brow creases, eyes all dewy as they flick around your face. You worry that what you said doesn’t make sense, or that maybe it was insensitive. But then, his basket falls to the floor with a clatter and he pulls you into a hug.

Again, you’re taken by surprise.

You just stand there for a moment, kind of awkward with your basket dangling in one hand.

He squeezes you tighter. Unbridled appreciation flows from him. Your stomach flutters and tears prick your eyes. You drop your basket to properly return the gesture, wrapping both arms around his torso, pulling him close.

The warmth of his body surrounds you. You take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting musk of his skin, exhaling tension, melting into this softness.

Frankie sniffles and kisses the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair, “Thank you.”

You part ways, both taking a step back to see the others’ glossy, red-tinged eyes.

And you’re not sure exactly why, but then you both laugh. Not in a nervous way. More like joy. It bubbles beneath your skin and makes you feel hopeful.

He picks his basket up off the ground and clears his throat, turning back to the freezer door, “Anyway, ice cream.”

When the end credits roll on Dazed and Confused, you stand up off the couch and start towards the kitchen, asking Frankie, “Need anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” he answers with a yawn.

You pull open the cupboard and find a bag of popcorn, then toss it in the microwave. While you wait for it to pop, you check your phone. Three unread messages.

> RORY: > Hey > How was work? > Doing anything fun tonight?

“Hey, I was thinking,” Frankie says as he shuffles past the dining room table, into the kitchen. You set your phone down on the counter and cross your arms, looking up at him.

“Next week is Sarah’s birthday, Ang is throwing a party on Saturday. Do you want me to see if she would let you come?”

The question leaves you momentarily speechless. You never thought it would be a possibility, and the offer completely blindsides you.

Your mouth gapes open and you blink, “I, um—well, I—”

“If you want to, I mean.”

You frown and meet his eyes, “Well, yeah, obviously I want to, but is Angie really ok with that?”

“I’ll talk to her,” he says, leaning back on the counter next to you, “She’s been more receptive lately. And—and I think if you brought Rory, she would feel more reassured, that, um…”

Your stomach drops like a rock.

A clusterfuck of messy emotions tangle and twist inside your body. At the tip of your tongue sits the question: That, what, there’s nothing going on between us?

You look over at him and search his face. It’s unreadable. He’s frozen like he knows he came dangerously close to mentioning the elephant in the room and doesn’t know what to do next.

The air thickens.

Moments go by that feel like centuries.

You can’t stand it anymore, and lead him to continue the thought, “That what?”

He turns to face you and looks fucking terrified. Forehead creased. Eyes wide. Lips parted like apologies are about to come spilling out of them.

You hold his gaze. Try not to notice the pungent energy pulsing between your bodies, or the way his eyes soften when he looks at your mouth and takes a step towards you.

For one heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

A beep sounds from the microwave.

He looks to the source, trance broken, but your eyes stay trained on him. On the elongated bob of his throat swallowing nerves. On the restless, twitchy movements that suddenly seem to possess him.

When he notices you’re still staring at him, he only allows a brief glance before dropping his gaze to the ground and shoving his hands in his pockets, finally saying, “I—I just mean that I think she’ll be ok with it. And—and Sarah would be excited to see you.”

You pause before you react, trying to decide whether or not to ask him the question tearing apart your insides like a rabid dog: Do you want me to go so I can see Sarah, or so you can continue to lie to your wife?

Simultaneously, you cannot ask him and you need to know.

You tell yourself: He’s in recovery. He needs support, not criticism.

You say: Let him figure out the missing pieces in his life and put it back together. Even if the shape it takes breaks you.

“Ok,” you give him a tight nod and push off the counter, pulling the microwave door open, “If she’s fine with it, I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?”

You pinch the corner of your bloated popcorn bag and pull it out, nudging the microwave door closed, then turn to face him, but don’t look up, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

A small, distant voice says: You fucking coward.

#designated person #frankie morales #frankie morales angst #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic

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marsbutterfly · 10 months

Text

Final Mission - Remastered

Summary: The rumbling begins to close in on you and your friends. With very few choices remaining, you have to watch as Hanji makes a decision that will alter the course of your life forever.

a/n: hello hello!! So ever since part 3 part 1 came out, I decided to start working on rewriting my very first work, for Hanji and for Attack On Titan. This piece has always meant so much to me as it was written with lol sm grief? anyway, I know it's been a while but Hanji pls come back, the kids and I miss you babes.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: attack on titan season 4 part 3 (part 1) spoilers if you haven't watched it yet, angst, blood, established relationship, soulmate loss, a bit of resentment towards tbh everyone if you squint. | ao3 | wattpad | the original | wc: 3.3k

“You could break my heart in two

But when it heals, it beats for you”

“I’m the one who brought everyone here. I killed my comrades to come this far. I’ll take responsibility for it all,” Hanji says, her hands trembling while grasping the thunder spears firmly, eyes filled with terror while a shallow breath fights to leave her lungs. The ground shakes beneath you and a chilling sensation courses down your spine.

You finally find the courage to turn around to face her as she approaches the group, words dying and being reborn in your throat as you struggle to find just the right thing to say, eventually landing on the bleakest yet most desperate request, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Her footsteps are heavy, contrasting clearly with those of the colossal titans as they march towards you. Her vision is focused on the young, blonde boy ahead of you and you can tell she is trying with all her might to avoid your eyes, afraid of the reaction you might have.

“Armin Arlert,” her voice is gentle, gentler than it has been in a while, almost as if the heavy burden of the world inside the walls has finally lifted from her shoulders and she could actually think straight, “I hereby designate you the 15th Commander of the Scout Regiment.”

The remainder of the words exchanged between the two of them simply echoes in your brain, going from one ear to the other, almost as if they were speaking sheer gibberish. It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. Why is she making him commander when she is still standing right there? Hopefully not for the reasons you are expecting, right? Your thoughts move a thousand times faster than the actual conversation flows.

Your eyes are fixated on the scenery before you, a mixture of feelings coursing through your veins and your heart feels like it has been missing a few beats as an intense void begins to creep from deep inside of you. The situation is not ideal: the colossal titans get closer by the second, the atmosphere becomes hotter with their steam clouding the air and an overwhelming feeling of despair grows in your chest.

You focus on the sound of her voice, the same sound that has brought you so much comfort in the most trying of times now makes no sense, no matter how you look at it. Her face, which has always been your absolute favorite piece of art to ever exist, now contorted into a pained and saddened expression. In fact, it reminded of the way she looked when Erwin announced she would be taking over the Scouts in case he didn’t make it through Shiganshina.

You are finally pulled out of this trance once she begins to move again, this time towards Levi, confused and worrying eyes following her every move carefully as she moves across the brick bridge. From where you stand, you can see the black haired man tightening his left fist, the breeze hitting every so lightly, just barely enough for it to lift his hair and show you that he is sharing a quick glance with you before returning to Hanji.

“Hey, four-eyes,” he says. That’s the first time you have heard him call her those two words since she became commander. He had told you once before he did it out of respect, seeing that she was now his superior, so for him to say it now, in a moment like this, that is when the realization and truth of the moment finally began to dawn on you.

“You understand, right, Levi?” Her voice trembles in the slightest, in a manner that would be unnoticeable to anyone else but you and the man she is speaking to, “my turn has come at last.”

Hanji raises her hands, fingertips trembling and causing the thunder spears to shake, the sweat glistening on her face as her pupils twitch, it’s a sight you hoped to never see. She tries to play her nervousness off, “I’m giddy with the desire to make a supremely cool exit. Don’t stop what I’ve got going.”

For the first time, her eyes meet yours and you realize only then how many tears she was holding back, a quiet sob dying in your throat as you yelp, your body rejecting your brain’s commands to move, legs stuck in place and swallowing has never been this hard.

With a sigh, you hear those three words out of Levi’s mouth, the same words that are now only chanted by a ghost or a distant memory, “Dedicate your heart.” It feels like a punch to the stomach, air can no longer find its way inside your lungs and you choke on your own saliva, there is no denying what is about to happen anymore and the overwhelming sensation that there is nothing you can do to change it overwhelms you.

She smiles and lets out a gentle giggle, “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.”

Lastly, she makes her way towards you. The need for oxygen is intense but the very second that her gentle fingertips touch your face, the world seems to stop for a moment and every worry you have ever had dissipates into the feeling.

“I truly hope that you can forgive me one day,” she says and the tears that dangled from her eyes were finally allowed to fall. With a smirk on her lips, she blew on your face so that your hair would move from one spot to the other and the smell of her breath fills you with a sense of nostalgia and despair.

“Please don’t say that,” you whisper, bringing your body closer to hers, “you are the only family I have left. I don’t know where to go without you,” your voice trembles, your throat is as dry as the deserts you’ve heard Armin talk so much about. The tips of your fingers gently twirl a loose strand of hair that falls on her face.

Hanji turns her face at a precise 90 degree angle to look at Levi, a stoic expression on his face though his eyes tell you everything you need to know about his feelings. A tear runs down Hanji’s face, but only one as she won’t allow herself to fully break down until you are out of sight, “Will you take care of her for me?” He doesn’t respond with words, the only thing he does is nod his head in agreement.

Her eyes make their way back to you as she uses both of her hands to carefully cup your face, lips meeting yours with a desperation you had never seen before, almost as if she is trying to engrave you on her own body. Her tongue glides with yours for a couple of seconds and you feel the butterflies rising in your stomach as if it were the first time you have kissed her.

The moment couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds but it felt like forever and a day, your body nearly melting in contact with her touch. For a split moment, you forgot about the rumbling, about Eren, about the sacrifice she was about to make, nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but this very moment the two of you share.

Everything feels ok for a little while, the warmth of her brown eyes reminds you of the many cups of tea you have shared in the barricades, the softness of her touch bringing up memories of times you’ve met under the apple tree in the courtyard, and the gentleness on her lips stirring butterflies in your stomach, much like the very first time you’d seen her.

However it does not last long. You are brought back to reality by the sound of her ODM gear going off, the hook gripping onto the wall and the cold feeling her lips leave behind. Hanji doesn’t give you enough time to stop her, she simply pulls away before you could even react.

She doesn’t say anything. In the years that passed since she became commander, Hanji had been preparing you for the inevitable moment when she passes away, when her turn to make a sacrifice to save your life would come. In that time, you let your guard down, you had convinced yourself something like that would never happen, not to the both of you.

Your eyes are fixated on her every move, every swing of her blade, every flicker of her cape, and there is nothing you can do. Frozen in place, you watch in horror as she manages to take down a few of the colossal titans on their path of destruction. It wasn’t enough. The engineers still need more time.

Trembling hands struggle to find a way onto your blades as a thought goes through your brain, “How can I help her?” By the time you manage to look back up, you catch a glance of a scene that could only be described as your worst nightmare: your beloved’s body, the person you’ve loved most for the past few years, catching on fire as a result of the bodily heat of the colossal titans.

