#ao3 tw for ginger

[the-californicationist]

The Welcome Distraction

MDNI/18+ --- TW: Blow jobs, face-fucking (lovingly) AO3 Link

“Everything alright, babe?” You asked, watching your huge, frustrated husband pace back and forth in your small den. 

John Price was usually such a level-headed man. His cool exterior shell hid a furious temper underneath, but he was so very careful never to let it show. The hound was always on its leash. Today, though, it was growling — figuratively and literally. 

“The wrong fucking intel… how could Laswell let this happen? All those months we spent planning to infil this base — wasted,” he gripped the iPad like it owed him money, the plastic casing creaking under his enormous hand. You watched the tiny muscles and tendons battle against the bones inside of it, remembering exactly how that generous grip felt on your skin. 

You knew how to make him relax. Taking his iPad from him gently, you sat him down on the couch and poured him a generous glass of his favorite scotch. It was the fourteen year Oban, and you could smell the salty, smoky scent of apples and ginger, bookended by its signature creaminess. You stole a taste before you handed him the glass, getting his attention with your thievery. Then, you dug a fat cigar from his humidor, something that would smoke for an hour or more if he let it, clipping and punching it just as he had showed you. 

Settling him down on the couch, you preened, enjoying his look of baffled confusion. His eyes were still rimmed with some frustration, but you could tell your distractions were working.  

You were wearing one of his white button-down shirts as a nightgown, allowing the large collar to hang off of you at odd angles to show most of your skin. There was nothing underneath. He’d been pretty adamant about keeping you in as few clothes as possible when you moved in together, praising you for going commando, begging you to sleep naked, giving you little kisses and treats when he found you under the blankets on the couch with nothing on. 

You learned quickly from these sweet rewards, so you knew what he wanted to see. Wearing his shirts had dawned on you like a eureka moment one day, and it had worked like a damn charm. He could barely keep his hands off of you when you had one on, and if you had an appointment or somewhere important to be, you made sure to be out of it before he got home. Otherwise, you would be at his mercy. You joked that he was your wild, untamed caveman; always ready to take his woman at a moment’s notice. He had just smiled and rolled a dark chuckle around in this throat, insatiable. 

Gazing down at him now on the couch, you admired the absolute specimen that you’d been given. His wide, hairy chest stretched out his army green tee, the sleeves straining to accommodate his heavy arms. John had the most gorgeous mouth, and as he wet his cigar, lighting it carefully, you let your body reminisce about how those full lips felt against your warm center. Then, his jeans. Every pair fit like latex around his muscular ass and thighs, and the zipper was always tested by his fat, flaccid cock, cruelly stuffed against the fabric commando-style. He dressed to the left, and you could see how his shaft had begun to strain as it grew hard down the side of his thigh, reaching for something warm and wet. 

You pulled a pillow off of the couch and knelt down in front of him, making quite the show of pinning up your hair. He watched you like a hawk watches a field, looking for movement and eager to sink his talons into the soft body of his squealing prey. 

Then, you focused on him. John was held in your stare, his blue eyes bright and curious. Smoke fell down his mouth and into his scruffy beard like a waterfall of incense, the smell making you feel braver than you had a right to. You made sure he watched you as you plucked the buttons on his oversized shirt. Each loose button let the collar open further and further until finally, the silky cloth fell away, pooling around you. 

“What’s all this, then?” He asked, sitting forward with one hand palming his cock and the other still busy with his cigar.

John kissed you, feeling how weak and pliant your mouth was, wetting your tongue with his own, becoming more ravenous by the second. You kissed him back languidly, making sure to keep your affections relaxed, slowing him down gently. You pulled away, smiling at him knowingly. 

“Would you like to pick a toy for me, Captain?” You nodded to the end table where an assortment of plugs and vibrators lived. They were stashed all over the house just like the cigars — in case of emergencies. 

He stirred at your use of his title, or at your suggestion about the toys; maybe both. But, he played along, bending over to the drawer and choosing an easy silicone dildo, something to keep you company down there on the floor. Your captain held it in his hands and waited for your next move, happy to be commanded for a change. 

You let him hold it for you, and you sank your mouth around it, coating it in your spit and giving him a preview of what was about to happen to him. You sucked the head of the toy teasingly, and you let it slide into the back of your throat, coating it in your drool. You heard him let out a low, rumbling sigh, and you removed it from your lips. 

You took it from him and slipped it into yourself with some difficulty, letting the fullness of the toy cock settle into you and warm itself with your core. Your little mewls of pleasure caught him like a fire, and you could sense the tension in his body, ready to burn.

Then, slowly, as if you were approaching a dangerous animal — you were — you popped open the button fly of his jeans, letting each button slip satisfyingly out of its hole, revealing the base of his impossibly thick cock. His hair was dark and coarse, curling around his velvety shaft and balls. You took him out carefully, admiring his girth. The rosy, swollen head was still tucked behind his smooth foreskin, and you were eager to slide it out. 

You smiled up at him, watching him watch you, 

“I want you to relax, John. So, I’m going to let you use me for a while. You can go back to your emails if you want, or maybe turn on the game,” you glanced at the television behind you, “But, I’m starving, and you’re going to feed me until you’re done with that cigar. Does that sound good?”

You licked the underside of his cock while he decided how to answer you. He melted into you so quickly, and he nodded, 

“Sure thing, love. Anything you want.”

“Thank you, Captain,” you kissed his shining head and started your work. 

 Licking the underside of his shaft was one of his favorite parts, so you took your sweet time, softening your tongue and making sure to sweep over his head at the end of each long journey from his base to his tip. You took breaks here and there to suck gently on his large balls, taking them inside of your mouth like the round candy of a lollipop. 

He had already started with his moaning, furrowing his brow and taking a long drag from his cigar. You looked up at him, watching the orange glow give way to thick, creamy smoke. He reached over for the scotch and drank, savoring all of the heat and the flavors you’d presented to his palette. 

Slowly but surely, as you massaged and sucked and licked and kissed, his body lost more and more of that tension. After a while, he was pliant for you, high from his nicotine, buzzed from his drink, and floating in the river of hedonistic pleasure you had crafted. 

In a way, you too had been weakened by him. Having him in your mouth was a challenge, but it was comforting. You suckled from his tip as if from the sweet flesh of a fruit, soothing yourself and letting your mind go blank. You didn’t need to think about anything else but him, and he was easy. 

The toy was giving you a delicious amount of feedback. As you clenched around it, you could feel your pussy becoming softer and more pliant, and you could tell that you were soaking. You could even feel it on your thighs, and if you twisted your hips just so, you could make your lips slide against each other, making little wet clicking noises as you fucked the dildo against the pillow. It wasn’t enough to make you come, but it was enough to get you started. 

Only when he started to get restless again did you care to speed up your efforts. So far, you’d been taking him only halfway, focusing on his sensitive head, licking long swipes along his glans, letting him fill with blood until he was taut like a bowstring. But, now, nearly finished with his whiskey and about a third of the way through his cigar, you began to notice little clues from his body that he needed more. 

His hips would buck a bit when you took him deeper, and if you massaged his balls, his head would fall back and he would let out a deep, roiling grunt. The muscles in his lower belly were pulling and pushing against themselves, now, and every now and then, you could feel a twitch from his heavy rod, pulsing for you and mimicking its grand finale. 

But, you knew your time was up when he opened that mouth again. He loved talking you through it, and when he was worked up, he would tell you all sorts of wonderful things. You heard him start in on his praise, generous and enticing, 

“Makin’ me feel so good, pretty girl. Seein’ you with me in your mouth… ungh, yeah just like that, baby. Feels so fuckin’ good. Oh, fuck…” 

So, you obliged him. You knew what he wanted. It was not the soothing comfort of your slow massages and delicate suckling. He wanted your throat, and he wanted to take it from you. He wouldn’t rush you though. Somehow, for all his fury, John was a patient man. If you kept at your languid pacing, he would swallow his desire and let you continue, happy to be at your mercy. But, you didn’t much like him as your harmless servant. You wanted your cruel master. 

You called to him with your efforts, making new attempts at taking him deeper and deeper within you, reaching for his base with your tongue when you hit your limit. As you increased your pace, moving your body became more of an event. The toy cock nestled inside of you was making you more stimulated now, and it was slipping through your fluids, pressing a little deeper into your core as you slicked and clenched around its body. You swallowed around his thickness with your throat, unable to breathe when he was pushed past a certain point, counting down from ten in a steady rhythm, training yourself to take him farther each time. 

“Bloody hell, love. Tha’s it, fuck… tha’s it, baby. Fuck, mmm…” You felt him stir, and you saw him set down his glass and the cigar on the end table. He leaned forward so he could see more of your body, reaching out to gently pluck at one of your soft, puffy nipples, pinching it to make it tighten, “You havin’ fun, pretty girl?”

You nodded, not taking him out of your mouth. You were grinding your hips with a purpose, and you showed him what a good job you were doing, taking your hand and bringing back some of your wetness for him to see, holding it out to him like a sloppy gift. 

He grabbed your wrist and brought your hand to his mouth, sucking your slick off of your fingers and making you moan from it. 

“Ahh,” he sighed, “Make those noises for me, love. Feels fuckin’ good.”

You gave him what he wanted; you would have given him anything at this point, and you watched him come undone. Your screams were vibrating his swollen rod, and when you took him as deeply as you could, you could feel him throbbing against your neck from the inside.

When you tasted the salt of his precome, you knew he wouldn’t be long. You also knew that your role would soon change. His eyes darkened, and his face wore the pained snarl of him holding himself back. Then, when he had enough, he put his hand in your hair and pulled you away with a wet, slobbering pop. 

“My turn,” his smile was sinister. 

He stood, keeping control of your skull, pulling your hair at the base of your head to turn you so that your back was against the couch. Then, your captain began to command you,

“Fuck yourself with that toy, pretty girl. Tha’s it, nice and hard. Just like that.”

You were pumping the dildo in and out of your body with your hand, sitting on the floor with your legs spread, not caring how cock-drunk you looked. 

“Good girl. Does tha’ feel good? Tell me,” he let his hard cock lay against your cheek, leaving little wet trails of precome on your face and in your hair. 

“Yes, sir. It feels so good…mmm, fuck…” You whined and whimpered beneath him, showing him your neck, and opening your mouth like a little bird, eager to be fed. 

“Pretty girl,” he sighed as he put himself back into your mouth. 

Then, he moved for you, fucking himself in and out in a chanting drumbeat, choking you on the way down and allowing you to breathe on the way up. You tried to concentrate, knowing you needed to take every break he gave you, but you lost the rhythm when you started to come, fucking yourself faster and faster to drag yourself over your peak. 

“Oh, yessss…” He praised you, “Come for me, love. Come for me, just like that. Nuh-uh, don’t stop. Don’t stop riding that cock, pretty thing. Tha’s it, yeah. Keep it in. Good girl, good girl.”

You were struggling, but you did as you were told, your head swimming and dizzy from your orgasm, straining to take a full breath. You wouldn’t be so lucky to get one, not until he was done with you. 

He fucked your throat with intent, now. John had both of his hands on you, one tangled in the hair at the base of your skull and the other holding you tight around the back of your neck, scruffing you like a naughty kitten. It may have been all in your head, but that pressure made you weaker than ever, and he was able to use you to your full potential. 

His grunts morphed into longer, arching groans. He was shouting into the echoing walls of your den, growling down at you as he approached his zenith, the warm sun of him burning you up from the inside out. 

Then, he found what he had been searching for, and he chased it. His rhythm faltered, and he held your face so tightly to him, clutching you to his center, burying your nose in his fur. Your body started to fight back, needing to breathe. You may have over-acted a little, but you could see that he liked to watch you struggle, so you gave him your tear-stained, pleading eyes and writhed to get away. 

“Oh, Christ! Love, I’m... Oh… Oh, fuck me…” 

His hips bucked into your aching jaw, and you felt your body fill with his come. The soft, creamy fluid dripped down your throat and into your belly, salty and musky on the back of your tongue. Your whole mouth could feel him pulsing as he emptied himself into you, and you tried to swallow every last drop. 

John removed himself from you and aimed to lay down on the couch, using the last of his strength to pull you on top of him, laying you on him like a living blanket. You panted together, each of you breathless. 

You basked in your joy for a while, rubbing your hands all over his chest, yanking his shirt off of him so you could be skin to skin. You pet him like a big animal, stroking him and massaging him for being so good to you. You were straddling him, and as his cock softened, you could feel its body against your wet pussy, lolling over to his hip, exhausted. 

You whispered to him, brushing his hair off of his sweating brow, 

“I’m sorry you had a hard day at work, John.”

He laughed quietly, wrapping his arms around you to keep you warm and held tight to him, 

“Tha’s okay, love. It’s no trouble. Everythin’ works out in the end, hm?”

Your big captain kissed you then, tasting himself on your tongue. You could taste his scotch and his tobacco, all of his scents filling your mind with him. His soft tongue joined with yours, playing together in your mouths, lips slipping together and sucking on each other, gentle and soothing. You lay there, dozing together, sated and joyful, happily distracted.

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated 🩷

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #captain price #cod #captain price x reader #john price #captain price x you

[mamsieur]

Ink and Smoke I Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary : Reuben's wife wants to play matchmakers with Bob. It usually fails until the whole squad has a tattoo appointment.