Your heart sinks in your stomach and all you can do is scream. Your feet begin to move as you make up your mind to run and assist them but a pair of strong hands get a hold of your waist before you have time to move forward.

“Reiner, let me go,” you demand, in vain. No matter just how much you kick, or scream, or scratch him, his grip will not loosen and a sense of utter despair fills you. Your throat burns and your vision is blurred out by all the tears, your hands are shaking and there is nothing more you can do.

The last drop was the moment you caught a glimpse of her lifeless, burned to a crisp body falling from the sky like a meteor ready to destroy your life. You had no more fight left in you, no more strength remaining to try and free yourself from Reiner’s arms.

Something inside of your brain begins to slip away, was it your sanity? Or something more personal, like your spirit? No, this was a feeling you had encountered time and time again, expedition after expedition, titan kill after titan kill, hopelessness. Except this time, the feeling was a thousand times worse.

Without her, how would you be able to find Eren and stop the rumbling once and for all? Not only that, but for the first time, probably ever, you questioned her judgment, after all, how could Armin be commander? The boy who was chosen over Erwin, part of the reason why you found yourself in this situation in the first place.

No, there was no use in pointing fingers at each other. If in a situation like this, where life and death walked hand in hand, she chose him, then you would trust her judgment, even if you didn’t agree with it, even if you believed it to be the wrong choice.

Your eyelids grow heavier the closer you get to the plane, the tears have yet to stop running down your face and a full body spread of goosebumps has taken hold of your skin. You manage to take a deep breath before allowing your exhausted body to slip into unconsciousness and, for the last time, you hear her voice.

“I love you.”

The pounding sensation in your head is nearly too much to bear. You squint through closed eyes, slowly using whatever little strength you have left to raise your arm, shielding your face from the far too close sun rays. The atmosphere surrounding the area is so heavy you could cut it with a knife, but a determined Armin breaks free from the awkwardness. “Listen up,” he says, the confidence is his voice masking his true emotions, “Let’s go over the plan.”

Their voices are now a bit louder, the slight turbulence you come across every so often causes the plane to shake and every last bit of metal to scrape against one another. You can hear the sound of a pencil scribbling on the metal floor, but whether it is writing or drawing, you are unable to realize.

As the conversation goes by, your ears begin to ring and your mind can’t help but wonder how long it has been. You take your hand up to your chest, clutching tightly to the fabric that covers the area above your heart, it feels empty, like it has been broken in two and the pieces have been flung out into space.

Has it been seconds? Has it been days? No, while it feels like an eternity has passed, deep down you know that it has only been somewhere between fifteen to thirty minutes. Tears begin to pool up in your eyes once more, that emptiness eating away at your stomach while you choke down a desolate sob. You don’t want to draw attention towards yourself but yet somehow, you find yourself as the center of everyone’s concern.

For a while, no one dares to move, speak or even breathe. You can’t be bothered by their reactions or lack thereof, the pressure on your chest desperately needs to be released. The tears won’t stop flowing, air fails to enter your lungs as heavy hiccups erupt from deep within your soul. The void you feel could only be compared to a bottomless abyss, not knowing when it will end.

Once you have no more tears left, you try your best to use your arms to sit up, cursing yourself for being so weak in the face of such immediate danger. Footsteps approach you and a helping hand finds a comfortable spot on your lower back, gently assisting you in your attempt to sit. You don’t need to see the person’s face to know exactly who it is.

“Mikasa,” you say, not quite sure if it is a question or if anything else is going to follow.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, her voice is raspy and gentle, like she has been doing some crying of her own. You can’t help but smirk, not out of happiness, but because you know they all already have an idea of what your answer is going to be.

“It feels like my heart has just been ripped out of my chest and I had to watch as it burned,” you say and they all immediately understand that you are referring to the condition you were forced to leave Hanji’s body in. It is a stupid question but, for some reason, it does make the aching a tad bit more tolerable.

“Your hand is bleeding,” Armin points out in a serene voice as he walks towards you, his footsteps seem lighter than a feather in an attempt to not spook you away, as if you were a wild, injured little animal, “How did that happen?”

“I cut it,” You respond, dryly. Your lower lip quivers as you open your palm, revealing the smallest piece of green fabric. It is clear from the patter and the design that it came from one of the cloaks owned by the Survey Corps, no extra words are needed for all present to understand that it belonged to their fallen Commander. Though no one desires to talk about it, Reiner decides to take the fall.

“I may not have been so gentle when we were boarding the flying boat,” he says, using his left hand to scratch the back of his neck while the right one holds onto the rail above his head, “I’m sorry, y/n. I should have been more careful.”

You know what he is trying to do. It is clearly a lie and there is no denying any of it, but you appreciate his efforts to remove the attention from the sore subject. You purse your lips in what could be considered a small smile while quietly nodding your head.

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?” Armin asks, kneeling beside you while reaching his hand underneath your own. Perhaps he was right to treat you like a spooked animal, seeing as your immediate reaction was to move your hand far away from him, clinging onto the fabric for dear life as you push your body towards the back of the ship until you collide with the metal wall. “Please.” He begs.

“No,” you cower away, “This is the last part of me to have ever touched her. It doesn’t hurt, in fact, I can barely feel anything anymore.”

Once more he asks, “Please,” and you realize he isn't going to let the subject go. So before too much of your blood has a chance to soak the bit of cloth, you switch it towards your other hand, extending your injured arm until it touches the top of his thighs.

You whimper as a stream of clean water comes in contact with your open skin, dirt debris being washed away by the contents as best as possible. Your eyes never leave his face, the now 15th Commander of the Survey Corps taking care of you, your heart gets heavier the more you think of him in such a manner. His shoulders are slumped forward, as if there is a “not so fictional” weight on them. It doesn’t take long before he is finished bandaging you up.

“I am fully aware it is not the same but,” a masculine voice comes from the front half of the ship, “you still have us.”

Your eyes now meet Levi, whose crossed arms and stern face somehow brings you the slightest amount of comfort. With a helping hand from Connie, you make your way towards him, gently placing yourself between Pieck and the black-haired man, who ever so gently places a comforting hand behind your back. It is rare for him to demonstrate any sort of affection, so by the way his fingers feel against your clothes, you can nearly feel his own grief. Another lump forms in your throat, but you swallowed it this time.

“We’ll make sure that Hanji’s death wasn’t in vain,” Mikasa swears, false determination taking over her words, “We’ll return Eren into his old self, I know he is still in there somewhere, just waiting for us.”

Any sort of emotion gets drained from your face as you stare deep into her eyes, gray orbs looking deeply at you in hopes of any approval of her message. You raise your chin as you cross your legs, bringing your body forward, closer to her. You don’t want to be mean, nor do you want to make her feel like her attempt at comforting you fell into deaf ears, but all present right now know that what she has said is bullshit.

“Mikasa,” your voice is stern, “do you remember what Annie asked you once in the forest and then again after we attempted to communicate with Floch?” She doesn’t respond but, by the expression on her face, you realize that she knows exactly what you are talking about. With no indication that she plans on acknowledging the subject, you continue, “She asked you if you would ever be able to kill Eren.”

She looks away, gripping her knees tightly. “That won’t be necessary!” Armin says, the nervousness in his voice is palpable as he desperately tries to change the subject while still hoping to provide you with the comfort he knows you need at this moment.

You sigh before continuing, “I know you want to bring him back. I may know that better than anyone else at the moment. But I need you to listen closely as I tell you this,” Your voice is louder than the engines, the tears begin pooling in your eyes once more, you bring the small piece of Hanji’s cloak towards your chest, a determined expression on your face, “There is no bringing him back at this point. He has gone too far. Even if you did bring him back, the remaining world population would kill him with their bare hands.”

“Why are you saying all of this?” Someone asks, though your mind has become nothing but fog so you can’t quite tell whose voice it is at the moment. You take a deep breath, allowing the cold air to fill your burning lungs.

“Because no matter what you all say,” any emotion is drained from your voice, “my final mission is to kill Eren Yeager.”

“If I could do it all again

I know I'd go back to you”

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 17 days

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Dreaming and Drowning

This fic will fill my "Take a deep breath." square on my Hurt/Comfort, Sweet & Spicy Bingo card. The prompt will be bolded in the fic. @sweetspicybingo

Summary: Michael is fascinated by Y/N. She isn't the only thing keeping him inside his vessel, but she's a very interesting bonus. Now if only he can keep Dean quiet for long enough to conduct some experiments.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Nothing too terrible. Show level violence. Some descriptions of torture. Threatened/implied sexual assault/non-con (nothing shown or described). Depictions of drowning.

Pairings: Michael!Dean x Y/N and Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 2,579

A/N: I'm trying to work my way through my requests but I'm still back in last December! 😫 I'm sorry to everyone who's put in requests, I'm working on 'em!

Anyway, this request was for a "fatal attraction" Bingo square for a different bingo. It was from the lovely @elle14-blog1 who asked:

Hello Dear Been addicted to your page lately Love the Dean fics So about the Fatal Attraction request Maybe could you write soft dark fatal attraction of Michael Dean towards Dean’s Gf..one of the more reason he doesn’t wanna leave the vessel… Ok bye bye Xoxo💖

That space for that bingo was claimed already. But I really enjoyed this idea, so I said I'd do it another time. Well, here it is. I'm not sure if it's what you were looking for, I hope so. Hope everyone enjoys. This is the first time I've written anything for Michael!Dean, so be nice. 😁

Dean Winchester Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

Every once in a while Dean swam to the surface; he broke through heavy, cloying water to suck oxygen into his starving, burning lungs.

But the water was choppy and rushing, the current swept him along at a feverish pace and he could never swim hard enough or fast enough to outrun it; inevitably the cold, gray water would submerge him again and leave him drowning.

But in those few moments of clarity, he’d see her. He’d see the way she was bound, he’d watch the way his hands pulled screams from her lungs. As the water rushed around his ears, it couldn’t drown out the way her voice begged him to stop.

Not me, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t him. This was Michael’s doing. Michael was hurting her.

And who let me in? His own voice would answer back, before shoving him back down under the water with a sneering laugh.

We both know she’s here because of you, because she wanted to save you from me. So sweet. But who’s going to save HER from me.

Oops, I mean save her from you.

***

Michael watched Y/N struggle, a soft smile on his borrowed countenance; she really was rather extraordinary, this particular little ape. He’d tortured her slowly, nothing too drastic to start, he didn’t want to permanently alter her, not yet.

He was very interested in her, interested in the noises she made when she tried not to scream, in the way he could feel the air shift almost imperceptibly when she held her breath against the pain. He loved to watch the way involuntary goosebumps erupted across her skin when he ran a finger over it.

How strange, he thought, to not be able to control something as basic as the texture of your skin.