TW : none, full fluff, hyper self indulgent

Length : 3664 words

AN : maybe it's kind of a self insert fic because of the whole "reader is a tattooed girly" and maybe the bee tattoo is the one I have. Maybe.

posted on AO3 November 8, 2023

A few months had passed since the uranium mission and the squadron was settled to San Diego for good, and Bob had never been happier. He finally had everything and everyone he needed in one place. The squad was a new family for him, he grew close to each of them, even Jake.

Work was easier now that he was permanently stationed here, and he was glad that the squadron was a permanent unit as well ; they were always working together and getting missions as a special task force. He was able to teach new graduates with Phoenix, and he enjoyed being an instructor. 

Life was good. His little found family fell into an easy routine of Sunday brunches at each other's houses, days off at the beach playing dogfight football, evenings at the Hard Deck. Each of them got to meet the family of the others ; mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, partners… Reuben was the first to introduce his wife, Josie, to the squadron and everyone loved her. They were expecting their first child and Mickey had appointed himself as godfather (not that Reuben had anything against it, but he had to talk it over with his wife). Josie had some sort of maternal aura that made them so comfortable, much like Penny ; even Bradley opened up to her about his past, and Jake always seemed to calm down when the pregnant woman gave him the "mommy" look.

As for his own love life, Bob’s friends had tried so many times to set him up on dates, and each time it had failed. The girls he was set up with had nothing to do with it for the most part ; Bob was sure they were great people, but they were always too much for him. He was a discreet and somewhat shy type of guy, he wasn't really comfortable with their extroverted behavior. And it wasn't like he was actively looking for a relationship; he liked being single most of the time. He had his ways, his habits, his comfort zone, and he wasn't in any hurry to leave it. His life was perfect as he saw it. But he couldn't deny that sometimes he felt lonely. He felt that way when he couldn't go home to his family, when he was on leave from work, or when he was asked to write his marital status on some paperwork. He felt that way when he listened to Natasha talk about her dates with her pretty hairdresser and how everything was going smoothly. He felt that way when he saw the girls at the bar only looking at Bradley, Javy, Jake or Mickey; he was right there but invisible. He felt that way when he was the last of his siblings and cousins to be single; his younger brother even got married this year. He felt that way when his father seemed to have to remind him that his last relationship was from before he left for naval school, and when his mother whined about her baby being all alone in San Diego.

Other than that, Bob didn't feel lonely. Not too much.

When he arrived at the Hard Deck after another failed date, Josie sighed with a confused pout.

"Why didn't it work out this time, Bobby?"

He shrugged as he sat between her and Natasha on the stool across from the pool table where Jake and Bradley were playing. "She's just passing through San Diego and she... I don't know, she talked a lot about herself, I didn't have time to get a word in. And when I did, she didn't seem too interested in what I had to say."

"Yickes," Natasha grimaced, "you did well to leave that date early."

"Oh, well, in fact, I didn't... She actually was the one who cut it short, she had to meet a friend apparently. Not that I'm complaining," he smiled slightly at the girls, and Reuben’s wife rolled her eyes before finishing her ginger ale, rubbing her round belly.

"I give up, Bob. You'll find someone eventually, but I'm done trying to set you up. I hate seeing you like this."

"Like what?" he frowned a little, not understanding.

"Like a puppy that's been thrown out," Reuben said as he kissed his wife's temple, joining their conversation. She rolled her eyes, half amused. "That's the idea. You always look so disappointed and sad after these dates. And I know it makes you question your self-worth, and I don't want that. So we won't set you up anymore, consider this my early birthday present to you," she smiled. 

"Finally - Ouch!" he chuckled, stroking his side where Josie had elbowed him. She sighed with a smile and they moved on to more casual conversation. It was another casual night, and Bob was loving it. The brunette was right, he'll find someone eventually, why force fate?

As the night went on, one particular topic was brought back to the table; their matching tattoo project. The seven of them still hadn't decided what to get, but Reuben had already made an appointment with a tattoo artist that he and Josie had been to a few times; she had four tattoos, and three of them were by that artist. It was fine line, discreet; that style was perfect for the squad. 

"So, except for Reuben, this will be everyone's first tattoo?" Mickey asked, reading everyone's ideas again on Javy's phone. They all nodded and Natasha scoffed.

"Robert Floyd, stop lying to us! You have a tattoo!"

Bob blushed under the curious gaze of his friends, and if his eyes could throw knives, Phoenix would be dead.

"Come to think of it, we've never seen him without a shirt on," Mickey remarked, narrowing his eyes. The other boys agreed and Jake grinned.

"What kind of embarrassing ink you got Baby on board?"

"If it's the name of an ex-girlfriend, I swear we'll ask for the whole story!" Javy insisted. Everyone tried to guess, making Bob more and more embarrassed and Natasha smirked, proud of her. She saw his tattoo once, after a water fight. 

"Come on Robby, show them, it's not that bad..." she encouraged him, gently squeezing his forearm. The blond man pouted and sighed, pulling out his phone to find photos. He showed the screen to his friends when he found the picture he was looking for. The tattoo was on his ribs and it was a quote with a carnation flower underneath. Mickey couldn't help but gasp in surprise as he read the quote, his eyes shining with admiration, "Is that a Star Wars reference?"

"It is..." Bob muttered, "And my older cousin has the other half of the quote."

He swiped and showed them a picture of their tattoos side by side; his cousin’s said "Do or do not." with the flower above it, and Bob’s one said "There is no try."

"Nerd," Jake snorted, earning a nudge from Reuben.

"In our defense, we were barely eighteen when we made them, just before I went to naval school," he shrugged.

"I think it's cute," Josie smiled and Bradley hummed in agreement, siping his beer. 

"How come you never told me you were Star Wars fans?" Mickey accused, "What do you think of the series? Without the last three movies, of course. They don't exist," and he chatted with Bob for a good half hour. 

Bradley cleared his throat to stop the rumbling, "Can we get back to the tattoo topic? We have less than fifteen hours to decide".

After some discussion and a few scribbles of their ideas on some napkins, they settled on three designs that the tattoo artist would be able to work with.

Bob carefully saved the napkins, and one by one the group went home. He decided to take a walk on the beach before he left. 

He liked the silence, broken only by the gentle sounds of the waves and the wind. His week had been exhausting and quite stressful, and being here soothed him. The moonlight guided his steps home. As he made his way to his little house, he lit a cigarette. He was not much of a smoker, but every now and then it helped calm his nerves. Truth to be told, he was a little nervous to get tattooed. He wasn’t a big fan of needles. He just hoped that the final design would be simple enough so he didn’t have to stay too long under the hands and tools of the tattoo artist.

The next day, after a nice lunch together, the group finally went to the tattoo parlor. Josie was with them, even more excited than they were. They walked in, making the little bell above the door ring. Soft rock was playing at a low volume, and some of the artist's work was hanging on the walls. 

Bob looked around curiously. This parlor was nothing like the one he'd been in with his cousin almost twelve years before. Here, the large windows let in daylight, and the reception and waiting areas were beautifully decorated with green plants (though Bob suspected they were fake). On the coffee table across from the couches was a binder containing the flashes that were still available. And on the walls were photos of several finished tattoos and some awards the artist seemed to have won at conventions around the country. The whole atmosphere was comfortable and reassuring. 

"I'll be there in two seconds!"  your voice came from the back of the room. 

The curtain at the back of the shop opened and you stepped out, dusting your hands. Your arms were covered with tattoos of all kinds; some colored, some not. Bob watched you for a moment, impressed by the number of tattoos you had. His eye fell on the one under and on your collarbones; two daffodils with a bee in the middle. He found it gorgeous.

He was jolted out of his contemplation when Josie threw herself in your arms.

"Bee! It's so good to see you!"

"Hello to you too, Jo’ !" you chuckled, returning her hug, "I assume this is the famous Dagger Squad you've been talking about."

You gave them your real name with a smile and shook hands with everyone, "You can call me Bee though, it doesn't bother me!". Your eyes locked with Bob's for a few seconds and he thought he saw you blushing a little. But maybe he had hallucinated.

You offered them some tea or coffee while grabbing your sketchbook and pen. "Okay, so what were your ideas? Jo’ and Reuben here told me you had quite a few," you asked with a smile, and the group began to explain what they had in mind. Bob, sitting in front of you, wasn't listening. He was mesmerized ; you had such a sweet voice and a warm, inviting aura. Your eyes shone with interest behind your glasses as you took notes on what Bob's friends were saying. Your soft smile sent butterflies to his stomach, and he felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears blush whenever he made eye contact with you. 

He was drawn out of his contemplation by Bradley, who nudged him discreetly. You had asked him something, but he didn't seem to have heard.

"Sorry, what?"

"Your friends said you had some papers with your ideas. May I see them?" you chuckled with a sweet smile.

"Oh... Oh! The napkins, yes!" he mumbled and took them out of his pocket. He displayed them on the coffee table in front of you. He blushed as your fingers brushed over his, and Josie and Natasha noticed. They looked at each other and wiggled their eyebrows. An idea had blossomed in their minds…

***

A few sketches later, you had a design that everyone in the group loved. It was simple enough that you could make the seven of them that afternoon. While you were getting everything ready, the Daggers argued about who would go after Reuben, who volunteered to go first. But Bob seemed a little lost and couldn't say anything. Josie sighed and intervened, hands on hips, like a mother scolding her children.

"Okay, everybody, calm down. Jake will go second, Mickey third and then Javy."

"But why?" Jake gasped and Mickey pouted.

"Because you three are too afraid, I can feel it. Look at it this way: the sooner you get it done, the sooner it's over."

"Good thinking..." Javy muttered.

"Thank you. Then Natasha, Bradley, and finally Bob. As soon as you're done, go to the little store next door and get yourself a snack, okay?"

The five nodded like children, but Natasha had a little mischievous smile on her lips that matched Josie's. But the boys, except for Reuben, didn't seem to notice. The latter gave his wife a knowing look and shook his head with a smile when she just shrugged.

Bob wasn't sure what to do. He looked at you a few times as you finished cleaning Reuben’s finished tattoo. You laughed with him and Bob blushed. He'd never seen anyone laugh so beautifully. His heart raced a little, but he couldn't take his eyes off you. You were mesmerizing, a work of art. 

"... Bob?"

"Huh?" he hummed, still lost in contemplation.

"Bobby, stop staring, you're not discreet," Josie giggled and Bob blushed wildly. He looked around and to his relief the others didn't seem to be paying too much attention to him. "You know, Bee is single... you should ask her out. You're totally her type."

"Am I?" he mumbled, blushing as Nat and Josie giggled, "I-I mean, I, uh… she’s-" Bob stuttered. He was busted. Natasha wrapped her arm around his and looked at you.

"From what Josie and Reuben have told me, Bee is really sweet," she said.

"She loves sci-fi, has two cats, builds Legos, and she absolutely loves quiet walks on the beach, just like you," Josie informed him with a smile, and Bob's cheeks turned even redder. He watched as you reassured Jake and explained how the machine worked. Your smile definitely made Bob's heart flutter. He wanted it to be directed at him. Not at Jake who was certainly flirting with you… although you didn’t seem that affected by it.

"She's a great girl, Bobby, and yes, I said I'd stop to set you up, but this isn't technically a date. It's up to you if you want to ask her out," Josie argued and he nodded, playing nervously with his fingers.

"I... I'll try?" he murmured, clearly worried about the situation, "but what if you're wrong and I'm not her type? Or what if I make it all awkward? or what if-"

"Calm down Floyd, it'll be fine! She won't reject you like that. Look at her, she's too nice for that. You have the whole afternoon to relax and just be yourself with her. We'll keep the others out," Natasha smiled as she gave him a friendly nudge. He sighed and nodded, trying to keep his composure. But then he frowned and turned to the two women beside him. "That's why you wanted me to go last?"

They just chuckled and shrugged. Bob sighed again and shook his head, "You two are a menace," he groaned.

As the afternoon wore on, Bob had to go out twice to catch his breath. He tried not to smoke right now, but the urge got stronger as his turn to get tattooed approached. He watched you laugh with Bradley as you tattooed him on the inside of his bicep. Then Bradley pointed at Bob and said something to you. You smiled a little and waved to him. He blushed so hard he thought his whole face was on fire. He shyly waved back and thought he saw you blush again. But you quickly turned your attention back to Bradley.

Bob's heart was pounding, he was filling up like a 10-year-old facing his first crush. 

And finally it was his turn. Josie and Natasha managed to get everyone out by pretending to go shopping for dinner - which wasn't exactly a lie. Bob was worriedly silent as you cleaned your station. You turned to him and smiled. 

"Would you like something to drink while I finish preparing the area? I have some ginger ale, Reuben told me you usually like it?"

Bob just nodded, speechless. How can you be so thoughtful? 

He thanked you as you handed him the glass and watched you print the last stencil.

"Nervous?" you asked, tilting your head to meet his gaze, "Where do you want it?"

"Y-Yeah, a little bit," he swallowed and scratched his neck nervously, "I, uh... maybe here?" he gestured to his ribs, the side that had no tattoos.