The human body was rather fascinating, hers even more than most. She was so soft in places, her skin bruised so easily, sometimes nothing more than a hard pinch brought a pretty purple stain to her skin. Harder blows bloomed blue and green almost immediately. Her blood ran dark red and tasted coppery with a hint of something more tangy just below the surface.

Is that the difference of her psychic blood? He wondered.

It was why he’d taken her to begin with. He’d been experimenting with all kinds of monsters, and they were finally starting to pay off, but he’d never tried mixing his grace with a psychic, he thought the results might be very interesting. So when a memory had surfaced in Dean Winchester’s brain about his psychic girlfriend, he’d decided to let her find him.

She and Sam Winchester had been searching far and wide for him, for Dean. He could have easily outrun them forever. But he decided to stay put for a moment and let her catch up. All he’d had to do to lure her in was let the ghost of Dean shine through his eyes for a moment and she came running, desperate to help.

And just like that, she was trapped in his web.

He’d spent the first few days just getting to know her, testing her body’s capabilities and limits; how much could she bleed before she became too weak to stand on her own? How long could she hold back screams when he started cutting? How much force did it take to snap her radius, her femur?

He was thoroughly enjoying his experiments with her, simply healing her up after each one so that he could try his next idea. He’d begun to see what Dean saw in her, there was something quite beautiful in the way the ape struggled against the inevitable, the way she fought against him, knowing her efforts were completely useless. He liked the defiance in her eyes, it made his human body react in interesting ways.

Her pain and her resistance made his pilfered blood run hot and thick in his veins, made his body hard, made him run his hands up and down her body with no other purpose than to feel its softness.

On his fourth day with her he had her stripped her down to her underthings, intending to burn her with the tip of a poker, curious to see what color her skin turned as it flaked off. He knew he was wasting time really. He’d experimented with her enough, he should be feeding her his grace to see what kind of hybrid monster he could make of the psychic.

But when he saw her in her bra and panties, memories that weren’t his surfaced in his mind, Dean’s memories of how she looked when she was beneath him, the way her head jerked back as she gasped with pleasure, the way her knuckles went white, bunched in the sheets, her body bucking into Dean’s hand, and suddenly he knew how he wanted to finish off his experimentation.

He’d never experimented like this before, none of the human bodies he’d encountered in the past had affected him this way. He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of pull from her psychic blood, or the memories he had access to, or if it was simply the enjoyment he’d already gotten from this flesh, but for the first time he felt an earthly need for the body in front of him.

As he approached her, he saw panic in her gaze and wondered if her psychic abilities had allowed her to see what was coming. But as he registered her panic, he suddenly felt Dean back above water and screaming, roaring inside their mind.

Get the fuck away from her! I will rip you apart from the inside!

Michael chuckled. Come on now, Dean. I know exactly how much you enjoy this body, I’m doing this as much for you as for me.

Michael lifted his hand to run his finger down Y/N’s cheek. She recoiled and he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. He did his best impression of Dean, smiling and hoping it looked friendly and not feral.

“Don’t look away, sweetheart. It’s me. I know you love me, I know you want me. Let me make you feel better.”

He watched her face in fascination; her expressions ran the gamut between horrified, heartbroken, and lustful. But he could practically smell her hope, her need; she was absolutely desperate to pretend the man she loved was there and her tormentor was gone.

Humans really are odd little things. Michael thought.

Dean was still screaming, and then garbling his words beneath the ocean Michael drowned him in. Enough out of you, he thought with a smirk.

Maybe it was the cold smirk that did it, breaking the illusion that he was Dean, or maybe it was Y/N’s abject terror at the idea of what was about to happen. But the very last of her defiance seemed to pulse through her and something in her shifted. He could feel it in the way the hairs on his arms stood up, the way a deep, thrumming buzz began to sound inside his ears.

Y/N’s body began to pulse as well, like waves of energy gearing up. He raised a hand, his eyes glowing blue as he shot his grace towards her. The first beam hit her and stopped her, but she was soon powering up again, and when his grace surged at her a second time, she knocked it away with one of the hands she got free, snapping the chains that held her to the wall.

He pushed grace towards her again, but she wrapped herself in a psychic shield and broke her remaining chains. As he continued to fight, continued to pour grace out of himself and wield it like a sword, he felt Dean surface again. In his mind’s eye he could see him gasping and fighting for the shoreline. Michael tried to force him back under water, but he was using too much of his strength to keep Y/N back.

And Dean was fighting incredibly hard.

It was a two-pronged attack, from the inside and outside, and it was not something he’d been expecting. Y/N moved slowly, wrapped in her bubble, towards the bag she’d been traveling with when he caught her. As she reached the backpack, he managed to penetrate the bubble and sent her flying backwards.

Before he could press his advantage, however, Y/N was on her feet again and sending a pulse wave of energy into him, making him stumble backwards. She grabbed the bag quickly and from inside she pulled out a gold, metal, egg-shaped object. He could feel Dean leaving the water as Y/N began to chant in Enochian.

Before she was more than two words in, however, the impossible happened and Michael could feel Dean scream at him.

“Get out!”

His words were powerful enough to defeat Michael in his slightly weakened condition, and the archangel could feel his essence begin to be expelled from the body he’d resided in for almost two months. As he was forced out, he felt another call, another pull, and he looked on in horror as he was inexorably yanked out of Dean’s body right into the tiny space of the egg.

The egg was tiny, but Michael fell for days, down and down and down, until he landed on a dark, rocky, moldy floor.

He looked around him and sitting across the floor was a human, glowing with the angel inside him. The angel looked very familiar.

The celestial who shared his name chuckled at the strange turn of events. “Welcome to the cage, doppelganger.”

***

Dean felt weak as he fell to the ground, as though he’d been running for days, weeks. No, not running, swimming, fighting against the current.

His muscles were shaking and he felt as though he might puke. Then he saw Y/N curled in a ball on the dirty floor of the cold, abandoned warehouse they were in and he rushed to her. He pulled off the suit jacket he wore and helped her sit up so he could wrap it around her shoulders.

“Y/N? Sweetheart?” He said quietly as she shook beneath his hands.

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes; but under the tears was fear, stark terror, and suspicion.

“Dean?” She asked in a whisper, and he knew she still couldn’t trust that it was him. It hurt his heart to see the fear there; would she always see the sadistic angel looking back at her from now on?

He let go of her and moved away a bit to try and ease her worry. “It’s me, baby, it’s me. I promise. You got Michael, trapped him in that.” He nodded towards the egg. “He’s in the cage.”

Y/N stared at him, but then she shook her head slightly. “No, I didn’t get the spell out, you were already forcing him out. The egg just grabbed him as he was fleeing.” A small smile touched the corners of her lips. “You did it.”

Dean risked coming a bit closer again, reaching out a palm to lay against her cheek, rejoicing when she leaned into his touch.

He leaned towards her and rested his forehead against hers. “No, we did it. We make a good team.”

A broken cry fell from her mouth as she threw her arms around his neck. He wrapped her tightly in his embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I tried to get out, I tried to get to you, but I couldn’t. I tried and tried, but-”

Y/N cut him off with a kiss. Dean wept into it and didn’t even try to hide it. She tasted his salty tears and pulled back cupping his cheeks in her hands and shaking her head.

“No Dean, please don’t. Don’t put this on you, don’t punish yourself.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, why not? I let him in.”

Y/N brushed away his tears. “Yeah, to save Sam and Jack.” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt her again, but she continued quickly. “And if you punish yourself, you’ll hurt me too.”

Dean looked at her intently and she shook her head slowly. “We’re both safe now. We beat him. Together.” She inhaled deeply. “Look, take a deep breath. Go on.” She encouraged when he didn’t do it immediately.

He began to breathe in sync with her, timing his breathing with hers, but visions kept popping into his mind, the things Michael did to her using his hands, and he knew he hadn’t even seen everything; he knew there were things he couldn’t remember from when he'd been deeply submerged.

His breathing faltered and Y/N sighed. “I don’t remember all of it either.” She said; her psychic abilities were incredibly powerful, but he knew she wasn’t reading his mind - she just knew him too well, knew the way his mind worked, even from outside of it.

She cupped his cheeks again so he was looking into her eyes. “Can I show you where I was hiding a lot of the time?”

Dean nodded and she rested her forehead on his; he closed his eyes and let her in.

There was suddenly a picture in his mind, like a memory, but he knew it wasn’t his. In truth, it wasn’t really a memory but a vision. In the vision he could see the two of them in an old hunter’s cabin; he remembered staying there once, years ago. But they’d simply holed up there for a night after a hunt.

The visions going through his mind had never happened. They were simply Y/N’s imaginings, the place she went in her mind to escape Michael’s torment.

In the vision Y/N and Dean cuddled together in the old bed and he was kissing her tenderly; they were having a food fight in the kitchen which she let him win so that he could lick frosting from her skin; Dean was reading to her and making her laugh by doing silly voices; they were eating pizza and talking animatedly about a hunt.

Then the visions shifted to a Christmas setting and they were sitting beside a big Christmas tree and he had the sense of being surrounded by family and loved ones, all laughing, happy and joyful, just beyond his eyeline.

In the span of a breath, he was suddenly back on the warehouse floor as Y/N broke the connection and pulled back. “I was only here sometimes, I ran away from him, as much as possible, ran far into my mind. And every single safe place in my mind revolved around you.”

He shuddered as she ran her hand soothingly through his hair. His voice was raspy with unshed tears. “I love you - so much.”

She finally let her tears flow free as she kissed him again. “I love you too.”

They clung to each other for a long time, finding their way back to one another and back to the sense of belonging they found in the other’s arms.

Finally Dean pushed himself to his feet and pulled Y/N with him. “Let’s get out of here and find Sam.” Y/N nodded, but before she could turn to get her bag, he pulled her to him for another kiss.

When he pulled back, his green eyes were shining. “And it’s Christmas in a week. Let’s find that cabin, let’s invite everyone we know, and let’s make that dream a reality. Let’s not wait anymore to be happy.”

Y/N smiled widely and nodded, tears shimmering. “That sounds like a dream.”

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @alwaystiredandconfused @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya @arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry

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Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @hobby27 @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

#sweetspicyhc #micheal!dean x reader #micheal!dean x y/n #dean x y/n #hurt/comfort #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #dean x reader

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e-r0da · 8 months

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A Strong Sorcerer

AN: First work so please let me know what you think! Don't really know where this came from tbh, just wanted to try my hand at writing :) Might make a part two if the inspo strikes!

Word Count: ~1.5k

CW: Mention of severe injury. Fluff hinting at a potential Yuuta x reader pairing.

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You were never going to be the strongest sorcerer.

Perhaps that’s not what the doctor said, but it’s what you understood.

Your fingers trailed your face softly, inching above your cheekbones and around the bridge of your nose, mapping out the bandages that hid what came of your first solo assignment.

Perhaps this is how it feels, you thought. To prove yourself.