"Josie told me you already had a tattoo, right? Do you want them mirrored, like symmetrical?" you asked as he took off his shirt. You blushed. This man was really, really beautiful. His friends were too, you'd seen Jake and Mickey shirtless, but Bob... Bob had this charming boyish face and a body that you could see yourself curling up against in your bed for a cuddle in rainy weather. He had that old American charm with his wire-rimmed glasses, that little curl of hair that fell perfectly on his forehead, and that shy smile. You wanted him to take you out on a date anywhere he wanted and listen to his surprisingly raspy voice talk about absolutely anything... but you had to be professional.

"Yes," he replied, "I think it could be quite harmonious..."

"I think so too," you smiled at him and prepared his skin before placing the stencil. You let him check to see if he liked the placement. He turned to you and his crooked smile made you feel all warm inside. He was absolutely adorable.

"I love it," he said, excited like a little boy on Christmas Eve, "it looks amazing!"

"Well, let's get to work then, Lieutenant!" you chuckled and let him lie down. You put on your gloves and turned on the machine. You saw him take a deep breath and exhale slowly; surely to calm his nerves. "Ready?" you asked quietly and he nodded.

He didn't flinch or move once during the session. You saw him grimace from time to time, but he was perfectly still. You tried to talk to him to ease the process without pushing him too hard, and to your own surprise, he was quite talkative. The two of you debated which was the best Lego set you owned - it was obviously the Millenium Falcon. He really made you laugh when he explained how Bradley accidentally broke his glasses and how Josie scolded them for being reckless while playing soccer on the beach. And you both agreed that Reuben and Josie would make great parents. He walked you outside when you said you needed a smoke break.

"I don't smoke that much, I'm trying to quit," you shrugged, "but some days are harder than others."

"Yeah, I get it, I'm not a heavy smoker either, but it helps... relax, I guess," he said, lighting your cigarette and then his. You smiled and agreed. In the distance, the sun was slowly setting, casting orange and pink hues in the sky. Bob blew his smoke slowly through his nose and sighed.

"I love sunsets," he said, "it's always a different color show..."

"I'm sure it's nicer when you're actually in the sky, isn't it?"

"Oh yes it is!" he replied excitedly, "Sometimes with the clouds it's like being surrounded by cotton candy. It's so pretty, but it makes me hungry." 

You laughed and his smile grew wider.

"So you have a sweet tooth?"

"The worst," he sighed with a soft grin, "I think I might be addicted to sugar. I mean, we all are a little, but sweet things are my weakness."

The way he looked at you when he said that made you blush furiously. And he blushed too, surprised at his own behavior. But you didn't seem bothered, so he wasn't embarrassed. You bit your lip and sighed with a smile before looking back at him.

"So if I asked you to come with me to the fair and eat our body weight in candy and cake on Sunday, would you agree?"

"Yes," he blushed, surprised at his own eagerness to accept your proposition. He chuckled and nodded, "I would gladly agree."

"It's a date then..." you smiled and exchanged numbers. Then you resumed your conversation about whatever was on your minds. Bob had never felt so comfortable with anyone, and neither had you. Unfortunately, the rest of the Daggers made their way back to your shop to pay you for the tattoos and take some pictures of them. They were all happy with the results and Mickey promised to come back for more. Bob couldn't stop smiling and looking at you as if you were holding the stars, and neither could you. You said goodbye to everyone, hugged Reuben and Josie - asking their growing baby in her belly to behave - and kissed Bob on the cheek when he last existed. You had to stand on tiptoe to do it, which he found adorable.

"See you Sunday, Bob," you almost whispered.

"Gladly Bee, can't wait," he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

You waved him goodbye and he felt all light and happy on his way to his car.

The rest of the group was completely forgotten, but they were watching from a distance. They were surprised and so lost by what they had just witnessed, except for Nat and Josie who were really proud of their part in it. They discreetly high-fived and giggled.

"What did you do?" Reuben finally asked his wife, curious.

"Me? Nothing," she smiled at him before looking at Bob, who didn't stop smiling. She took her husband's hand on the way to their car and chuckled, "I just encouraged fate."

#top gun maverick #top gun imagine #robert bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #tattoos #natasha trace #jake seresin #javy machado #mickey garcia #bradley bradshaw #reuben fitch #original character #bob floyd imagine

[yurislotusgarden]

One of those night's

ʚїɞ Soukoku fic!

ʚїɞ ship: Dazai Osamu x Chuuya nakahara

ʚїɞ Keep in mind English is not my first language, so there may be mistakes!

ʚїɞ First work

ʚїɞ cross-posted on ao3 under @Yuri_LotusFlower

ʚїɞ word count: 691

ʚїɞ Tw's: None! Just married soukoku fluff to heal your soul!

A  pair of chestnut eyes were looking at the small digital clock on the nightstand. The clock showed 4:57, an hour he would usually be asleep at, but not today, sleep just didn't want to come to him, no matter how long he laid in his bed. It was that night again. The ginger was so in his thoughts, that he did not notice the small movements of the body behind him until they spoke.

“You’re awake” spoke the voice from behind in a whisper, normally the voice would be speaking in a teasing voice, yet not tonight. The smaller male could feel the arms around his waist tighten just a little.

“Yeah, I guess I am Osamu” the ginger whispered back -no bite in his words like usually there would- turning around in the brunette’s -Dazai Osamu’s- arms to face him.

“May I ask why, my dear?” Dazai asked back, his voice soft so as to not ruin the calm atmosphere in their shared bedroom. He planted a gentle kiss on his lover’s hair.

Chuuya hesitated, yet answered back after a longer minute, “I know you already know, you bastard” after which he let out a heavier breath, already feeling a little bit better by just the small conversation between himself and his husband.

Dazai chuckled quietly. “Yeah, I do”. Soon after, the ginger-haired male felt a hand on his head, fingers running gently through his hair, carefully getting rid of any knots in Chuuya’s hair. Something the brunette knew calms the other down.

“Do you need water? or anything else to help you fall asleep?” Dazai asked quietly, eyes barely open, keeping himself from falling asleep yet again only by remembering that his beloved chibbiko may need something. 

“Water would be nice” Chuuya answered quietly. Shortly after, the taller one sat up and stood up from their bed before going out of the bedroom. Dazai came back maybe two or three minutes later, with a cup of water in hand, before giving it to his short-tempered husband.

After Chuuya drank the water, he put the cup on the nightstand, planning to take the cup back to the kitchen after he gets up from bed in the morning. Noticing that his spouse went back to laying in their bed, he did the same. 

Both males stayed in silence, the ginger on the brunette's chest, Dazai’s fingers running through Chuuya’s hair, Dazai’s other arm on his back, rubbing small random shapes - calming them both. 

“Why are you even awake?” the male on top of the other asked quietly, only now realizing that his husband should be asleep as he didn't really do anything to wake him up. The male under him lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Is it really something to worry your small head about chibi?” Dazai spoke, the slight teasing clear in his voice, wanting to put at least a little smile on the other one’s face. “I bet your tacky hats are the reason why you care about such a small thing! Nothing bigger can probably fit in that small brain of yours” The other one in question looked up at him, a fake offended look on his face.

“Excuse you? My hats are not tacky! And they’re perfectly well done!” Chuuya spoke up, trying hard to not let a smile show up on his face.

“Hmm, are your clothes also oh so perfectly made? Let me see” Before the ginger could react, he's on his back, trying not to burst out laughing from the fingers moving on his sides.

“Hey!” Chuuya tried to stop Dazai’s tickle attack but was unsuccessful. Leading to quite long misery in the position he got himself into.

Sometimes no banter.

Sometimes teasing. 

Sometimes no words.

Sometimes just silent affection.

Sometimes wanting to show as much affection as possible.

Sometimes little fights with no meaning and sometimes with one.  

Chuuya may be a mafia executive, but he loves little, calm moments between them. And Dazai? Well, who’s to say he can’t appreciate the little moments with his short husband? He may be a suicidal maniac, but he's a suicidal maniac in love. 

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #dazai x chuuya #bungou stray dogs dazai #soukoku #skk #bsd skk #skk fanfic #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #domestic fluff #domestic soukoku #soukoku fluff #bsd chuuya #chuuya bsd #bungo stray dogs chuuya #bungo stray dogs #crossposting #cross posted on ao3 #established relationship

[thelesbiandeli]

Ink Isn't Just For Maps

Ao3 link here 1,802 words TW for needles, blood, injury and alcoholism! Also Owen has some intrusive thoughts about rotting corpses which some may find gross or disturbing. Stay safe, peeps! Just to preface, this whole concept is about the four pirate factions being called bird names, then the faction members having the wings of their faction tattooed on their backs either when they join, or when they come of age if they were born into that faction!

Martyn hisses in pain at the cool sensation of the needle sliding into his back. He tightens his grip on Sausage’s hand, both of their knuckles turning white. Sausage’s comforting smile looks more like a grimace for a second, before he steadies himself and brushes a strand of golden hair out of Martyn’s face.

“You’re doing great, pájaro dorado, just a few more minutes and we’ll be done.”

Scar brushes his back with a cloth, causing Martyn to yelp in pain. He whispers an apology, before taking a step back to admire his handiwork.

“All done! We’ll need to bandage it for a couple hours, then it’ll be a few weeks until it’s healed up. Before then, you’re not allowed out on the ships. We don’t want to irritate it any more than necessary. Got it?”

Martyn nods sharply, trying as hard as he can to not move his shoulder blades. Scar slips his inks back into his bag, and slings it over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m going to be turning in for the night. Kyle, you know how to wrap these, I’ve left you some stuff. I’ll check up on it again tomorrow, okay?”

He waves goodbye, downs the last sip of his ale, and strolls out of the Kestrel’s tavern. The heavy wooden door slams shut behind him, making Martyn groan. Kyle slips into the seat behind Martyn that Scar was previously perched in, and starts to wrap lengths of bandage around his torso, making sure not to miss any of the newly inked skin. Sausage stretches, and hops up onto the bartop.

“We’re lucky that Scar knows how to do this stuff. We’d usually get Guqqie to do this, but-” He clears his throat, “We’re just lucky that Scar can do this. Real Jack-of-all-trades, he is.”

Oli laughs, and slings his previously discarded coat around his shoulders.

“How about one more drink to end the night? Unless you’re not up to it?”

He glances over at Martyn, who just slides his glass over the table to him.

“You’re on, ponytail.”

—

Owen registers the noise of his tent flap being pushed open, and the creak of the floorboards as someone walks in. He glances up from his book, and smiles at Scott.

“Hey Scott! Whatcha need?”

The ginger man smiles back, and winces slightly as he moves. He pulls his hand away from his side, both his hand and his shirt smeared with blood. Owen yells in surprise, and tosses his book aside.

“Scott! What happened!”

The brunet jumps up and rummages through his cabinet, extracting a medical kit. Scott limps over to Owen’s bed, and collapses onto it.

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is. I got into a bit of a scrap with some Kites on the way home, that’s all. Nothing I haven’t faced before.”

Owen frowns, but starts to inspect the wound. Scott’s fancy shirt is ripped open along his side, crimson staining the tattered edges. From this angle, he can’t see the wound properly, but it sure is bleeding a lot. He winces, and starts getting bandages out of his medical bag.

“Can you take your shirt off for me? I need to take a closer look.”

Scott gasps dramatically, and places a hand on his chest.

“Owen, you sly fox! Take me out to dinner first!”

Owen slaps him over the back of his head, and laughs.

“You know what I meant! Now, I can’t have the first son of the Denholm family bleeding out in my tent because he wouldn’t stop flirting with me.”

Scott sticks his tongue out, and pulls his shirt off over his head, hissing through his teeth as he moves his arms. Owen grabs his flask of water, pours some on a cloth, and starts to wipe away the blood. After a few minutes, there are drops of red-tinted water splattered across the bedsheets and the floor, but the wound is visible. A clean slice across his side, barely grazing his ribs. If it had hit a few centimetres closer to Scott’s torso, he may have suffered a hypovolemic shock and never even made it to the Heron’s base, left bleeding out in some dark section of the woods. His corpse might not be found for days, and when someone did stumble upon it, it would be rotting, ribs exposed by badgers and eyes glassy and col-

Owen shakes his head to get rid of the thought, and pulls out a small brown bottle of disinfectant. Dabbing his cloth into it, he runs it across the cut. Scott yelps, but nods for him to proceed. Through various hissed curses and some very creative insults that Owen will definitely be using when he finds out which Kite caused this injury, the wound is fully disinfected and bound with fresh bandages.

Scott flops face down onto the bed, and groans. The process had started in the late evening, but now his pocket watch reads that it’s nearly midnight. The rest of the Herons will have either gone to bed or drunk themselves into unconsciousness by now. So much for the fun night he had been rushing home for.

Owen hums in confusion, and Scott cranes his head around to look at him.

“What is it? Don’t tell me it’s gotten worse.”

“No, that's not it. I was just wondering about your tattoo.”

Scott chuckles, and rolls over onto his back. He’s so used to the culture of the faction isles that he almost forgot that the new recruits may not know of the strange tradition. It feels almost alien, the concept of a pirate without their faction’s wings spread gracefully across their back and arms.

“It’s just a tradition. It’s kind of stupid, but it stops anyone from defecting to another faction. Hypothetically, at least.”

He thinks back to when he spotted his brother at the factioning, dressed up in the clothes of a Nightingale. Even the idea of defecting seemed impossible until then. Owen either doesn’t notice or brushes off his sudden change of tone, and stretches out so he’s on the bed next to Scott.

“So those are Heron wings?” Scott nods, and Owen continues, “I presume that the other factions have their birds wings, then. When can I get mine?”

“Probably in a couple days. Cleo will do yours for you, she’s the best artist we’ve got. She did mine a couple months after she became a Heron.”

Owen tucks his hands behind his head, and glances over at Scott.

“But you’ve been a Heron your whole life, haven’t you? How come you only got them after they joined?”

“It’s a coming of age tradition for those of us born into it. We can technically join a different faction when we’re old enough to decide, but no one does. It’s looked down on.”

Owen wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out, making Scott giggle.

“When I became a pirate, I thought I could get away from all the rules. Turns out you lot have a lot more standards and traditions than I thought.”

“‘You lot’? You’re one of us now! And what, did you just presume we were all a bunch of lousy Kites or self-centred Kestrels?”

Scott grins, and reaches for a pillow to hug into his stomach. Owen chuckles, and waves his hands around meaninglessly in the air.

“Well, that’s what my tutors taught me! And now I can see that that’s not true, obviously.”

“Obviously. I’m clearly much more threatening than a Kite.”

“Are you sure about that? You did scream at the spider El put in front of you at dinner yesterday.”

Scott makes an offended noise, sits up, and pushes his pillow into Owen’s face. The two struggle for a second, before Scott flops back down, this time sprawling out over Owen’s chest.

“Fine, maybe I’m not the most savage pirate there is. But you’ll protect me?”

Owen grins, and runs his hands through Scott’s hair.

“Of course I will. What sort of friend would I be otherwise?”

The two lie in a comfortable silence, and by the end of the hour both are deep in the realms of sleep.

—

Acho lies on his back, staring up at the stars from the topmost branches of the Nightingales tree. They come up here to clear their mind sometimes, and tonight is one of those nights. One of the Kites had pushed him into the harbour, then one of the new Nightingales had spotted the design across his back while he was climbing out the sea, visible through his soaking shirt. And of course they had to question it.

And if someone questions him, he’s always going to start questioning themself. Why did he even leave the Herons in the first place? They had a perfect life, and the expectations put on him should have been a motivation, not a reason to abandon their family. His parents probably hate him, and Scott had given up trying to find him months ago. But that's no one's fault but theirs.

Even now, when they’ve found a comfortable life living among the Nightingales, free to do whatever they want, his legacy is still there, emblazoned on his back and spreading along his upper arms. The longest of the inked primaries graze his elbows, making it hard for them to wear anything with short sleeves. It’s a punishment in a way, how contrasted his own wings are to the rest of his factions, theirs barely reaching their shoulders.

They stare up at the moon, its perfect crescent shining above them. At least that’s one of the predictable things in this world. With a sigh, he swings their legs over the edge of the branch he’s laid on, and slides down into the crown of the tree, wincing slightly as he scrapes the backs of his legs on the bark. There should still be enough drink left at the bar as long as no one’s tried to drink themselves to sleep. That’s his job, thank you very much!

They chuckle slightly at the dark joke, and continue to clamber down the tree. He’s not exactly proud of the habit, but they're not going to be able to get to sleep without some help tonight. Hopping off one of the lowest branches they can be bothered to climb to, he falls the last two metres onto the soft grass and fallen blossoms. Dusting off their trousers, he picks up their blue naval coat from where it lies discarded at the roots of the tree, and slings it over his shoulder. With a slight slump in his shoulders, they begin the short walk back to the centre of the Nightingales base, looking to find a nice comfortable seat at the bar to pass out at for the next eight hours.

#deli.writes #pirates smp #fanfic #inthelittlewood #mythicalsausage #goodtimeswithscar #kyleeff #theorionsound #owengejuicetv #scott smajor #ggacho

[yeehawbvby]

Falling Away With You | Ch. 13

Sebastian x F!Reader and M. Rasmodius x F!Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Dog boy and farmer girl make up!! :) 

Author’s Note: TW // very brief mention of death and attempted suicide

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

Prev | Next

Summer is here and it is hot. I’m not going outside today.

Since (reluctantly) getting myself dressed earlier, I’ve been just laying in bed, stuffed Eggy under one of my arms, playing video games.  It’s been a while since I’ve just let myself lounge around for a whole day, and I’ve been hankering for some Legend of Lonk lately. 

I wonder if anyone around here is into games. I know Abby is. Allegedly, she struggles so much with Prairie King because she’s more of an RPG type, which I can relate to. But who knows if I’ll ever be close enough with her to play games together?

Just when I’m about to finish up a cutscene, my phone vibrates. Probably a text. I decide to ignore it for now, until realizing it’s still going. Ughhhhh, I hate unprompted phone calls. I pause my game and set the console aside. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, (y/n)…” fuck, it’s Sam. “Sorry to bother ya.”

“Oh, uh, not a bother at all. What’s up?” I sit up, repositioning Eggy to my lap and hugging her.

“Can we meet up somewhere? I wanna… you know. Talk about… uh. You know. Stuff. If you’re willing, of course. If not then don’t worry about it, it’s cool.”

I sigh, quietly. I do miss that puppy-man. And if I’ve been canoodling his best friend, then I should swallow my pride and stop avoiding this. For all of our sakes.

“Yeah, I’d like that actually. You wanna come over?”

He sighs too — a big, relieving one. I almost forgot how animated he is. “Yeah sure, when’s a good time?”

“Whenever you want, I’ll be around all day.” My overwhelmingly hospitable instincts kick in, “Just let me know when you’re headed over. I can make us some cocoa or lemonade or something, if you want.”

“It’s a little hot for hot chocolate,” he laughs, sorta shyly. “But it does sound good.” 

“Fuck, true,” I mentally smack myself on the forehead. “I can make it cold,” I offer. “Or at least try to. Never done it before.”

“That would be great, it’s okay if you don’t feel like it though. I don’t wanna burden you too much,” he trails off. 

“Sam, I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

I hear a nervous laugh on the other end. “Yeah, I guess. Alright. Uh. I guess I’ll head over in a few minutes?”

“Yeah, sounds good to me.” 

“See ya in a bit then, (y/n).”

“See ya, Sam.”

Fuck, this is gonna be so uncomfortable. At least he seems as nervous as I feel.

Letting out a huge groan, I roll – literally roll, from mattress to floor – out of the bed to find a bra and some less bootylicious bottoms to put on.

Something tells me Seb’s talked to Sam about what we’re about to discuss, so I’m sure Sam knows by now I’m not interested in him the way he might’ve thought. I gotta stay cautious, though. Some dudes are fuckin’ creeps who’ll see a little bit of extra skin and think it's free real estate. Experienced that too much in the city.

I’d doubt Sam being like that if I knew him beyond the surface, but I’ve been so unsure of how to feel about that gumball since The Incident. 

I pick out a pair of long gray bike shorts, and throw a sports bra underneath the white, grandpa-esque tourism tee from Ginger Island that I had on already. The ladies are staying hidden, today.

Now, the cocoa… I follow my usual routine, except I leave out the creamer and opt to put the mixture into a pitcher rather than mugs. If I put it in the freezer with some extra ice – better throw in some more mix, so it won’t get watered down – so it’ll hopefully be chilled enough by the time he’s here. 

Aaand now we wait. I sit back on the bed, scooping Cannoli into my lap while my eyes dance around the room. I really need some more furniture in here. At least an extra chair, if I’m gonna keep having people over. Maybe a desk to work at? 

Fuck, wait a sec! This would totally be big enough for a kotatsu if I put the table in the kitchen or outside instead. My weeb ass has always wanted one of those. I’m sure Cannoli would love it, too. 

After a few more moments of interior design contemplation, I get up to pee. Naturally, the moment I sit down, I hear a knock at the door.

“Fuck…” I murmur. “Sorry, one second!” I yell as loud as I can muster. Hopefully he heard that.

I speed-run my little bathroom break and jog to the door, without drying my hands. Shit, what if he gets grossed out by how moist they are? I shake my head, then shake my hands a bit and pat ‘em on my shorts before opening up. 

“Hey–” I’m cut off with a squeak from my own throat as Sam fucking engulfs my body into a hug. 

“Dude you have no idea how bad I feel,” he word-vomits on me. “I’m so sorry!”

I stand there in shock for a moment. I expected more of a serious, awkward conversation. A weird business meeting, of sorts. Should’ve known that the big guy would do things differently. I’m still unsure of whether or not I can really trust him, but I'm willing to try.

“You big dummy...” I mumble into his boobs before squeezing him back. “I was so worried that you hated me.”

“I thought you’d hate me!”

“We’re both dummies.”

“For sure.”

Realizing I’m still talking into his big ol’ honkaroos, I tilt my head out for air. In a southern drawl, I declare, “We’ve got some stuff to discuss, pardner.”

“Mhm, mhm.” He pulls away, albeit still at arms-length and holding onto my shoulders. 

“Pop a squat, I’ll grab the cold cocoa.”

“Cold-co?”

“Oooo I like that,” I shout from the kitchen.

I can’t help but smile at how easy this is so far. Sure, we’ve got some feelings to work out, but I’d let my anxiety get the best of me for the past few weeks for sure.

“Do you want a mug or a glass?”

“Do you have one of those fancy wine cups?” he asks. I peer back and he’s leaning over from the chair at the table. Cannoli missed him too – he’s already curled up in Sam’s lap. 

“I’ll check.” I back up, peering around the cabinets, hoping the space gives me a better angle to see the top shelf with. Grandpa had to have had those… fuck, I don’t feel like climbing. “Actually,” I exhale, “can you check?”

Keeping Cannoli in his arms like a baby, Sam strolls in, looking confused. Then, the lightbulb goes off. He laughs at me and scruffs my hair, reassuring me with a jovial “Sure thing, little guy,” before easily spotting and taking a wine glass from the back of one of my higher shelves. Fucking tall people.

“Damn it.” 

“I can carry you on my shoulders sometime,” he offers. “That way you can, you know…” 

“I hate you.”

“Not that much, if you invited me over.”

“Whatever, fucko.”

He snickers, watching as I prepare our drinks. When I start pouring the creamer, he questions it. 

“Trust me,” I assure. He just shrugs, letting me do my thing. “You want whip?”

“What do I look like, some sort of monster? Of course I want whip.”

“More of a big, fluffy beast than anything.”

Sam scoffs, “I’ll take it over a goblin or shadow brute.”

I hand off his drink, scooping up a pair of swirly straws. I am an adult. “Want a straw too, beast boy?” I offer while holding one out towards him.

Taking it from me, he responds, “See, I can get behind that! Makes me sound like a Teen Titan.”

“That show kicked ass,” I point out as we walk into the other room. “I used to have the fattest crush on Robin.”

We sit down on my bed, both of us cross-legged, both of our backs against the wall. Cannoli fills the space between us. Our mediator.

“I was down bad for Starfire, myself.” He takes a sip, and I inspect for the signature eye twinkle. Theeere it is! Another chocolate beverage well done. “Holy shit this is so good.”

“Told you to trust me!”

He playfully rolls his eyes. “Oh! And Blackfire fucked too.”

“Dude, she was so hot!”

“But so mean…”

“Yeah, and you’re saying you wouldn’t want her to be mean to you?”

He inhales dramatically, contemplating. Then Sam mutters, shrugging, “I’d thank her for beating me up,” before dejectedly sipping some more of his drink.

“Seeeee?”

“Shut up, jeez. I didn’t come here to be perceived.”

“Eh, you kinda did.”

A short silence. “Crud. You’re right.”

We both laugh, and it simmers into another silence.

“So.” 

I turn towards him, leaning my shoulder onto the wall now. He mimics my movement, placing his already empty cup (?!) onto my nightstand and hugging my pillow to his chest. It looks like we’re having a slumber party. This is the best position for sharing some hot goss.

“So…” he sighs, his eyes roaming me. I blush as he either inspects me or checks me out – not sure which it is. “I’ve got some explaining to do, huh?”

I nod and shrug, “I guess.”

He gnaws at his bottom lip, looking down at the pillow, trying to decide on his next choice of words if I had to assume.

“Well, Sebastian told me that he already let you know I was catching feelings, so I don’t have to explain that.”

“Yeeeah… he fill you in on anything else?”

Sam nods. “I’m happy for you guys, by the way. Dunno what’s going on, but it’s cool you two are like… you know.”

“Thanks, Sam,” I shyly smile, scooping my plushie into my arms. God, Eggy takes up so much of me. It’s fine though. She is my protector. “I’m sorry that you kinda got fucked over. You’re really cool and you deserve to be with someone who makes you happy, but,” I shrug. “I just don’t feel the same that you do. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, “No, really, it’s all good. I’m usually better with the ladies anyway. It’s about time Seb has better luck than I do.”

“Pfft. All these Pelican Town girls really swoon for ya, don’t they?” I say that half-jokingly. He’s crazy good looking, and he’s nice, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he did well for himself around here.

“I mean, I thought I had a thing with Penny for a while, but that went nowhere.” 

“Aw, really? That would be so cute!”

“Would’ve been cuter if she felt the same way I did.”