It wasn’t your mission, at least not originally. But as a newly enrolled second-grade with an untested talent for handling shikigami, the sorcerer commission was curious enough to sub you in for Megumi, who was busy enough. So you took the mission. You just wanted to be of use.

But no one anticipated a special-grade curse to be there to greet you.

Curious, you tried touching your right eye. A searing bolt of pain wormed its way into your brain as your hand jolted from your face, white stars blooming in your mind’s eye. Fuck. You felt a bit sick to your stomach, trying your best to calm your breathing and bite back a yelp.

You forced yourself to think logistically.

You would never be the strongest. Fine. This was never about that, anyway.

Would the commission even name you a grade-one after this? Maybe. It was undeniable that you had potential. And even if they never did, well. That wouldn’t be what stopped you.

Most importantly, could you still do it?

Could you still kill that curse?

You sat silently. You didn’t know how to answer the question that mattered most.

Without your sight, how much longer would it take to do what was needed?

“We’re here. Hold still for a minute, I’ll grab your stuff first and help you in.”

“Thanks.”

You felt Megumi’s hand leave your shoulder, his warmth slipping behind you quietly, presumably down the hall where a duffel of your equipment and medical supplies had been set down at the dorm’s entrance.

He felt bad, you knew that. But you wish he hadn’t. Megumi didn’t need another burden to shoulder.

The sound of wood creaking distracted you. It sounded like it came from your upper left. Huh. He moved fast.

“Megumi, I should have it from here so you don’t ne—”

“Wait-no Rika I didn’t mean—!”

“YUUTA YOU LIAR!”

You couldn’t help but feel your eyebrows shoot up as the floor shook beneath you. You searched for a wall to keep you balanced. Wait...Rika?

“Please it’s really okay—”

“BUT YOU TOLD THEM NO ONIONS!!” The floor shook again.

Oh yeah, yup. Yuuta was definitely back.

The corner of your mouth twitched as you piped up. “Did he at least get the ranch, Rika?”

“-oh my god...”

“—YUUTA WHERE IS THE RANCH??!?”

You heard Megumi quietly step to your left, a small sigh leaving him. “No ranch? Now that’s just wrong, man.”

Turning your head in the direction of his voice, you murmured an agreement.

A door creaked open, followed by the soft sound of Yuuta scratching the back of his head timidly. Even without your sight, you’d watched him do it enough in the past to picture it now with ease.

“...Hey.”

You began to smile at the sound of his voice. But then the air was squeezed from you in one fell swoop.

“EEEE!”

You clambered an arm around Rika’s bear-hugging form, trying to simultaneously give her a welcome-back pat and expand your lungs.

“I missed you too, girlie.” You breathed out.

“Rika, she’s injured.” Bless your heart, Megumi.

You were dropped quickly.

Megumi quietly grabbed your shoulder once again before you could stumble.

“NOOOO! NOOO! I’M SORRY!!”

You laughed. “I’m fine, Rika. You did nothing wrong.”

You heard the special-grade curse whimper.

“I MISSED ONEE-CHAN...” Sometimes, Rika reminds you of a baby sister.

It was easy to forget what the small girl had become at times like this. You wondered a bit if soon it would be even easier, now that you couldn’t actually see her anymore.

“We both missed you.” Your head whipped around.

Yuuta. It made your chest warm up a bit, knowing he sounded the same as ever.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hungry, if I’m being honest.”

“WE GOT NUGGETS!!! YUUTA! YUUTA THE NUGGETS!!!”

You let out an excited gasp. “With—”

“—with honey mustard, yes. I’m on it!” Rika let out a satisfied hum as Yuuta went to find your nuggets.

“YUUTA WENT BACK FOR THE MUSTARD. HE WAS SO COOL!!”

“Wooow! How did he forget his ranch then?”

Yuuta let out a strangled sigh from inside his room.

And...did Megumi just snort?

Licking the last of the honey mustard from the counter of your mouth, you took in the silence that filled the hall, jokes of the past hour or so fading into the walls. Megumi had left to help with a mission, but Yuuta was still here, sitting beside you, and now that he was sans Rika he was awfully quiet.

You missed being able to read people’s faces.

He breaks the silence.

“We should have been there.”

Ah. You grasp at the floor around you for a napkin before wiping your hands and face clean. It buys you a few seconds to conjure something logical to say.

“At least it's dead. It can’t hurt anyone else.”

“It hurt you, though.” Oof. Okay, we’re being direct today.

“…No use crying over spilt milk, Yuuta.”

“This feels more serious than spilt milk, y/n.”

Man.

“Don’t worry about me.”

“…”

This kind of silence–awkward silence–between you two felt foreign. You usually found peace in his company, even when it was silent. And even when things went wrong, you were usually the one trying to convince Yuuta to seek out help–whether it be in the form of medicine, company, or a break. Having someone fuss over you so persistently instead made you itchy all over.

You wanted it to stop.

“...Yuuta.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I…” for a brief moment, you thought you wanted to ask him for a hug.

“Can I have your onions?” That was equally as bad.

“...oh. Yeah, lemme put them on your plate.”

“Thanks.”

The silence now was worse than before, with the only thing filling it being your obnoxious crunching and the smell of raw onion (why oh why did you do this to yourself) making things even more acidic feeling, if possible.

He tries again, softer this time, if that was even possible.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

For some reason his words get the onions lodged in your throat.

You get up quickly mid-retch, trying to escape the fucking onions–and Yuuta’s aura of pity.

He pats your back firmly at some point (while apologizing because he seems to think that this counts as hitting you??) and it dislodges the vegetable, much to your relief.

“This is all my fault.” Jesus christ.

“Ohmygod Yuuta please–”

“I really told them no onions this time, though.” Oh. Oh.

You let loose a cackle, at the absurdity of it all. And soon enough, Yuuta follows suit, hand still lingering on your back. Suddenly it feels like how things usually are between you two. Easy.

You breathe in deeply, taking a moment to recover from your laughing/choking fit before remembering what it is he said that got you in this state in the first place.

“I know I can talk to you, Yuuta. You’re probably the only person I would talk to...like that.”

The honesty in your voice somewhat surprises even you, making you a bit embarrassed. From the way his hand grips your shirt slightly, you would say the vulnerability shocked him too.

“–But! For now, can you take me back to my room?” you scratched the base of your skull. “I could really use a nap after all that yummy stuff.”

His chuckle is delicate, understanding. “I’d be happy to.”

You don’t quite hear him move until you feel his warm breath fanning your neck, his hand softly holding your arm.

“And...”

“Yeah?” Your cheeks feel hot.

“Whether I worry about you or not is up to me.”

At that you were quiet, brows scrunched together as your heart felt just a bit more heavy with every passing moment you spent together.

Yuuta was one of the few people who could still make you…uncomfortable. But not because he was mean. Never because he was mean. People like that had long since stopped bothering you. Rather, he reminded you of your mother’s hand in your hair, calming you between sobs. He reminded you of the freely-given ‘I love you’s’ of your baby sister. He reminded you of the only people you buried. Of tenderness.

He was probably the best friend you had ever made. It was just a shame that you had a death wish.

After a few moments of hobbling around together, he places your hand at the door knob of your room.

“Here we are.”

You try to be honest. To warn him, inadvertently, as you step from your shared space in the hall to the one that was just your own.

“I still plan on fighting, you know.”

He doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Then I’ll help you train.”

#yuuta x y/n #okkotsu yuuta #yuuta x reader #jjk yuuta #jujutsu kaisen #megumi fushiguro #rika orimoto #yuta okkutsu #yuuta okkotsu #fluff #jjk fluff

98 notes · View notes

sexybabystevie · 1 year

Note

hurt/comfort steve thought (if you’re still accepting them!): he really hates crying in front of ppl so throughout the beginning of your relationship you try to gently remind him it’s ok if he cries in front of you, it’s not a sign of weakness etc. and when something happens that makes him break down in front of you for the first time, he’s like rly shy & embarrassed at first :(

A/n: Oh my gosh this took SO long to answer, I am SO SO sorry about that. Anyways, I enjoyed this thought so much that I decided to pair it with a running idea that I had in my brain lately, so this ended up Steve-Thought-turned-whole-fic, so I hope you enjoy it, lovely!! Once again, thank you for sending this in and partially inspiring this!

His Knight in Shining Armor

Boyfriend!Steve Harrington x Reader

Tags and Warnings: Post Volume 2 Setting, Mentions of Eddie's Death and Max's Coma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Guilt, Comfort/Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Harrington, Steve Finally Gets to Cry, Despite the Title Reader's Gender is Ambiguous, Episode: s04e09 "The Piggyback"

Word Count: 5527

Summary: Even as Steve's long-term partner, you've never once seen him cry. In the aftermath of the final battle against Vecna, and in the very hospital room where a barely-living Max Mayfield lies, that changes.

Steve Harrington Masterlist

“Steve!”

Your legs burn as you chase your boyfriend out into the hallway, black Converse tapping softly at the dingy grey tiles beneath you. Everything is a blur – white walls and white coats and white lights that are far too bright and probing at you; it’s all blending together – and the smell of chemical antiseptic gives you a nauseating headache. Still, all of your grievances are floating, fading, flying away at the sight of the man before you.

Steve Harrington is too strong for his own good. A lover, probably one of the most caring people you’ve ever known, and yet he carries so much. The guilt of being Nancy Wheeler’s bullshit for much too long, the awareness of Hawkins’ looming and inevitable doom, the instinct and need to be there to protect you and Robin, to protect the kids – all of these are things that Steve Harrington has placed upon his own back, heaving emotional weights that even a sumo wrestler would struggle to uphold, and yet you had never once seen him cry. Or, rather, he had never once let you see him cry.

You had cried in front of him several times – stress from work and just shitty days in general tearing you down – so it was difficult to imagine just how he was holding himself together. With the thinnest of threads, is what you would assume.

You had always told him that it was okay to be vulnerable, that you would be there to catch him if he ever fell, to hold him during his starless nights, but he was persistent. He shrugged off your offers, not in an unappreciative way, but in a manner that seemed to mean that he wanted you to be under the impression that he was fine. That he didn’t need you to sweep up the broken pieces of him and put them into the dustpan, because he had only ever tried being so defenseless with one other person before, and what had that gotten him? Bullshit…

You never pushed him, hoping with everything in you that he would absorb your words into his heart and come to you when the walls crumbled, but you had a feeling that the first cracks were forming in his foundation when this entire mess with Vecna started.

When you had stepped into Max’s hospital room together, hands interlocked, you almost felt his breathing catch as if you shared the same lungs. His palm stilled against your own, cold and clammy, and he was slinking away from you, back out the door you had barely stepped through to begin with. He was running down the hallway, towards the emergency fire exit at the very end, and you knew that the river was overflowing the dam.

“Steve, please–” you breathlessly call out to him, gaining a few confused glances from patients and visitors nearby, but he’s out the door before the words have fully fallen from your lips. Whether he’s ignoring you in the hopes that you turn away or he somehow just hasn’t heard you yet, you’re unsure.