“Oof,” I scrunch my nose as I wince. “Unrequited?”

“Nah, she just wasn’t as into me as I was into her, I guess.” He sighs, “It’s starting to be a common theme for me.”

“Heh, whoops,” I apologize as I abandon my cup of coldco onto the floor and hug Eggy tighter, hiding further into her. 

“It worked out for the best. We had different dreams for the future, and whatever.”

“What about Abby?”

“I love her, but more like… as if she were my annoying little sister.” He laughs, “Besides, she’s obsessed with Sebastian. It would never happen even if I wanted to try.”

“Gotcha, gotcha. How’s she feel about me and him, uh…” I pause. Seb and I aren’t dating, per say. “Messing around?” I cringe at my own words. “Gross. Wait.”

Sam howls, “Yoba, you nasty girl.” 

“Shut up! I don’t know what we are, we aren’t dating, exactly!”

“Yeah, yeah, I get you… Uhh. She hates you.”

We lock eyes. He’s wincing but I’m stone cold. “I expected nothing less,” I truthfully admit.

“She’ll come around.”

“I fucking hope so. I don’t exactly love the fact that one of the first people I tried to properly interact with here has made such an enemy out of me.”

“Abby’s young and dumb, but she’ll warm up to you eventually. If not when she’s over it, it’ll happen whenever she finds someone else to occupy her. She dated this chick Sophia once, that was the most tame I’d ever seen her.”

“Girl must be a frickin’ angel.”

“She really was so nice.” 

“Was?”

“Well,” he clicks his tongue, “she was hospitalized for a suicide attempt last year. She lives over in Grampleton, so we never really saw her around here much in the first place. But none of us have seen her at all since that happened.”

“Holy shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure she’ll be okay.” Sam repositions a little, petting Cannoli for emotional support. “She’s supposed to be inheriting her parents’ vineyard, past the beach, actually. Don’t know if she’ll ever be back to do it.”

“Oh, that’s what that place is?”

“Yeah, have you ever heard of Blue Moon?”

“Shit, I have! That brand is all over Zuzu. It belonged to her parents?”

Sam nods, sadness still washing over his features. “Yeah, but they died in a car crash. Happened a little before Sophia had to… ya know. Go away.” 

I recoil a bit, thinking about how tough shit probably is for that poor girl. “I hope she ends up okay. That sucks so hard.”

“Yeah, me too.” He puts the pillow back behind him, and slaps his palms onto his thighs, keeping them there. “Anyway! I don’t like all this sad junk. Back to business.”

“So you were really gonna kiss me that night, huh?” I blurt out.

“Yeesh. Right to the point.”

“Sorry.” I apologetically shrug. 

“You’re fine, uh… maybe I was?” We look at each other, silence filling the room. I lean over to finish my drink before placing the empty cup back on the ground, and then purse my lips, waiting for him to correct himself. “Fuck. Yes. Yes I was.”

“You know that would’ve been, like, crazy uncomfortable considering I didn’t want to kiss you back, right?”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t want to kiss you, Sam.” 

Although, his lips are super nice… 

No.

Stop it. 

“Oh my god,” he giggles.

“Thanks for not kissing me.”

“Oh my god!”

“No, like, seriously, thank you.” I put my hand on his knee, chuckling. “You have no idea how much weirder I’d feel having you in my house right now, had that happened.”

“Yeah, no problem, whatever! I get it, you don’t like me! I’ll just pine for a… taken?” Sam tilts his head and squints an eye, thinking over the word. “Taken!” He nods, confidently. “A taken lady, for forever.”

“Come on, dude!” I playfully whine, swatting Eggy’s arms in his direction. He flaps his hand in unison with each fuzzy, stuffed paw slap. “To be fair, you’re totally hot. I’m sure if you asked that Victor dude to take you to a Zuzu bar, you’d get laid in no time.”

“You think I’m hot?”

I deadpan at Sam’s face to find him giggling and blushing like a fucking school girl. Sigh. 

“Yeah, I do. You’re like, atrociously hot.” I roll my eyes, in spite of the smile on my face. I'm not lying - he really is, like, so fucking hot honestly. “Don’t make it weird.” I point at him, one of the plushie’s paws still in the same hand.

“That’s so cool oh my god,” he giddily exclaims.

I groan into the back of Eggy’s head. “Sammm!”

“Right, sorry!” he scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t wanna just get laid. I have Palmela for that stuff.”

“Who the fuck is Palmela?”

Sam grins menacingly, waggling his fingers at me, not saying a word.

What?

...Oh.

OH.

Palmela! Seriously?!

“Dude, gross!” I cackle.

“Heheheheh.” He evilly taps his fingertips against those on the opposite hand. I give him a fake-dirty look. “But seriously, I want someone to cuddle, to go on dates with,” he sighs. “Anyone, I don’t even care about gender. I just want someone to care about and feel loved by.”

Aww. I frown. Everyone who wants that deserves it. Especially this fella. Wait… but if he’s not straight…

I excitedly snag one of his hands in both of mine. “So small,” he whispers, thoroughly inspecting my hands. I ignore that comment.

“Sam, have you ever had a crush on Sebastian?” Wide eyed and menacingly, I flash my teeth.

His own eyes widen. He looks down, then back up to my eyes, and then off to the side…and now he’s blushing!!!

“Sam, holy shit! You have!”

“We dated…” he whispers, twitching a brow. Ayo?!

“Samson Henry Johnson, you sly dog!”

“Dude, shut up! We were, like, kids basically, it’s no big deal.”

“What do you mean by kids? How long ago was it?”

“We were in high school.”

“Bro, that was only, what, a decade ago? Little longer maybe?”

“Sweet Yoba above…”

“Is it a forbidden topic, or do I have full permission to be nosy?”

“It’ll be forbidden if you keep being annoying about it!”

I pout. “Boo, you whore.” 

“Wouldn’t not kissing and telling make me less of a whore?”

“Metaphorically speaking, yeah, but…” I shrug. Then, I have an epiphany. “Oh my god wait, did you guys, like, touch tips?!”

“Alright, it’s forbidden!”

“Fuck!”

__________________

I lied. I am going outside today.

After continuing to fill each other in on our previously failed love lives, Sam and I decided to take a walk up to his ex’s house to present the renewal of our friendship. Formally. Bells chime as we enter the gigantic cabin, announcing our arrival. Smells sawdusty – I guess Robin’s been busy.

“Hey, you two! If you’re looking for Sebby, he’s in his lair,” Robin advises. 

“Thanks Robby,” I chirp, as my tall companion and I pass her station.

“Robby?” she laughs. “Gross.”

I crinkle my nose. “Ugh, yeah, sorry. Didn’t have as nice of a ring out loud as it did in my head.”

“You’re tellin’ me!” Robin shouts once we’re out of sight. 

Continuing the assholery, as Sam raps on Seb’s door, I sing, “Sebbyyy.” 

A loud groan echos on the other side. “Stop calling me that shit,” he voices as he nears the door. When he opens it, he does a double take. “Ah. I see The Conversation went well.”

“Hell yeah!” Sam boasts, tossing a strong arm around my shoulder and navigating me inside. “This little lady and I are good as new.”

“And you came here to celebrate? Of all places?” the hot, emo cave goblin inquires. 

“Hell yeah!” Sam echos himself. “Swimmies and sippies season is here,” he chimes, waggling his eyebrows. “Are you down?”

“Can it wait until it’s cooler out?” Seb asks, returning to his desk and typing away. “Like, later tonight, maybe?”

“Absolutely! Who’s buying the sippies though?”

They both look at me, expectantly. I’ve been lost this entire time.

“What in the actual fuck is a swimmies and sippies?”

“Ahh, much to learn, young grasshopper,” Seb calmly states.

“Stop calling me that.”

He chuckles. “Every once in a while, we grab a bunch of drinks and go swimming at the bathhouse. You know, the one up by the train station,” he explains, as I nod. “Hence… swimmies and sippies.”

“I came up with the name!” Sam beams, as he sits on the couch. Of course he did, I think to myself. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

I head pat him for a change. Feels good, man. “Of course it does.” Sam leans into my hand, so I continue rubbing his head. He’s literally a giant dog.

“I nominate you to buy,” Seb peers over at Sam. “Not fair to make the newbie do it.”

“You seemed on board with her getting the drinks a second ago!”

“Yeah, I also thought she knew what swimmies and sippies is at that point.” 

I nod, happily, giving the blonde’s scalp another pat before seating myself in front of Seb’s other computer. “Your fault for not filling me in on your plans, buddy.” 

“Man!” He whines. “Fine, I’ll go do that.” Sam gets up, stretching his arms up and behind his head as he makes his way to exit the room.

“Grab your cooler and some ice, too. There’s not much fridge space here.” 

“Anything else, fuckers?” 

“Snacks?” I add.

Sam looks to me and sighs, loud and exasperated. “Drinks, snacks, ice, cooler,” he counts on his fingers. “Got it.”

“Thank youuu~,” Seb calls as Sam leaves the room, flipping us off before swinging the door shut behind him. 

Chin in hands, I lean my elbows on the desk. 

“So… I’ve got a question for ya.”

“What’s up, baby?”

Yoba, my heart can’t take him giving me pet names. I blush and hide my face further into my hands. Fuckin’ loser.

“You guys were quite an item back in the day, yeah?”

He stops typing and snorts into a laugh. “Fuck. He told you about that?”

I hum and nod. “Did ya fuck?”

“Yeah,” he responds coolly, looking awfully tickled. He must not get to talk about this much.

“I knew it!” I practically screech. “That’s so precious. I wonder why he wouldn’t give me any deets.”

“Sam’s not as, uh,” Seb taps his nails onto the desk as he leans into the opposite hand. “In tune with his sexuality.”

“Ah. Explains why he forbade me from talking about it, too.”

“Look, ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer what I can. But keep it quiet, yeah? Lotta homophobes hidden around the valley.” Seb frowns. “And, Sam’s not homophobic towards other people by any means, but he’s still got some internalized shit to un-learn.”

“Ah. Lame, but understandable,” I nod, taking solace in knowing he at least is comfortable enough that he basically came out to me today. “My lips are sealed, sir.” 

I motion as though I’m zipping my mouth, tossing away the “key” after, ‘cause I’m not a monster. In the meantime, Seb groans. I tilt my head inquisitively and he looks my way. His eyes are dark and intense, like he’s invading my fucking soul oh my god.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

He continues to stare at me, eyes narrowed… Oh!

I gasp, “You naughty bastard! You like that, don’t you?”

“Guilty,” he shrugs, sipping his coffee.

Aaand, just like that, I’m activated. “Sebastian.”

“(Y/n).”

“How much work do you have right now?” 

His eyes dance around the screen a bit before looking in my direction. “Enough. Why?”

“Ughhhhh.” 

“Were you scheming, (y/l/n)?”

“Who, me?” I ask, flicking my wrist as I lilt out my words, all southernly-sounding. “Why I’d nevah!”

Except I totally would, and was. Was gonna like, I dunno… offer a dick suck? Or something. It's easy to forget with how long our tension has been going on that we haven't actually done anything like that, in person at least.

“You're a horrible liar, (y/n).” Sucking in through his teeth, Seb continues his typing. “If I didn’t have so much to catch up on before tonight I’d bend you over that desk right now.” 

Ooooh my god please do, ~sir~. I squeak. Ugh.

“Is that a threat?”

“Sounds like you want it to be.”

He imitates a squeaky toy to prove his point. I (rightfully!) give his shin a kick, and he just laughs and flicks his foot back towards me.

He isn’t wrong though. I want nothing more than that, actually. But, like the little shit I am, I instead respond, “Bold of you to assume such a thing.” 

“What, is it not romantic enough for our first time?” he jests. “Or are you just challenging me for fun, you little perv?” 

“Classified information.” Quick (y/n), change the topic! “This thing still work?” I ask, tapping the monitor in front of me.

“Yeah, you wanna use it?”

“Fuck yeah, I do.” When he gives me a nod of approval, I stand up to reach the power button, pressing it and hoping for some RGB as it boots up. There are some — all red — and the poor thing sounds like it’s struggling. “When’s the last time this thing was turned on?”

“Years ago, don’t remember exactly when.” 

I hum, and am met with a black screen and white writing. “Oof. Says something about an improper boot device?”

“Shit. Umm,” he stops typing to think for a second. “Turn it on again, and go to the boot menu, in the BIOS. The right one should be somewhere on the list.”

I follow his directions. “The Windows one, I’m assuming?”

He nods. “Good girl.”

MMMMMM. If I had a tail, it would totally be wagging right now. 

I inhale sharply, trying to contain myself. “Fuck you.”

“Bad girl?” he suggests, raising one of his brows.

“I don’t like it, but sure, that’s better.” 

The computer finally starts up, and I'm surprised to find that it’s not locked by a password. This thing looks empty, though. Must’ve moved all his games and junk to the PC he’s on right now… I do the only reasonable thing to do in a situation like this: open up a browser and download stuff. MapleStory, maybe?

“Hmm, you’re right. I don’t like it either.”

“Good! So don’t use it, forehead.”

“My forehead is beautiful, thank you,” he quips. “What if it was in a different context?”

“What, like,” I clear my throat, “Oh, you’re a bad girl…?” I recite, the attempted deep voice cracking as I speak.

Seb heartily laughs. Adorably. Ughhh. “Yeah, like that.”

“Dunno, never been called that in that way before.”

“Mmm, that’ll be a fun experiment.” 

“There is no reason that should’ve been sexy, and yet…” I trail off.

He chuckles evilly, and I flick the scrunchie on my wrist at him. 

Picking it up from his lap, he holds it up briefly and says, “Cool, thanks.” 

Seb proceeds to (attempt to) put his hair up. Considering how choppy and uneven it is, it ends up being a wonky side-ponytail. 

Unfortunately, he’s still hot.

#sebastian x reader #sebastian #sdv sebastian #sdv #sdv rasmodius #sve magnus #magnus rasmodius x reader #stardew valley rasmodius #sdv sebastian x reader #stardew sebastian #sebastian stardew #sebastian headcanons #stardew valley #stardew #sve #sebsatian sdv #sdv wizard #stardew wizard #magnus rasmodius #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley sebastian x reader #wizard x reader

[ali-annals]

nothing lasts forever (say you'll remember me) (forever is the sweetest con, pt 1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Marinette Dupain-Cheng PART TWO Moodboard

Rating: T | Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ao3 | WC: 1.0k | TW: -

A/N: This is part of a series called The Eras Tour (Jasonette’s Version), a collection of Jasonette-centric fics I wrote for the Maribat discord server Maribat? Get In!’s 2024 Civil War event. Not beta’d.

Years after retiring from Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng goes by many other names, switching identities as easily as she breathes…until she tries to swindle the wrong guy.

“Jump in!”

The red Mercedes screeched to a stop at Marinette’s feet, and she yanked the door open, hopping inside. The car took off before she’d even finished closing it. 

She looked up from buckling her seatbelt. “Your timing is impeccable.”

Her chauffeur smirked at her, already passing the ‘goodbye’ billboard at the city limits. “Tell that to my exes.”

“Ooh, self-burn, those are rare. Where are we going now?”

“Anywhere away from the crowds,” he shrugged. “Where do ya wanna go?”

“I don’t care, as long as I’m with you.”

He leaned over, bringing her knuckles to his mouth to press a soft kiss there. “‘With me’ it is!”

Jason pulled over at a roadside motel for the night, the gorgeous view from their window making up for the dubious service offered. 

The sunset drew Marinette to it like a moth to a flame, her fingers itching for the familiar colours and rough surface of the heavy-pressed paper she drew on. She could imagine the designs already, showcasing the rugged beauty of night rising.

People usually said night fell, but in her opinion, it rose, creeping up on you gently until suddenly all you could see was the smooth darkness. 

She turned to face the wind, letting it blow her hair out of her face, enjoying the last rays of light warming her skin. 

“Pixie!” called Jason, climbing up the slight knoll until he didn’t have to shout for her attention anymore. 

She tossed him a smile. “Hey, Jay.”

His larger form behind her gave her a strange sense of security, stability. She didn’t know why; they’d agreed when they met that they would leave sooner rather than later.

Ten months ago

“Jason Head.”

“Marie Cheng. Enchante.”

“What’s a pretty woman like you doing here?”

She glanced around at the bar, filled with rougher-looking people than her in her polished pink dress and grey boots and coat. “Hiding,” she said simply, her body language inviting him to join her.

He accepted her invite, perching on the stool beside her and ordering a ginger beer.

Her eyebrow raised, unbidden. He tossed her a half-grin, silently baiting her.

She bit. “I can’t say I expected you to order a ginger beer.”

“And what did you expect me to order?”

“Scotch or whisky on the rocks, most likely. Maybe a lager.”

“I don’t mind one now and again but I prefer to stay away from alcohol when I can. Family issues.”

She nodded understandingly. “Why are you here then, if you don’t drink your problems away for the night?”

“Maybe I have other ways of dealing with my problems,” he looked her up and down slowly, subtext not lost on her. She was well-versed in masculine wiles and countering with her own feminine ones. 

She bit her lip, swirling her mocktail around slowly. “Do you deal with your problems in another place, as well as manner, then?”

“I might. Would you care to see?”

“I think I’d like that very much.” She polished off her drink, preparing to close her tab. Jason beat her to it, waving away her protests. 

Marinette silently pulled her dress over her head, glancing surreptitiously at the bed to make sure Jason was still sleeping. He didn’t move, like he hadn’t for the past several minutes.

She tiptoed to his discarded pants pockets, fishing through his wallet for loose cash. It was a hard business, being a bandit these days. Everyone paid through credit cards or apps, making one-and-done deals like this much harder to pull off and less financially feasible to make up for the trouble it was worth. Long cons were easier, simply requiring her to make up a new personality for a month or two while she stored away jewels and leftover cash from shopping sprees financed by her target du jour . 

A paper in Jason’s wallet caught her eye and she tugged it out from its sticky hiding place after another glance at the bed. Jason Todd was the name, not Jason Head. 

So she wasn’t the only one out there still doing good ol’ fashioned swindling, huh. Inwardly, she chuckled at the irony of them ending up together. Well, it had been fun. Adieu, Jason Whatever-your-real surname-is.

She curled her fingers around the doorknob cautiously, twisting slowly so the click wouldn’t wake Jason up. 

She’d made it to the parking lot when her arm was seized and she turned to see Jason holding her.

“I think you mixed up some of our belongings in your haste to escape, Marie.”

A couple was much less suspicious than a single person, making their cons much easier. A partner for lookout, for companionship, for intelligent conversation, especially about their line of work, was a welcome find. They agreed to travel together for no longer than a year, as they’d eventually become too noticeable as a couple. Still, while they had each other, they made the most of it.

Now

He wrapped his arms around her waist, speaking softly into her ear. They’d done this plenty of times, but it felt different this time, and what he said confirmed Marinette’s thoughts.

“They know we have a partner now; it would be smarter to split up.”

She nodded, turning in his arms to face him. “You’re right. Promise me one more night before we separate?”

“One more night,” he agreed, kissing her. 

She silently pulled her clothes over her head, glancing back at the bed. She knew this time he was sleeping, having become accustomed to his breathing patterns, even his resting heart rate over the past several months. She opened his wallet, sliding several bills in between the soft leather folds. 

With a final glance at his sleeping form, she quietly opened the door and slipped out into the sunrise.

She opened her wallet at the bus station to pay for her ticket. Several more bills than she’d had last night peeked up at her. She scoffed a smile, wiping her tears away. He’s already remembering me. Adieu, Jason Todd.

#jasonette #ali writes #fic #dcxmlb #mgi cw 24

[thedeviltohisangel]

I Heard From The Heavens//4

And as tears trickled down his own face, he realized how close he had come to losing her that day. That it wasn’t Bradley’s fault. That maybe Pete Mitchell had cheated death one too many times for the universe’s liking. That maybe this was it’s reminder how mortal he was. That no matter how often he sought the solace of a cockpit, the ones he loved most were on the ground and if he forgot that ever again, he’d regret it.

Bradley & Daphne’s Infinite Playlist: Hell Of A View by Eric Church

masterlist is my url/writing or on ao3

based on a request to see mav in panic dad mode. send in more!

tw: car accident/miscarriage

Daphne was half listening to the judge give the jury instructions, half itching to grab her flashcards from her purse to remember what the term meant that he had just used. She sat in the back of the courtroom with the other interns from the U.S. Attorney’s office she was currently at. School had ended last year and he was an old friend of her mother’s who offered her the job while she studied for the Bar. It was proving difficult balancing work and studying and Bradley. But not impossible. They were happier than they ever had been, Bradley graduating soon from TOPGUN and her career on the precipice of everything she ever wanted. After their breakthrough at the Hard Deck, they had found their footing again even amongst the chaos of life. 

“You studying with us tonight, Daph? We were gonna order Potbelly and camp out,” said Carmen, one of the interns she had gotten closest to. She opened her mouth to respond but felt nausea rise up her throat instead of words. Quickly ducking into the closest bathroom, she emptied the meager contents of her stomach. She had recently been unable to keep down more than saltines and ginger ale but couldn’t focus on it until her exam passed in a couple weeks. Was probably the stress of studying anyways. 

----

“You know, if your eyes keep closing then you aren’t really able to read and study.” Daphne startled herself awake at the kitchen table as Bradley peered through a couple cabinets in a quest for a midnight snack. “Come to sleep with me. It’ll all still be here in the morning.”

“Can’t,” she replied as she rubbed her eyes and went back to the article on her laptop, “I already ditched the study group tonight and I can’t afford to fall behind on my schedule.” She held the spreadsheet out to him as if to prove how dire the situation was.

“I don’t know what half this shit means,” he remarked and handed the paper back. “Your stomach is still acting up?” It gurgled in response to his question.

“I’ll be fine. In two weeks, I’ll have taken this test and can put all this stress behind me.” He watched her for a bit longer, something not sitting right with him but not knowing quite what it was. Maybe he was overthinking things or worrying over her too much. She was the most intelligent and capable person he knew. He should trust that she could take care of herself. 

“You’d tell me if it was something, right?” Daphne had her parent’s tolerance for pain. As a little girl she prided herself in never going to the school nurse’s office. Had taped her own broken finger on the sidelines of a field hockey game. Had practiced the art of smiling through period cramps and migraines.

“Bradley,” she whined. She was avoiding his question because they both knew the answer was actually that she wouldn’t.

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone. Just need a good night kiss first.”

“Okay but actually just a kiss.” If you give a Bradley a kiss, he normally wants a handful of her ass. And if you give him that, it was a slippery slope to a flat surface and then the night would slip out of her grasp.

“I’m offended by what you’re implying,” he quipped. She smiled as she leaned to meet his lips halfway, not objecting when he slipped his tongue between her lips but smacking his chest when his hand around the back of her neck tightened ever so slightly.

“Stop, you know what your hand around my throat does to me,” she moaned. Daphne went against her own morals and leaned in for another kiss but he pulled away instead.

“I’m following the rules you set,” he said with a click of his tongue. She mumbled something about hating him but turned back to her computer with a pout. “Love you, gorgeous.”

“Night, handsome,” she called as he finally retreated out of the room. A yawn escaped from her mouth but she stifled it quickly. She could last a few more hours…

----

Bradley was startled awake a couple of hours before his alarm by the sounds of Daphne dry heaving in the bathroom. A quick glance to his side showed she had never come to bed the night before and he grimaced at himself for not realizing earlier. She was hunched over the toilet with tears streaming down her face when he opened the door.

“Sweetheart,” he cooed before he dropped to the tile and pulled her hair back, rubbing her back. 

“I’m sorry for waking you up.” The words sounded pitiful even to her own ears. He had enough to focus on with school and needed his sleep so he could be at his most alert when he flew. The last thing she wanted was to add to the weight on his shoulders. 

“No, baby, don’t apologize. Maybe it’s time you let me take you to the doctor’s.” She lent against his chest as she felt like she was done for the time being. 

“You can’t miss training,” he opened his mouth to argue with her, “I promise I’ll go myself today.”

“You’re not driving yourself like this.” He pushed some of her sweaty hair from her forehead and pressed a gentle kiss to her skin. 

“I’ll drink some Gatorade and I’ll be fine,” her voice fading to a whisper as she relaxed against him and felt like sleep was going to take over.

“We’ll see in a couple hours,” he mumbled against her hair as his thumb traced circles on her skin right above the band of her shorts until she was heavy with sleep. He carried her to bed and traced her cheek softly. “Let me take care of you, Daph.”

----

She watched from bed as he readied himself for the day, admiring the way his butt looked in his flight suit and smiling wistfully when his back muscles flexed while he bopped to the soft sounds of Maren Morris she was playing on her phone. 

“You sure you have to fly today and we can’t play doctor?” she asked while innocently twirling a lock of hair around her finger. 

“Weren’t you, just last week, calling me a horn-dog?” 

“I called you one, I didn’t complain you were one,” she clarified. 

“I’ll keep the distinction in mind.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pecked her quickly on the lips. “Promise me you’ll stay in bed today. Light flash card reading, bland food and sips of liquids only.”

“Yes, sir.” She went in for another kiss, Bradley stopping her with a finger to her lips.

“Say you promise, Daphne.”

“Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Daphne Mitchell.” She didn’t want to say the words because then she had to keep to them. 

“I promise,” she relented with a huff. Satisfied, he kissed her one last time before slipping on his aviators and grabbing his car keys.

“Might be hard to reach me today but call the number of the captain I gave you if anything changes.” 

“I love you, Rooster.” He blushed at the use of his call sign. 

“Love you too, Chicky.” 

----

She waited exactly fifteen minutes from the time he closed the front door before she was out of bed. Before her unidentified stomach bug had ruined her studying the night before, she had been looking through the references of a particularly fascinating paper and researching local libraries to see if they had any of the books that were mentioned. She justified her betrayal of Bradley by imagining the laugh he would get from her reason. Only she would risk his disappointment or a public stomach issue because of a book. At least, that was what she told herself as she followed the directions on her phone towards her goal.