Regardless, you’re still hot on his heels, your feet hitting the ground impossibly faster. The force of your speed causes them to go numb, nerves firing like you’re stepping on little knives, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on watching Steve’s hazy outline through the blurred windows to really notice. Everything in you hopes that his silhouette doesn’t get smaller – he’s not walking away into the parking lot, he’s not – and you must be really good at manifestations because your wishes somehow ring true. That, or maybe it’s the fact that you know Steve Harrington like the scenic backroads to your parents’ house.

You underestimate just how rapidly the door to the outside is approaching, too caught up in your own worry to think about your physical body. The breath is knocked out of your lungs as you collide with the exit, harsh metal bruising your hipbone as the force of your being sends the door flying open. Wincing and gasping for air, you wobble and step down onto the concrete landing below, eyes scanning for your boyfriend with the intensity of those futuristic pieces of spyware that Joyce Byers said local conspiracy theorist Murray Bauman owned. Maybe your eyes were as powerful as the spyware too, because you easily found Steve’s mop of ruffled-through hair even when it was barely visible over the stairs.

Posture slumped, a man – no, younger; he’s a helpless boy now, a boy who has bravely bitten off far more than he’s able to chew – with shaking shoulders, hollow and yet so unbearably full. His palms shield his face from the world, the only way he can go about holding himself up in this moment, and he caves in on himself, a statue who’s been pushed a little too far over the edge and who is now facing the irreparable consequences. Statues only are made for heroes, how did he end up with one anyway?

You tentatively approach him, walking a little over halfway down the staircase with each move forward feeling like a punch to the gut, and his despondence is like someone has taken your favorite sweater and tried to replace it, but the material isn’t as soft as before and the stitching on the inside isn’t in the same pattern. You stand three steps behind him – his shadow is on your shoelaces – and he says nothing. Three becomes two and two becomes one, and he says nothing. You sit down next to him, a gust of wind and your legs against the cool rock below making you shiver, and again, he says nothing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge that you’re there or that your breathing is still heavy from chasing him, and a pit begins to form in the most sensitive area of your stomach. The tides are receding and the morning skies are red – Steve Harrington is becoming a tsunami.

You, then, say nothing. You’re afraid to reach out to him, afraid he will turn away from your touch like he’s been burned, afraid that you’ll try to mend his heart and it will scurry away from you forever, and you love him. You love him so much that you can’t risk it – the prospect of loving him so much that it drives him away is your very own circle of Hell – so you sit and you say nothing.

Minutes pass, and the air feels like it’s rocky – you’re inhaling pebbles when you breathe. There seems to be a mountain between you – better yet, he’s at the top of the mountain and you’re a traveler without the proper gear to reach him – and you feel as though your hand would have to go through lightyears of space and time to brush upon his shaking arm. The silence doesn’t seem like it will let up, and you’re growing to think that maybe he won’t open up to you at all.

Steve’s position shifts – he buries himself further in his hands, somehow – and that almost gives you the impression that his body isn’t violently shaking. He talks then, moreso brokenly whispers, and if you weren’t right next to him then you might have mistaken it for the whimpering wind.

“I can’t go back in there.”

You stay quiet, unsure of what to do next. Your most basic instinct in that moment is to wrap yourself around him like a warm coat, keeping him from the cold of the air and the cruel of the world, but you don’t even settle for resting a palm against his arm. Any move is a push too far when it comes to Steve Harrington and allowing himself to feel for once.

Instead, you pray that he continues on. To your luck, again, he does.

“I know they need me. The kids need me, Robin needs me…” His voice trails off, and he retreats from his hiding place between his hands. He doesn’t turn to you, but it’s a sign of acknowledgement that’s moving in the right direction, nonetheless. “She needs me. Max–” His voice cracks and he tries to cover his tracks by clearing his throat and biting his bottom lip, but you can already see the sheen of unfallen tears on his waterline.

All thoughts of moving too quickly thrown out the window, you shuffle closer and angle yourself so that your knees are inches away from one of his. The warmth from his body fades into yours, intermingles and creates a voluntary bubble of safety around the two of you, and you don’t stop your hand from reaching out and snaking its way down his forearm. A ghost against his skin, leaving goosebumps along your wake, you carefully interlock your fingers with his, and while he’s trembling and resistant at first – stoic – he seems to surrender to himself as his grip hardens against your own, leaving his knuckles white and your hand feeling a little cramped, but you know better than to say anything. Not now.

The reciprocation of his hand to yours settles his internal battle – it’s okay if he keeps going, keeps feeling – and so he finally lets out a long, quivering breath that is reminiscent of the steam above a volcano.

“I’ve already failed her once, and now I’m doing it again.”

The words are what you expected to hear from him, but that doesn’t mean that they make your airways feel any less constricted. Imagining the guilt that he must be carrying – the guilt of losing a friend, a sister, almost a daughter – somehow is more painful than when you collided with the heavy hospital door a few minutes ago.

Everything is suddenly too real. Just days ago you felt like you were on top of the world with your plans to take down Vecna, overconfidence being the sunlight that kept all of you on your toes, and now you were here. Here, with several of your friends gone and one on the verge, skirting the veil between life and death, and you hadn’t really had time to process it all until now. With Steve’s fear and guilt and grief bleeding into you via osmosis of the hand, reality is finally settling in.

It was easier to pretend that none of this was real when you were packing up all of your things to move into Steve’s – all of you had seen the empty ground where Vecna’s gunshot-riddled body should have been, so Steve wasn’t going to have you living in your place alone, even if it meant there was a minuscule chance his parents came back to awkwardly find you there – and it was easier to pretend that nothing had changed when you went to volunteer at Hawkins High, mindlessly going back over the clothes your boyfriend had folded to make sure that they were presentable. The days after the rift was created between Hawkins and its Upside Down counterpart were hazy; it was as if everything before had been some fever dream that all of you had shared, and your schedule was so busy with volunteering and moving that you didn’t have time to fret or to try and tackle what had happened and how that had made you feel.

Everyone had spent those first few nights in sleepless petrification. Joyce hadn’t surprised the group by returning and recovering Hopper yet, and Jonathan and Argyle were still making their way back to Hawkins with El, Will, and Mike. The party was broken, in more ways than one, and so everyone who remained stayed together.

None of you even bothered with packing up night bags or suitcases – truthfully, no one knew when you would all be returning home – and none of you complained when Steve led the rest of you back to his place on foot, ushering you inside the door with a pathetic attempt at a smile. Max had already been transported to the hospital then, and while Lucas had traveled with her initially, they sent him home after she went into emergency surgery. The home he went back to was Steve’s, and those who were inside – Robin, you, Steve, Erica, Dustin, and Nancy – greeted him with heavy embraces and unspoken solemnity. No one spoke at all that night; rather, everyone piled up on extra mattresses and couches in the living room and huddled together as the TV displayed movie after movie. Each time one went off, Steve got up to find another one to put in the VHS.

Once an old helicopter from Russia and a pizza van from California touched Indianian soil, the family reunion had begun. Some victories and losses were shared with one another, but certain topics remained unmentionable. Max. Eddie. Their names were like lava on your tongues, and saying them meant that it was real – Vecna was still out there and he was real, several innocent people had died and had been declared missing since the rift had opened and that was real, and just as Max was finally becoming more forgiving with herself, she was gone again, and that was real too. It was too much all at once, too much for a group of children who had somehow fought for the world and won, even on more than one occasion, and so, however wrong it may have been, you couldn’t dare utter a word.

It was still too soon when Wayne Munson touched his nephew’s missing persons poster at Hawkins High, but Dustin was more brave than anyone else and stepped forward. The rest of you watched with grief-stricken hearts as he stood up for one of his best friends and role models, and while you couldn’t say everything that Dustin did because the words wouldn’t stop getting caught in your throat, everyone else did give Eddie’s poor uncle the reassurance that his nephew was, in fact, innocent, and was, unfortunately, a hero.

It was still too soon when the hospital rang Steve Harrington’s house to let Lucas Sinclair know that Max Mayfield was now allowed to have visitors, but you all piled into Steve’s BMW anyway and rushed to the hospital. Steve broke several traffic violations and there were so many people in his car that you were genuinely shocked you could all fit, but none of that mattered. It was almost as if your chance to see her would be gone if you were even a fraction of a second too late, and none of you were willing to take that chance.

Despite how quickly you all bombarded into the hospital and into Max’s room, your feet never once hit the ground. You were walking on air, somewhere far above the earth that was dreamy and made your head spin, and all of that crashed and burned the second that Max’s mother opened the door.

The severity of your situation was so dark, so desolate that it took Steve Harrington’s hand squeezing the life out of yours and the declarations of exclamatory guilt coming from his lips to get you to finally adjust to how things would have to be from now on. The crushing weight of it all brought bile to your throat, and you subconsciously returned Steve’s death grip on your fingers.

“She relied on me.” You can hear Steve talking, you can still feel him right next to you, but you’re still floating. You’re still trapped in some kind of daze, and his words only make your chest ache with loss. “She relied on me, and I let this… I didn’t do anything to stop it. I promised her I’d make sure she’d be okay. I promised her that she would make it out of this.”

The pain and guilt of Steve’s voice goes right to your gut, making you feel more nauseous than the chemical scent of the hospital ever had, and dizziness overtakes your body despite the fact that you’ve been sitting entirely still.

Even in his current state, your boyfriend takes notice of the way your palms grow more shaky and rigid. By habit, he turns to direct his gaze towards you – always more concerned about anyone other than himself – and you have one small moment of eye-contact, a glistening of pain and anxiety and understanding between the two of you, before a single tear escapes the confines of Steve’s pretty brown eyes and he panics.

His stare widens impossibly further and he’s too quick to turn away, to shut down anything that might follow afterward. His head shoots away, focus lingering on some wilting bushes that are to his left – any scene without you is suddenly of intense interest – and gradually his body shifts away as well, his knees no longer parallel to your own. A gap is left on the concrete stairs between you, and just the sight of it makes you feel colder than you did when the unrelenting wind previously froze you to the bone. The gap doesn’t just freeze your bones, it erodes them too.

Steve takes what you can only assume to be an attempted deep breath, but he seems to be too forceful and instead lets out a strained half-gasp, half-cough. Sniffles and the sound of poorly restrained tears ring throughout you like a church bell, and you snap out of your stupor as your protective nature kicks into overdrive. You want nothing more than to whisper your mantras of love and reassurance to him, a hand snaking up to groundingly, softly, curl the delicate hairs on the back of his neck around your fingertips, but you hesitate. Again.

“You can… uh, go back inside now,” Steve says, so quiet that a ladybug landing on a four leaf clover would have been an explosion in comparison. The only reason you hear him at all is because the breeze carries his voice over to you like one of the gruesomely thoughtful dead mice a beloved pet cat would leave on your doorstep at midnight.