She told herself it was the glare off the back windshield of the car in front of her that was making her head hurt. That it was the heat and her crappy air conditioning that was making her nauseous. That the black spots at the edge of her vision would go away any minute. Daphne swears she only blinked. That the other car came out of nowhere and crashed into without her ever even noticing. She remembers a searing pain from her shoulder where the seat belt pulled tight and the suffocating force of the air bag. She remembers thinking that her mother was on a business trip a few hours away. That her dad was test flying a couple of states away. She saw Bradley’s face as the glass splintered across her face and the world flipped upside down. Thought of how small he was when his father died. She thought of the promise she had made him that morning and that she should never have thought about breaking it. As the world stilled, the roof of her car against the pavement and her mind begging her to go to sleep, she thought of the wedding dress she’d never wear and the children she’d never hold. She touched the ground outside her window and thought of Bradley up in the sky. 

“I’m sorry.” And that was the last thing she remembers.

----

Pete Mitchell recognized the area code instantly. His first thought was that an old TOPGUN colleague or classmate was calling to catch up. But when he answered it, fresh off an exhilarating test run and trying to catch his breath, he thinks the words could have knocked him out cold. Heard the nurse explaining there had been a car accident. That Daphne was breathing but she wasn’t awake. That they couldn’t locate Lieutenant Bradshaw so they had called him. A brief but bright flash of anger flickered across his mind but it passed as he tried to do the math of how long it would take for him to fly by helicopter to where his daughter was. 

“Her mother…you need to call her mother, she’s in the area on business and can get there before me so Daphne’s not alone.” The image of his precious daughter alone and injured was enough to buckle his knees. Once he hung up, he tried Bradley but got his voicemail. “Bradley, get yourself to the hospital as soon as you hear this. I’m on my way but…but she’s going to want to see you.”

----

He can’t remember the last time he had been in the same room as his ex-wife. Their divorce had been less than amicable, her insistence that his lifestyle and influence was not conducive to the way she wished to raise their daughter driving a nail in the coffin of any hopes they had for a friendship. Charlie was pacing in the waiting room when he burst through the elevator doors and even though he had known she’d be there, he was still caught off guard by seeing her after so long. 

“Pete,” she cried in desperation. He pulled her into his arms without words, knowing that she was feeling the same ache in her chest that he was. 

“What have they said?” he murmured. 

“Some asshole ran a redlight and hit her side of the car. I stopped listening to all the broken bones after the third one. Head trauma. Internal bleeding. They took her into surgery a half hour ago.” Pete reached for the back of a chair in an attempt to steady himself. “We spoke the other day and she was so excited for the exam. She said her and Bradley had booked a trip to celebrate after his graduation. She sounded so happy. She has so much greatness ahead of her, Pete.” He nodded. It was a cruel, cruel world that those milestones might be taken from his daughter. That he might lose her. 

“She’s going to pull through. You think our daughter is going to let anyone take her future away from her? You remember how hard she fought us over an extra cookie or an extra hour of curfew. I wouldn’t want to be the one standing in her way of all she has ahead of her.” They both let out a teary chuckle at the image of their little girl stomping her foot to emphasize her point or her famous eye rolls that were so dramatic they looked like they hurt. “She gets her tenacity from you,” Pete complimented softly. 

“That might be true but when she bounces back from this like nothing happened, that’s all Maverick.” The small moment of congeniality between the two was interrupted by the frantic ring of his cell phone. 

“Bradley,” he gulped. He steadied himself before answering, not wanting to scare the boy anymore than the missed calls and voicemails already had. Charlie squeezed his hand tenderly. 

“What the fuck is gong on, Mav? Is she…Is she…” Bradley roughly rubbed at his eyes. He had taken his time after flying today, wanting his adrenaline rush to subside before heading home to care for Daphne. Once he had finally looked at his phone, missed calls from an unknown number. Missed calls from both of Daphne’s parents. All the voicemails informed him of was that she had been in a car accident and was in the hospital. That is was bad enough for both Charlie and Pete to drop what they were doing and head towards their daughter. 

“They have her in surgery right now. We’ll know more once she gets out.” 

“You know she promised me she was going to sit tight and rest today. I shouldn’t have left her this morning. I should’ve been there.” Bradley couldn’t help but think, wish, it was him battered and bruised instead of her. 

“It’s not your fault, Bradley. No one is at fault except for the driver that hit her. None of us could have done anything different. You focus on getting here safely.”

“I’ll be there soon. Thank you, Mav, for being there with her.”

“I always will be.” 

----

It felt like a lifetime before Bradley reached the hospital, haphazardly parking his car and sprinting up the stairs to her room when the elevator took too long. Pete was staring at a newspaper from the day before, not really capable of reading it and Charlie was curled up in a chair in an attempt to get some rest. 

“Where is she?” he asked breathlessly. He began to walk down the hall, peering through the windows into the rooms when he felt Pete wrap an arm around his shoulders. 

“Still in surgery. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Shouldn’t she be out by now? Something’s wrong,” he shrugged away his arm and began his own path of pacing. “She fucking promised me!” His fist connected with the wall before any of them knew what was happening. 

“Bradley-” Pete began.

“I have a ring for her. I keep waiting for the right time and now I might never get the chance to marry her. I ‘ve been setting aside money for this house in Virginia Beach I see her looking at pictures of all the time because she deserves so much more than the one on base we’ve been living in.” He tried to keep the tears at bay but was losing. “We talk about kids and her dream of a non profit law clinic and some motherfucker at a red light...” He didn’t push Charlie away as she pulled him in for a hug. 

“She wants all those things and more with you, Bradley. She’s going to fight like hell,” she spoke through her own tears. 

“Are you all here with Ms. Daphne Mitchell?” They all stood as the doctor reached the waiting room. “The accident did a number on her, and we were touch and go for a few minutes on the table, but she’s going to be okay. She has a long recovery ahead of her but she will recover.”

“Oh thank God,” her mother sighed and Bradley hugged her tightly, Pete clapping him on the back with the biggest smile. 

“Mr. Bradshaw, there is one thing you should know.” Three confused looks were directed her way. 

“Me?”

“We were unable to save the fetus. The impact of the wreck and how early Ms. Mitchell was in her pregnancy-” she paused as Bradley collapsed into the nearest chair. Pete wasn’t far behind him. 

“I’m going to be sick,” he muttered in a daze. He should have known. The signs and symptoms had all been there. He should have pressed harder about her going to the doctor. 

“Maybe she didn’t know herself,” Charlie reasoned. Daphne would have told her mother about being pregnant, had she known. She knows she would have told Bradley.

“A baby,” Bradley whispered. They had talked about being parents, late at night in bed when they were dreaming of their future together. To have the chance ripped from him…

“Can we see her?” Charlie had noticed her ex-husband’s breaths coming quicker. His eyes burning a hole in the side of the young pilot’s head. She needed him to focus on Daphne. 

“Of course. Follow me.” They moved to follow but Pete stopped Bradley and pulled him out of ear shot. 

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Bradley asked with complete incredulity. 

“She was pregnant and you had no idea?”

“How am I supposed to know without her telling me?” Pete went to respond but was stopped when Charlie came running back down the hall.

“She’s asking for you two.” 

“I have to tell her, don’t I?” Bradley asked. 

“I think it’s best coming from you,” she replied. He squared his shoulders and walked down the hall to break her heart. “She’s not a teenager, Pete. They are both adults.”

“He promised me he’d protect her.”

“You don’t think the boy is going through enough pain right now without you adding to it?” Pete remembers losing one of Daphne’s teddy bears when she was younger. How he dreaded telling her and being responsible for her sadness. He thought of the conversation between her and Bradley that was happening down the hall and how it could never even compare. Pete walked towards the door slowly and glanced inside. He watched as understanding set over his daughter’s face. As her hands fell to her stomach. As the two of them cried in anguish for a life they hadn’t known they created but missed all the same. As she started the healing process in the arms of the man she loved, who loved her back with a fire he used to feel as well. And as tears trickled down his own face, he realized how close he had come to losing her that day. That it wasn’t Bradley’s fault. That maybe Pete Mitchell had cheated death one too many times for the universe’s liking. That maybe this was it’s reminder how mortal he was. That no matter how often he sought the solace of a cockpit, the ones he loved most were on the ground and if he forgot that ever again, he’d regret it.

#miles teller #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun #top gun maverick

[ao3feed-harryginny]

fanum tax | explosions

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hYPeK13 by evievievievievievievievievievievievie (eviexii) Escaping from the explosions behind him, Draco stumbles upon a familiar face. One he's pined over for years. He doesn't expect what happens next but... It's an explosive surprise. Words: 2914, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Original Characters Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley Additional Tags: Mentioned Ginny Weasley, Mentioned Albus Severus Potter, Mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, not by name tho, only ginny mentioned by name, Adultery, Coprophilia, basically poop kink, shit kink if you will, Urethral Play, urethral Penetration, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Mirror Sex, Shit Eating, Pregnant Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, really long fingers, really long tongue, really long dick, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Latin Grammar, Why Did I Write This?, i was coerced, Not Serious, Childbirth, TW: gingers, TW: IKEA, IKEA Furniture, forest fucking, draco is traumatized from something, Trauma, i missed some tags oops whatever, Diarrhea, diarrhea as lube, Overstimulation read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hYPeK13

#Harry Potter #Ginny Weasley #HarryGinny #Hinny #ao3feed #fanfic #this is an AUTOMATED feed

[vulpes-fennec]

Pumpkin Fields Forever (Part 3) 🎃

Summary: The Harvest Festival saga continues as Elain and Lucien finally have a conversation longer than 5 minutes and begin to ~see~ each other. 

TW: Mentions of violence/gore

“Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn’t matter much to me”

Read: Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

Elain had made a beeline for the apple cider booth after the corn maze. She was parched, and hungry. Lucien had wordlessly stepped in front of her to pay for the drinks, but Elain silently muscled him out of the way. She would sooner rip her daisies out of the ground than be indebted to him. Allowing Lucien to pay was also too close to courting, and she would not allow their interactions to cross that line today.

In the end, neither of them won. The vendor recognized Elain as Feyre’s sister, giving them the ciders free of charge and adding sweet rice cakes on the house. Elain forced down her annoyance and thanked the vendor for his generosity.  

Elain hesitated when it came to picking up the food. What if I accidentally accept the mating bond by casually passing food to Lucien? She hesitated so long that Lucien ended up putting the refreshments on a tray himself.

Elain managed to pay for two slices of pumpkin pie at another booth, adding them to Lucien’s tray. Her gaze lingered on a delicious-looking pear crumble, but she decided to walk on. The two silently settled in a small table under an orange and yellow-leaved oak. 

“Wait here,” were Lucien’s first words to her in a while. Elain stared at Lucien’s retreating back, confused. I just want to eat. Does he really trust me to just stay here? Because there’s nothing stopping me from leaving…Elain glanced around, noting how everybody at the Harvest Festival was in an easy, happy mood. She seemed to be the only one who was a ball of nervous energy.  

He returned in less than five minutes. Elain’s eyes widened eagerly: Lucien had gotten the pear crumble from the pastry booth earlier. “I saw you were eyeing these…” he trailed off, tan face darkening with blush when she looked up at him. 

“Thank you,” Elain mumbled, mindful of her fingers when she took the bowl from him. He took the extra effort just for me. Elain didn’t know how to feel about it. She felt touched by the gesture, but…perhaps he was only motivated by the mating instincts to provide for her. 

Every item was perfectly spiced and sweetened, cooked to perfection. It was agonizing to be eating the food in silence, when all Elain wanted to do was comment on the dishes. She could’ve sworn Lucien smiled a bit when she inhaled the pear crumble, washing it down with a gulp of hot apple cider. 

She would have to recreate this masterpiece in the kitchen next week. Ginger seemed to be the special warming ingredient, and maybe even cinnamon…

“You didn’t like it when Daniela’s mother referred to you as Feyre’s sister. Or when the vendor gave us free food after recognizing you as an Archeron.” 

Elain blinked slowly, looking up from her rice cakes. “There’s nothing wrong with being an Archeron,” she replied neutrally. 

Lucien arched an eyebrow. “Does disliking special treatment make you feel ashamed? Because you’re worried it’ll come off as ungrateful?” 

Elain squirmed with discomfort. “Are you asking me or are you speculating?” 

“I think you feel bad because you’ve relied on Feyre your whole life.” Lucien’s gold eye focused on her with a whirr. “You’re struggling to break out of that cycle, am I right?”

“Is this interrogation happening because I didn’t let you pay?” Elain stabbed her rice cake with a little extra force. She regretted eating the pear crumble now. He must’ve given me it to butter me up, she thought with dismay. 

“Let you pay? With what money?” Lucien chuckled. Elain seethed at his taunt, his foxy countenance. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so annoyed at an attractive male. Men and males—especially handsome ones—tended to be agreeable with her.

“Fine. I may not have an official job.” Saying it out loud cemented how she didn’t have a major role at the Night Court, no matter how many charities she worked or parties she planned. Elain hated it.

Lucien has a bigger role than me and he’s hardly here. That’s not fair. She found a way to retort, and proceeded to use it. “But Rhys and Feyre pay you, so you’re relying on Feyre too, aren’t you?” 

That seemed to knock Lucien down a few pegs, but he recovered quickly. “It seems my lady and I agree on one thing: we don’t like being on the Night Court’s payroll. But the difference between you and me—” he leaned closer, his scent and smirk making Elain’s head spin “—is that I don’t pretend to enjoy it.”