In another situation, you may have laughed out loud at his suggestion, but you know the significance of this moment. You know that things are delicate, as is Steve’s relationship with emotions, so you settle for subtlety, a choice that you’re hoping lets him know that you aren’t trying to be pushy, you aren’t trying to push him to the point of driving him away. Truthfully, the very last thing that you wanted to do was leave him, and you hoped with everything in your soul that he felt the same.

“I could,” you say, voice soft and matching his from before, quiet enough to be spoken between the two of you only – not even the swaying oak tree nearby can hear the words exchanged among you like a sacred secret. “But I’d rather be here with you.”

Your carefully chosen words imply more, other things you wanted to tell him on the tip of your tongue – I know you need me, I want to be here now and always, I want to be the one you go to forever, please let me. You’re all too aware that his previous offer for you to go back inside was more – that it was his way of letting you know that you can go back, back to the way things were before, when he hadn’t been vulnerable like this – and you hope that your answer speaks the same riddles he does, only in reverse.

Steve says nothing, which might be alarming any other time, but he hasn’t made any other covert suggestions about how you should be reacting to this situation, so you take that as the small victory that it is. His shoulders quivering, he still keeps his back to you, clearly not quite ready for facing you head on, and you ever-so-gently bring one of your hands to his back, hoping and praying that it isn’t too much too soon. His walls fall one at a time, castle crumbling brick by brick, and you hope that he’s let his guard down enough to finally let you comfort him. You’ll dig him out of the rubble and debris every damn time; you’ll be his knight in shining armor if he’ll let you.

The muscles in his back tense a little, making you hold your breath for what feels like ages, already expecting him to turn to you, a teary smile on his face as he tells you that he’s fine, he was just being silly, and aren’t you ready to go back inside now? like he’s said in the past. Like when you accidentally stumbled into the bathroom that first night, when he was wiping tears from his eyes in front of his aged, rusting sink. You couldn’t help thinking he was like that sink then, looking broken down and far too old for his true age, and the thought of seeing him like that again is enough to send a cold chill through your chest. Everyone knows what too much rust does to something – it corrodes and eats away at the source until nothing’s left – and it was with cruel irony that the very image of that happening to your ever-loving boyfriend made you feel like something was eating away at you.

You’re so in your head with worry that you barely notice that Steve hasn’t shrugged your hand away. You shake yourself out of your spiraling thoughts, away from the shock that fights for you to freeze up in uncertainty, and decide to test the waters. Your fingers trace small shapes into the material of his yellow sweatshirt like you’ve imagined doing thousands of times before, their movements a bit stiff and awkward but neither of you seem to care. Steve seems to relax into your touch, feeling his body loosen right under your palm in such a way that makes your heart partially melt – both at being capable of being able to do that for him and also because it was you that was calming him down, not someone else.

Even if it was only miniscule, to be the one to provide him a sense of comfort was an honor. Still, though, you don’t plan on moving away until he’s either all cried out or he asks you to back off. While you’d prefer the former, just this moment in itself is proof that you’ve made progress, and you’ll accept any kind of growth at this point, even if it means you don’t get the chance to hold him in your arms like you know he deserves. One step forward may be twenty steps away from that – your perfect fairytale ending where you can finally share the burdens that Steve has been carrying solo for far too long – but you’ll take ninety more days like this as long as Steve’s finally letting himself feel something.

A choked up sob escapes his throat, a noise that simultaneously relieves you and takes a chunk of your heart from your chest and stomps on it. If you really focus on the sound of him crying, on the way his body uneasily shakes, you begin to feel your own eyes prickle with the potential of unshed grief. Your first instinct is to shove it away, to try and be a rock for the utterly drained man next to you, and maybe it’s the exhaustion eating away at you post interdimensional battle – or maybe it’s just the heat of the moment – but, regardless, you let down the barriers and allow teardrops to cascade down your cheeks.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice you’re crying with him until he hears you loudly sniffle, and in his haste to check in on you, he forgets about his emotional hesitancy. His body shifts back towards you, a small sense of warmth crossing over your legs as his knee gently knocks into yours. His eyes scan carefully over your face, his eyelashes wet and clumped together and his eyelids slightly swollen and tinted pink.

“You’re even pretty when you cry,” you blurt out, the words tumbling from your lips before you can even think about having said them, and it takes a second for you to truly understand that you’ve spoken out loud rather than harmlessly thinking it to yourself.

You’re not sure how you expect Steve to react, but what you don’t anticipate is the soft and intrusive blush that begins to creep onto his cheeks. Gaze diverted to the ground, he takes in a long, deep inhale of air before quietly replying with a bashful, “Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t have to explain that, you know he’s talking about his vulnerability with you, and you instantly shake your head at him, the shine of the sun showcasing the half-dried and abandoned trek his tears fell from. With the burning light directly behind him, casting his brown hair a few shades lighter and leaving behind a residual warm yellow glow, he looks like a fallen god.

“Don’t be.” Your hand slinks away from his back and down to where his hand rests upon the concrete, and when you take it into yours, you feel the indents of the rock and gravel below in his palm. “Remember what I said before?”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to scold me about it.” The sprinkle of playfulness in his tone takes you by surprise, and you’re relieved to spot the edge of his lips tilted up into the tiniest of smiles. Despite all the horrific events of the past few days, Steve Harrington can still have a smile on his face, and that makes you feel like maybe everything else is going to end up alright.

As abruptly as it was there, however, it’s gone, and your boyfriend’s voice is back to the quiet hoarseness of before.

“It’s just…” He trails off, features scrunched up as he appears to be struggling with words. Luckily for him, you know him better than the flavors of ice cream you had to painstakingly memorize when you were merely coworkers at Scoops Ahoy.

“Hard, I know,” you say, finishing his sentence for him. “But I’m happy you let me in. Even if it was only for a little while.”

Steve shifts to form eye contact with you, his own gaze softened as he drinks in your words, the gentleness of your hand, and everything about you. For the first time in his life, he finds true trust in another person. Your little smile holds a kind of affection that’s almost dizzying, the kind of dedication one only sees in those horribly cheesy romance movies he’ll never admit he likes watching with you, and he feels like being next to you, showing even the tiniest sliver of his pain to you, is like a baby being swaddled into a security blanket.

He stays silent, overwhelmed with his onslaught of adoration for you, and the two of you let the moment pass just like that. Hands entangled, gazes interlocked, and thoughts filled with nothing but one another, the comfortable silence filled with words unspoken but understood between you.

You know better than to bring up his guilty confessions from before. Your conversation has shifted and you’re afraid to backtrack, afraid that doing so might result in him hiding away from you again, so you decide to let it go. Even though the only thing you want to do is relieve his pain, reassure him by telling him that he’s taken on too much – that the best course of action anyone can take for Max is being patient, having hope, and kicking Vecna’s ass – but you let it go for now.

“Thank you.” Steve breaks though the quietude to beam at you, grin still small but never any dimmer, and practically offers his heart to you alongside it. He’s more than certain that you’ll be careful with it, especially after today. He thinks that maybe he can get used to this, to being vulnerable with you and to seeing your pretty smile afterward, and he’s almost looking forward to it. Almost, but not quite.

The way he looks at you, so full of love that it’s more obvious than the answer to some elementary math problem, is nearly enough to bring you to tears again. Never in your life had you imagined finding someone so soft, so genuine and caring for everyone around him, and your chest is beginning to ache as it longs to beat directly next to his.

Consumed by this feeling, you reach out with your free hand and grasp the sleeve of your sweater into fisted fingers before using the plush material to wipe away what’s left of his breakdown. Your motions linger as you shake your sleeve back into its proper place and scoot closer to him, index and middle fingers rising and tracing along his cheekbone. You can’t help but get lost for a moment, sidetracked and taken into another world as you closely examine the smoothness of his skin, the tiny little freckles that are sparsely scattered onto the side of his face. You already knew they were there, of course, but you never get tired of finding them. Sometimes you wish you could thank whoever it was that painted them there.

Steve’s breath is warm against your chin, causing your stare to automatically flicker to his. You’re not surprised when you find that he’s been looking at you all this time, absorbing this memory with you while he can make it, but it still makes your lips upturn nonetheless.

“You ready to head back in there yet?” he asks, voice low and a tad bit teasing as his ego undoubtedly takes a boost from how unintentionally hypnotized he’s made you. “Those shitheads are probably losing their minds right about now. Think we’ve left and they’ve lost their ride home or something.”

His joking tone is laced with worry; you both know that just talking about going in there means your minute of peace is over. You’ll be back into the throes of whatever new hell Hawkins endures next, back to living in uncertainty surrounding the safety of not only yourselves, but also your friends. It was true that people had been dying this whole time, the years being tainted with the blood of those like Barb who never really had a chance, but this was your first real taste of a different kind of loss. A kind of loss that’s more than just being sympathetic or upset for a few days; the kind of loss that’s felt in the absence of people at birthday parties, in the way that sometimes conversation seems normal until there’s a lull that should’ve been where someone else was cracking a joke. It’s the kind of loss that you can’t ignore because it’s felt everywhere, and just the minor glimpse of it that you’ve caught in the past few days has you feeling terrified.

You’d always naively thought that you and your friends were safe, untouchable, too relevant to the status of Hawkins and the world at large to be taken from this world. Eddie and Max had proven your beliefs wrong, and that meant that no one was really safe at all. Vecna could and would strike again, and it was only a matter of time before you’d be walking on eggshells and avoiding stepping on the vines of the Upside Down again.

A flash of yellow and a hand being offered out to you snaps you back into reality. You weren’t even aware Steve had gotten onto his feet and was no longer sitting next to you, no longer tracing his fingers on the delicate skin of the back of your palm, but you don’t get caught up in that.

Instead, you accept your boyfriend’s outstretched hold and let him help you to your feet. Your legs are wobbly, halfway numbed from lack of movement, but Steve’s right there by your side, iron grip on your hand like he’s seconds away from rushing forward to catch you, if necessary. You don’t need it this time – your body comes back to life quite quickly, leaving you with legs again in replacement of the jelly-like limbs you had prior – but something in the gleam of his eyes and the sureness of his hold tells you that he’ll be there to catch you next time and the time after that too.

You give his hand a small squeeze, noticeable enough to act as the okay to start heading back inside, and when he squeezes back, you know that you’ve got one another. Both physically and emotionally. The next move from Vecna is inevitable, but you feel a little more certain about things like this, fingers intertwined and with souls that you chose to be twisted together. When misfortune strikes again, Steve will be there to hold you close, and you’ll be more than willing to do the same for him. You know there’s years of trauma and pain that he hasn’t shown you, hasn’t yet informed you of, and you look forward to the days when he decides to open up. As long as he keeps letting you wipe the residue of his tears away with your sweater sleeves, of course.

#stranger things fic #stranger things #stranger things four #stranger things 4 #st #st4 #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #lovely requests #dear anons

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brianwashere · 2 years

Note

saw requests were open so might as well request :p ; imagine being peter parker’s younger brother that also has spider powers and during the snap peter turn dust so most likely aunt may did as well. So reader was most likely homeless for a while until matt murdock comes in as daredevil and becomes a father figure for the reader :)

Kicking my feet and giggling. I haven’t got a req in so long and I love getting them so this made me very happy. So sorry the ending is abrupt I really wanted to get this posted!

If anyone wants another part to this I will write more!

**I do not own any characters or part of the franchise from Daredevil or Marvel**

Paining: Matt Murdock/Daredevil x Male!Teen!Spider!Reader

Genre: family stuff(?) it’s all light hearted

Summary: look at req

Tw: a bit of language, probably; Matt punches reader on accident lmao

Fear’s corner

You seemed to only be scared these past few months. You were scared when you watched your brother climb aboard that flying alien donut. You were scared when you lost connection to his com and phone.

You were scared when you held your Aunt May and watched her turn to dust.

You were scared when the landlord kicked you out and called CPS after she realized you couldn’t pay rent.

It had been two months living on the streets. Two months starving; two months waiting for Peter to come home. Deep down you knew he’d suffered the same fate as Aunt May.

The cold winter winds rattled your bones and caused you to pull the threadbare ski jacket closer to your body. You shivered and kept moving down the street.

Tonight was a shitty night. You never stopped your spidey-work because you knew if Peter was here he’d want you to continue. Tonight was too cold for it, the suit doesn’t exactly provide thermal insulation, and the suit that was a gift from Mr. Stark was only for emergencies.

As you wandered through Hell’s Kitchen you searched for any grocery stores or restaurants with accessible dumpsters so that you could dig through and find food. You squinted at the sign of a large glass door entrance and saw it was a grocery store.

Jackpot.

Walking around to the dumpster, you took a running start and scaled the wall, not so gracefully landing on top of the dumpster.

You grabbed one of the two lids and threw it over. The heavy black plastic banged against the green rusted metal and you cringed.

The black bags seemed to taunt you, reminding you of how low you’ve sunk in only two months. You shook your head and jumped down, beginning to tear through garbage bags upon garbage bags.

You found an unopened granola bar and ripped the packing open, gobbling it down without another thought. You gulped heavily, pushing the last of the granola down and taking a large gasp of air. You got back to searching for more food.

That’s when you got the feeling. Your spidey-senses were tingling. You grabbed ledge of the dumpster and threw yourself over. A man in a red suit with devil horns landed in front of you. Stumbling back, your back hit the brick wall of the dumpster.

“Hey, hey. Calm down.” He said collectedly.

You gulped and easily jumped over the brick wall, taking off in a sprint.

“Hey, wait! Hold on!” The man called.

You sprinted even faster, any stranger chasing you and telling you to ‘hold on’ was an automatic threat.

You could hear footsteps following you.

‘Holy shit. This guy’s fast.’

You ran down the dark streets, trying to find somewhere to get up higher. You turned down a pitch black alleyway and jumped onto a fire escape, scaling it as fast as you could. You grabbed the ledge of the building and dragged yourself over it, gasping for breath.

Two red boots blocked your vision and you shot up. The man punched you right in the eye before gasping suddenly and gripping your hoodie.

“Jesus, you’re just a kid, aren’t you?” The question was more rhetorical but you shook your head ‘no’ anyway.

He didn’t need to know your age or that you were on your own. You began to flail to get away but air wasn’t reaching your lungs. The man let you go and you broke into a coughing fit. Collapsing to the ground, you wheezed for breath, desperate for air.

“Hey, hey kid, breathe. Breathe. In and out.” He spoke softly to you.

You followed his instructions and realized there was a weight on your back. This stranger was rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“There you go, just calm down, Kid.” He comforted.

You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from the first positive touch you’d had in a while.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” The vigilante asked.

You shook your head, seeming to forget that you shouldn’t be telling him this. He sucked in a breath.

“I know someone I can take you to, ok?” The devil said quietly; silently asking if you would go.

You just nodded pathetically. Trying to get up was very wobbly for you. The man helped steady you though.

“You’re in no condition to jump rooftop to rooftop,” He said, seemingly to himself. “We’ll walk instead.”

You just shrugged half-heartedly, suddenly feeling very tired. You met his mask and he gestured near the ladder expectantly. You raised an eyebrow at him but began your descent down the fire escape.

You finally reached the point where you could jump off. You landed on your feet, but your knees buckled and you fell back. The man was standing over you in a second. He reminded you of Peter some.

Peter would always be the first one by your side if he thought you were hurt.

You stood up slowly and dusted yourself off.

“Follow me.” The red man instructed.

You caught up to walking beside him. You glanced around the buildings and cleared your throat.

“So uh…what’s your deal, huh? You just go around finding homeless kids to shove into randos’ homes?” You asked, trying to fill the void noise.

He seemed surprised you could talk and fumbled over his words.

“I am Daredevil, protector of Hell’s Kitchen.” He stated.

“Wow.” You said, unimpressed. “So is that like—the full name or is it just Daredevil?” You teased.

He huffed out a laugh, seeming to realize the ridiculousness of his introduction.

“Just Daredevil.” He smiled.

You nodded some.

“So this ‘guy’ you know…is he like..some foster care guy…?” You really didn’t wanna go into the system; you’d met other homeless kids who had ran away from their foster families because of how awful it was.

“…no. Would you rather he be?” Daredevil responded.

“Hell no. I think I’d rather die.” You laughed some.

The silence was more than slightly awkward. You cleared your throat. Your eye throbbed.

“Soooo…why’d you punch me?” You swung your arms back and forth.

He choked at that.

“Thought you were a criminal. And an adult. Most people don’t run unless they’re guilty.” Daredevil explained.

You hummed in acknowledgement. It was his turn to ask questions now.

“So how’d you just…jump that wall like that?” He asked.

“Oh uhhhh. Parkour…?” You tried.

The red man nodded some, though he didn’t look at all convinced.

The rest of the walk went well. He stopped at an apartment complex and buzzed in.

“Fourth floor. Room 14.” He stated before running off.

You raised your eyebrows as you watched him scurry off.

‘What a weird guy.’

You just shook your head and began your ascent to the fourth floor.

When you got to the fourth floor and room 14 you paused, hearing various crashes and curses. A few seconds later the door opened and a scruffy looking man appeared. He was dressed in a wrinkly t-shirt and pair of sweatpants; he was staring right over you.

You started to regret coming into the apartment complex.

“Uh…the devil guy told me to come here.” You stated.

He blinked and his face morphed into one of what you supposed to be surprise. It more just looked like over exaggerated confusion.

“Yeah come in,” the brown haired man opened the door wider for you to pass through. “I’m Matt. Matt Murdock.” He said with a smile.

“Yeah…so you’re uh…some kinda—“ You made a vague, random gesture with your hands.

Matt just blinked and waited for the end of your sentence. It was then you noticed his eyes didn’t actually track and movement or shifts of light.

“Forgive me for asking, but are you blind?” You attempted to ask politely.

At that he cracked another smile and laughed some.

“Indeed I am. I hope that won’t be much on a problem.” Matt grinned at you.

“No! No of course not!” You rushed to explain, at which he laughed more.

“Calm down, Kid—“ The rest of his sentence faded out as you zoned in on those three words.

The words that had been uttered to you not half an hour before. By the same voice. Matt seemed to catch on that something was wrong.

“Everything alright, Kid?” He asked concerned.

“You’re Daredevil, aren’t you?” You swallowed thickly.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

“No? Why would you say that? Why would I even know Daredevil?“ Daredevil started.

“Your voice is the exact same as his. And you’re the only one who’s ever called me ‘Kid’ before.” You explained.

He pursed his lips, looking more disappointed in himself than anything else.

“Yeah I’m—I’m Daredevil.” He awkwardly stated.

“So…you’re not really blind?” You knit your brows together.

“No, I’m blind it’s just that I can—it’s hard to explain, let’s just get you settled in for now.” He changed the subject.

It left you more confused but you supposed you had no better option but to agree. You hadn’t slept on anything remotely related to a couch in two months and you couldn’t wait to get the best night’s sleep of your life.

#marvel x male reader #matt murdock x reader #male reader #fanfic #fanfic writing #marvel #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x male reader #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil x teen!reader #daredevil x son!reader #father matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x son reader #matt murdock x male reader #spider!reader #Matt Murdock x spider!reader #daredevil x spider!reader

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noskipnotability · 2 months

Text

Don’t Look Back In Anger

Part Two to the childhood friends request!!

Summary: Liam returns to you with the need to make amends and possibly more.

A/N: School’s killing me with the work, anyways, enjoy my lovelies

You're clearly surprised to see your childhood best friend out of breath in your doorway, but pity flows through you at the poor man as the rain continues pattering down onto him.

His hair had fallen down over his eyes, his eyes more blue than the ocean where you could imagine yourself drowning. Tiny droplets laid on his dark lashes as he looked to you with a magnetic stare.

He calls out your name with a plead, the way it rolls from him sends a stinging sensation straight to your heart. A year since you heard him say it. His chest heaves up and down and up and—

"I'm sorry."

Those two words force your own eyes to lock onto his, unwavering. In the entirety of your friendship you had only heard him say them once. Liam didn't say sorry, he would try to make up for his mistakes or wrong-doings in various ways. The one time he did, you just couldn't believe it. You had joked someone took your Liam and replaced him with another.

His hands shiver a freezing cold touch as they take hold of your face. His touch is soft like you were a glass sculpture, his magnum opus, and he could never afford to crush you under the pressure of his hold.

"Why're you sorry?"

Your voice is a whisper. Broken, sweet like those candies he remembered you stealing from the corner shop every afternoon, he couldn't bare the idea it was his doing to break it down. It only adds to sheer guilt that coursed through the deep red blood pumping in his veins.

It's like a punch in the face when you smile. A reminder of how much he missed it when he pushed you away in favour of the attention, the fame, the money. A day away is all it had taken for him to want to crawl back to you, but he couldn't abandon the band that soon.

The last time you saw him was the day after he was signed to Creation Records. You remembered fondly how excited he was. The way he jumped into your arms, sending you guys falling to the ground with cheers. It was also the day he knew he wasn't going to be able to stay if he ever wanted to make it with the band.

He was ever reluctant to disclose that soul-crushing news, but your words, God he thanked whoever put you on this Earth. The one thing you had never wished upon him was to hold back his life for your happiness.

Sadly, you didn't see at the time that your happiness was his.

His arms pull you into a hug, you feared if he held on any tighter that you wouldn't be able to breathe. His drenched shirt slowly soaked through your own and left a dark mark as it clung to your body. He sighs one of relief to return to your arms, "For ever leaving you."

The next words feel even more shocking to your overwhelmed mind at the one person you cared greatly for showing back up in your life. It's breathless and deep, the tone he speaks in, a husk. Like he needed it out before he could change his mind. And it forces the waves over your head as you're engulfed by the water that falls from your eyes and, strangely enough, his.

"...I love you."

You watch intently at his lips with the sudden need to place your own atop his. A split second is all it takes for him to crash into yours, his teeth collide with your own, but neither of you could pull away. You etch backwards, far enough to close the door, then harshly push him against it. He's trapped beneath your stature and he has no plan to try and escape.

The warmth of your home beats the coldness of outside and he can feel the sickness that had started creeping up cower away. His hands slide under your shirt to hold onto your bare waist, you shiver at his icy hands on your skin. His breaths are desperate when you pull apart, no air able to return and fill his lungs any longer.

You brush away his now only damp hair to show him gorgeous, elated face, as if heaven just descended upon him. You pepper his face with short but caring pecks with each word, "I could never look at our past with any anger towards your decisions." To hear your forgiveness is to have your entire world saying you could do no wrong. You hold his face just he did for you moments ago. "I would never stop you from being great. That's what you are Liam, more than great, even. Nobody could come close to you."

No other's opinion mattered anywhere near as much as yours. All the fear he kept hidden away from his band mates, washed away with the tide.

Your head could finally break the surface. The sun blinded you as you looked up into that sky once more and found your love staring back down at you. And he looked just like the man you welcomed into your heart all those years ago, the one that came clawing back in minutes ago.

One more kiss to his soft lips you knock your head playfully into his with a small laugh, "I love you too, prick. Leave all you want, just tell me next time."

His face breaks out into that stunning smile you had missed for the last year. "Don't worry, love. I don't plan on going anywhere away from you."

How true that statement was.

He confessed a few days later that he was due to start recording the next album at the end of the month, but staying true to his words, he insisted you came along.

It was continued like that between you two. Whenever he had to work, you'd follow behind. And you'd always be sure to drag him home. It was nice to be able to rekindle your relationships with the family, ones that were left in threads at his disappearance.

You both merely picked up where you left off, the only difference now was that you had confessed the love you had held secret from each other.

He nicked one of your drawers in the dresser by your bed and some hangers in the wardrobe. Not long after, all your belongings mixed with his and you shared everything.

It wouldn't be surprising to see you wearing a shirt one day and to have Liam wearing it the next. It was just how you were.

Since you wormed your way into Liam's heart, Noel had cared deeply for you as his own family. The days you joined them on tour or at the many parties they would attend, he made sure to watch out for anyone who could hurt you. It was almost a favour to Liam, to let him catch up on all the time he lost being away from you. As a thank you, he was a bit easier to work with and tended to co-operate more willingly with his rules and orders.

Everything was better simply by you being around each other. And neither of you certainly minded waking in the other's arms each morning.

#liam gallagher x reader #liam gallagher #oasis #britpop #noel gallagher

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slowdownurdoingfine · 4 months

Text

Okay sooo I’ve got a Joel Miller fic on the back burner… but before I post I wanna get a feeler for how people would feel about it!!

So it switches through time periods (and bonus joel pov!), and the reader is a really famous country music star. By the time the outbreak hits shes kinda faded into obscurity (or that stage where famous musicians stay in pop culture but people don’t really listen to their music)… and essentially, and don’t cringe, reader and Joel happen to be going on the same journey to Jackson, Wyoming. And it’ll mostly be Jackson!Joel…. But I don’t wanna spoil anything so i won’t say anything more.

I will, though, give a snippet. (! PLEASE NOTE AND IDK WHY I DID THIS BUT I KINDA LIKE THIS: Belle is the stage name to the reader, and in the flashbacks I use 3rd pov (she blah blah) and in the present I use first pov (you blah blah) anyways. Be mean or judgemental but here’s u gooo

—

Fucking.

Taylor Swift.

Of fucking course.

She had a few years on her but still, fucking Taylor Swift? Picking her nails and brushing her blown-up hair out of her face, the swing of the guitar hits her ears almost too hard. It was overwhelming.

“Belle?” Her manager sitting next to her pushes through his lips quickly, forceful and strained.

She turns to him and his lips prick slightly, a slap in the wrist reminding her to maintain her facial expressions. Soft, but full of joy. Youthful and light. His words circled her thoughts spinning so fast it almost made her dizzy. Her hands fumble to pick the chain around her neck, gold and dainty, clearing her mind almost like a breath of fresh air.

The dust in her lungs makes her cough in only the way Nashville can in June. She has to turn her head away from the performance from the artist section, which allows much too of a close-up look.

“Billy, I need to step out.” It comes out before it even hits her head, drawl thick in her throat. She can see the question rising in his eyes, after years of working with him she just knows, but chooses to ignore it. Boots scuffing the ground she passes her way through the hot metal bars and serious stagehands to the freedom that comes with the smoking area. She lights her cigarette and pulls up her phone.

June 7th, 2013

She decided to never perform at another Country Music Festival at that very moment.

—

September 26th, 2013

The worst part of realizing you're no longer who you used to be, is when others begin to realize it too.

The pen rocks back and forth in her hand, trying to make sense of the line. She’s sitting in a limo outside a recording studio in Washington, DC where she created her first album. A country wonder, the sweetest voice with the most soul crushing lyrics. Her soft twang and breathy voice made the studio love her even more. It used to flow for her, it used to click. Now she can’t write a genuine line to save her career. Which evidently, is failing.

She slaps the notebook close, eyes turning up towards Billy who's on his phone pretending not to wait for her to give him something new.

“Nothing new, honestly Bill. My brain is just mushed up.” She hates it, but he shows no signs of mirroring that feeling. He just nods quickly, his sharp suit a little too tight around his wrists, clicking off his phone. He does notice though that, though. She does too.

“I didn’t have time to buy a new one.” He chirps out unbuttoning his pressed black blazer shifting uncomfortably in his seat, choosing to not push her for a moment. It makes her laugh, partially out of relief for the way her manager is still her closest friend.

“You’ve just been drinkin’ too much beer.” She starts, ringing her hands down her designer dress from two seasons ago.

“I’ve been eatin’ too much crab. It’s Baltimore, with the old bay.” He says then looks at her. It takes her back to when they both could afford to support their lives. They both just laugh.

She hated this, and when she was younger and more fresh eyed she would blaze a damn trail if this was presented to her. An impromptu performance at the White House with the president to uplift whatever political statement needed pushing - something to catch headlines, erase any world news. When she started off, and even to a degree still now, nothing else mattered but her music. That’s what got her here in the first place, outspoken to a point where she was even blacklisted from the most prestigious award shows after the release of her second album. But now in her early 30’s it's seemed as though the world had moved on. People didn’t seem to care about what she had to say, they just wanted to hear blank statements that meant nothing to be able to avoid the world around them. Or maybe, she was bitter. They had something she didn’t, something she over the past 10 years had given up for her career. Motivation, joy, or simply put; a life. She had made a bad decision, ran out of money, and signed her likelihood away to some big-name big-shot office. Nothing was hers anymore, not truly. So here she was: on the way to something her 25 year old self would not only despise, but reverently hate.

The limo ride there was alright, bit too bumpy and made it hard for her to gulp down the fizzy lukewarm bottle of champagne in the back of the limo. With the aid of bubbles allowing her to actually move her body and try to block this memory out she’s out of the car, shaking hands and greeting politicians in a breeze. So fast that by the time she stepped on stage to perform the national anthem she didn’t even remember how exactly she had got up there. The first few notes swell in her ears, she takes a deep breath ready to do what she does best, put on a show, cringing when the first few notes hit the air. Men standing close by her, sharp suits with walkie-talkies blasting loud enough to take over the whole room suddenly swarmed surrounding the president. Talking with urgency. Her eyes turned to meet Billy’s blue ones in the crowd, a question of should I stop? in them… before it all happened. It all unfolded right in front of her eyes too quickly to comprehend.

Damn her delayed flight or fight skills, she musta softened along the way on one of her worldwide tours. Soon she was being ripped away from the microphone, the band, the stage, Billy, and in a flurry of secret service she was crowded to an elevator which went down….

Down…

All the way to the bottom.

—

October 12th, 2023

Fuck.

I’m hungry.

You hated Iowa. You also hated how your map crumbles in your hands. You used to have a book with pages on pages of maps hidden cleverly within your brown backpack. That was before, when there was hope for everyone. This is the present. Hope is a laughable feeling. As the leaves crunch under your heavy boot a dilapidated highway sign peaks your interest. Maps Of The World. Maybe there is hope, afterall. Funny. Ducking back into the trees along the side of the road you make a note to turn at the next exit.

The store is dusty and rummaged through, obviously. That fact doesn’t stop the cough that enters your lungs as soon as you shove the door open. Fanning the particle filled air in front of your face, quick eyes land on a shelf of US maps which remain mostly untouched. Score. Walking over on the balls of your feet, your eyes crinkle when you step on a newspaper covered slab on the floor. Stopping for a moment, then ducking down to your knees and pushing your rifle out of the way, you look at the spot. It sounds almost hollow, like a travelingers hiding spot. You consider for a moment, then look towards the door like a person is about to walk through. You wait a long moment out of pure precaution. Then fan the newspaper away and grab your knife out of your boot, sliding the blade between the board and twisting up. To your surprise it gives and reveals a compartment. You just can’t believe your luck. Almost greedily you push the tile away and stare in awe. A pack of bullets. A handgun. Some beef jerky. It almost makes you cry. Zipping your bag you swipe the bullets and the jerky. Debating for a moment if to take the gun you hear light voices outside. Few minutes away, tops.

Quickly and as quietly as you can you slide the board and the newspaper back, zipping up your bag and hauling ass to your feet to grab a map and leave. Guess the owner was coming back to re-up, no way someone random would wind up there. Well, other than you. The two voices get louder as you hear the feet stop and a gun load. The door being open is a bad omen, you suppose. You slip out the back window which luckily leads into a dense forest, and you dash into the lush green trees finding refuge behind a patch of large grown out boulders and greens.

The logical part of your brain is screaming for you to run but the human part is telling you to stay and manically watch the havoc you caused unfold. Plus, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.

“Godamnit!” You hear a man shout, voice laced with a thick accent. Texan, you’d recognize your home state anywhere.

“At least they left the gun.” A younger voice calls out. From the large windows you can see them. A young girl, no older than 14 with a maroon jacket and beat up converse, Her brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, backpack with keychains swinging. Behind her an older man comes up, beard patchy with salt-and-pepper hair, guff and hardened. You can’t look away from him, eyes glued onto his flannel and matching rifle with yours. He turns and you swear he sees you but then his eyes keep moving. Checking the area seemingly unconsciously and you can tell he's danger. Something you would write about in your songs. You let that thought wash over you as he turns and are met with his broad back. You should probably leave. Knees cracking you stand and continue the long journey to Jackson, Wyoming.

In another life, mystery muse.

—

K BYE

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