Elain felt like a deer staring at a notched arrow. She’d spent less than a whole day with this male over the last few years, yet he’d already identified something she kept hidden from everybody else. This is precisely why I don’t want to spend time with him. He’ll be running once he knows my horrible thoughts. “You can’t just peek into the bond—” 

“You hardly send anything down the bond,” Lucien replied dryly. “Everything I’ve said has been the product of my prior knowledge and current observations.” 

Elain glowered at him as she took a sip of her cider. So he HAS been reading me like the emissary he is. That is hardly any more reassuring than knowing he isn’t using the bond. “Well, congratulations,” she said sarcastically. “You are correct. I don’t like it when people treat me differently because of my sisters.” 

Lucien clenched his jaw slightly at her tone. “I take no happiness in your misery, my lady.” 

A small silence passed, with Elain struggling to get ahold of herself while Lucien slowly munched his pie. “Speaking of the…the bond. You send things to me.” 

Lucien froze mid-bite. He set down his spoon apprehensively. “When? What did I send?”  

“It wasn’t very often. When you t-tugged on it? In the townhouse. And during the Solstice, I felt you were…disappointed.” The words were sludge in her throat. Speaking them into existence meant acknowledging that she played a part in that disappointment when she spurned his gift. “And today, twice. At the petting zoo.” 

“Ah. I’m sorry.” Lucien’s eyes flicked down, avoiding Elain. “I try to keep things to myself but it looks like some things have slipped through.” 

Hiding his emotions must be a massive mental strain. Elain understood the strain all too well. But if I let him relax his hold, then the constant connection would remind me of the bond waiting to be addressed. 

Lucien is a permanent fixture for the rest of my immortal life…does he even WANT such responsibility? Would he want me if the bond did not exist?

“You come out swinging while I’m trying to enjoy some dessert,” Elain huffed, trying to break the awkwardness. “My turn. How did you lose your eye? And why are you ashamed of it?” 

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he replied defensively. “I just…I know it’s intimidating to look at. I used to be quite the handsome male, you know.” He smirked again at Elain, waiting for her reaction. 

Elain only blinked at him with an expression of neutrality. She bit the urge to tell him he was still good-looking. “So you’re self-conscious,” she supplied instead. 

Lucien shrugged. “I had a mask stuck to my face for 49 years.” He paused, glancing down at his hands. “Seeing how old friends looked at my new face differently, how children shrank back in fear…that was why I glamoured myself around Daniela. I’m still self-conscious around new people.” 

“You didn’t glamour yourself when you met me,” Elain pointed out. 

Lucien’s russet eye flicked towards her. “You’d already seen me at Hybern.” His voice quiet at the horrible memory. “But you did look at me differently with the glamour. So if you prefer me to keep it on—”

“No,” Elain said sharply. “No. I’d prefer it if you appeared to me…as you are.” Lucien’s face was hesitantly relieved at her admission. 

Perhaps her acceptance of his face was what prompted him to ask, “You know who Amarantha is, right?” 

She nodded. The Hybern general who trapped all the High Lords, who assaulted Rhys for 50 years, who killed Feyre and Clare Beddor. “Well, Tam wanted me to deliver a message as emissary. A rejection of her romantic advances wrapped up in a political package and let’s just say that the witch did not take it well. Her sheer entitlement and cruelty reminded me of my father, Beron…I lost my temper and told her to go back to the shit-hole she crawled out of.” 

If Lucien’s use of coarse language bothered Elain, she didn’t show it. “And then what?” she breathed. 

“Amarantha did not take that well, either. One minute I was standing in front of her, the next I was on the ground, unable to see out of my left eye.” Lucien grimaced, and his metal eye stuttered in distress. “With my right eye, I saw her holding what remained of my left one. She swiftly crushed it under her boot.” The image of such violence shook Elain to her core. 

Lucien shuddered, paling visibly. It took all of Elain’s self-control to not reach for his hand, to steady the rapid thump-thump-thumping of his heart. He continued. “I staggered out of the room, blood pouring down my face. I managed to winnow back to Tam’s manor before passing out…and when I came to, I realized that no amount of Fae healing could remake an eye. Or heal the scar she’d left on my face. That was how deeply she raked her poisoned nails into me.” 

Elain felt sick. Feyre’s right, she thought angrily. Amarantha did not suffer enough. For what she did to everybody. What she did to Lucien. He didn’t deserve any of it. 

A roaring sound arose in her ears. “I hope she’s rotting in hell,” she muttered with deadly venom. A desire for vengeance turned her normally soft eyes into hardened stone. Lucien’s gold eye whirred and spun while his russet one regarded her unflinchingly. 

“I’ve upset you.” His gentle voice reminded Elain’s instincts that he was alive, that he was safe from any danger. She blinked, realizing she was breathing hard and gripping her fork with a clenched fist.

It was a moment before she could speak again. “I’m not upset at you…just upset because you feel the need to hide it,” Elain said quietly. “If people knew what you’d been through…how you survived…they would recognize your bravery like Daniela’s father.” 

She meant every word of it. Even though the logical part of her brain was telling her to stop engaging with Lucien, the softer side of her wanted to comfort him, to gently trace his scar and take away the pain he felt over his looks.

This isn’t real, she told herself. It’s the bond, making you feel this way. Right?

“Thank you, my lady.” Lucien hesitantly touched her hand on the table, sending a thrill through Elain. His broad palm was warm in the autumn chill. “Your words mean a lot to me.” 

Elain nodded, throat closing up. If they were having a heart-to-heart now, perhaps she could ask him about things like her father’s final days or Lucien’s experiences living in the human lands.

But Lucien seemed to have other things in mind. He’d shrugged off the somber mood with a wry grin and stood up. “No more moping about my past. How does a carnival game sound?” 

Read: Part 4

**I bought some pears and I’ve been thinking of making a pear crumble dessert because fall baking is Eluciencore 🍐// Also the title is a play on “Strawberry Fields Forever” because the lyrics are major Elucien angst**

#Elucien #Elain Archeron #Lucien Vanserra #acotar #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain #Elucien fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #Elucien angst

[dang-itshauntedinhere]

I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 3

Summary:            

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 (You are here) - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 11k

When your life takes an unexpected turn, your world comes crashing down around you - so you find your way home.

TW: Emotional abuse, Miscarriage

Explaining it had been simple, and you’d asked Claire for a reason: you knew she could keep a secret. When she stopped by the house that afternoon to drop it off, she’d been smiling ear to ear - you tried your best to copy her excitement. She handed you the bag, the items concealed thoughtfully under a bag of brown sugar. 

“Thank you so much Claire, I really owe you one,” you said groggily, taking the bag from her outstretched hand. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” You hoped she would accept, you’d been brewing coffee all morning. The smell helped your nausea, but the pots on the stove boiling would seem excessive if you didn’t get rid of some of it. 

“No, no - I’d really love to, but I’ve got to get home, I’ve got ice cream in the car.” She said with a look of disappointment. “How are you feeling though, dear? Do you need anything else?” You shook your head with a smile.

“I’ll be alright,” you said. “I’ll call you.” She nodded, beaming with the joy of holding your secret. “I really don’t know anything yet - not a word, Claire.” She made a motion like she was zipping her mouth shut and turned to walk away, nearly bouncing with every step. 

You started toward the house, clutching the bag against your abdomen, anxiety and nausea rippling through you in cold waves. You listened as her tires crackled against the driveway.

“Oh Y/n?” She shouted from her window, and you looked at her, panicked at her shouting. Please don’t say anything obvious, you prayed, smiling across the lawn at her. “Ginger helps honey - ginger tea!” You nodded, waving as she rolled away. 

Finally in the safety of your home, you leaned against the door, relieved. You’d been sleeping most of the day - throwing up when you had the energy to be up. It had started a couple of days ago - you thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be flu and moving on with your day. When it seemed to linger, however, you started to get nervous. Something was different. 

You pushed yourself from the door, dizzy for a moment before you could make your way to the kitchen. You set the bag on the counter and reached up to a cabinet. Ginger, huh? You opened the cabinet to search, pushing your way through boxes of tea. When you couldn’t find anything, you settled for peppermint. Mint is supposed to settle your stomach, right? 

You set the kettle on the stove, lifting the nearly empty pots of boiling coffee from the stove, holding your face over the steam for a moment before dumping them into the sink. With a moment of hesitation, you reached into the bag and retrieved two rectangular boxes, turning one over in your hand. With a sigh, you sank to the floor. You read the instructions for the pregnancy test, listening to the kettle rumble quietly behind you. Seems simple enough.

You stayed down there for a while, savoring the cool floor against your bare legs and closing your eyes. I’m sure most women are scared when it happens, you thought. The kettle started to whistle behind you. You closed your eyes and listened to the sound and hoped that it would drown everything out.

—

After wandering the house nervously for the first hour of the test, the nausea creeped back in - enough to drive you back to bed. You crawled under the covers, propping yourself against the headboard. You reached for the book on your side table, opening it to a worn page. Damien had mailed it to you a few weeks ago.

You’d already read through it - in fact it had been a gift to Damien, one where you left notes in the margins in blue ink. You’d been a little surprised when it arrived, but upon opening it, you found the margins were no longer just yours. Your questions and prompts were accompanied now by notes in black, and sometimes pencil, responding. You loved it. It was like a long-distance conversation that you could start at any time. 

The book was a relatively thin paperback copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God, a story that had astounded and captivated you. You weren’t sure how much Damien would enjoy it when you gave it to him - maybe that’s why he found parting with it so easy, you thought with a smile and an eye roll. 

Reading it again however, you found that the notes in the margins increased from a few scattered underlines and responses in the beginning chapters to sentences squeezed between lines, paragraphs wrapping around corners, cluttering any open space. All things considered, the book was nearly illegible in its last pages, but you found you were most excited to reach them. 

Continuing where you had left off, you reached the scene where Logan demands Janie work on the farm along with her work in the house. You’d enjoyed the painful comparison of her role to that of his mule: 

At least a mule can’t resent her place in the world. What an ass.

Haha

Interesting how such a cruel man has such little regard for gender roles. Or more regard?

More. He seems to enjoy the benefits of manhood enough. Perhaps all women are simply doomed

I wonder why a 15-year-old has such limited knowledge of keeping a home? :0

You mean women aren't genetically destined for the kitchen? Someone should have said something

Breaks my heart

Funny how it doesn't break his

An arrow pointed here with the message: Obviously not funny

You breathed a laugh. 

As the book continued, some of the messages were original, crowding around chapter numbers for room. 

I believe she is lucky he is not initially good to her. It might be harder to leave - I consider now that to love is to be held hostage - Too preachy?

I wish I could say men of the church were above all of this, but unfortunately it demands a separation of faith from institution -

The church does not speak on its past in the owning of people - one has to wonder 

Kidney failure: now that is an act of God I can appreciate

The shrill ring of the egg timer echoed in the master bathroom, and you swung your legs over the side of the bed, rushing to stop the noise. You snatched it from the vanity, intentionally keeping your eyes from the tests that were ready on the other side. You set the timer down shakily, and picked one up. 

A dark ring appeared around the bottom of the small tube. You swallowed thickly. You reached for the next one. Another positive. The room seemed to lurch as you sunk to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and holding yourself together as your world fell apart.

You’d told Claire that you weren’t sure, but that if it ended up being positive, you wanted to surprise Chris with the news, so you figured that bought you some time. Besides, you could wait to call her - maybe even tell her they were negative - these were a pretty new invention, after all. 

But you couldn’t fight the panic that set in with reason for long. Your thoughts ran out of control at the thought of having a baby. Of course you’d considered the possibility, it always felt like something that was on the horizon - but that had always been something for later. I guess it’s later now. Your head felt heavy and your throat constricted. What am I going to do? 

You took deep breaths and tried to stay calm. I’m married - this isn’t some crime of passion, it’s what married women are supposed to do. This is what I’m supposed to do. The panic cooled as you pulled together thoughts of your friends with children, thoughts of your students, all the times you’d watched the children during mass - children were wonderful. Of course, children were difficult, dirty, and life-consuming, but they were wonderful. I can work with wonderful, you thought.

A sweet numbness, not quite joy, but not panic either, settled over you. Raising from the floor, you busied yourself with disposing of the evidence, grateful that this bathroom was “yours,” and that Chris used the one down the hall. You would tell Jo at dinner next week, she would know what to do next. Until then, you would convince yourself of the idea. 

A pang of guilt resonated in your mind - Why not tell Chris? He’s my husband, he should be the first to know. You knew already that you couldn’t tell him. Something held you back, and prodding at the feeling sent a shock of fear through you. Not yet. I’ll tell him eventually, you reasoned, pushing the feeling away. Just… not yet.

You wandered back to bed, enjoying a quiet breeze through the open window and sighing in the heat of the afternoon. You sat there for a moment, letting your thoughts go blank. You opened the book again.

He hurts her if she stays, someone new hurts her if she leaves. What would you tell her? 

I submit to the idea that everything happens for a reason - but I think “God’s plan” is often misunderstood. I think God obliges us to the ones we love. This is not love.

—

You were grateful the Martins had agreed to have dinner at your house tonight, it gave you a chance to choose a menu you could stomach. That meant chicken and dumplings. Your recipe was good enough and the heat had subdued with the evening- no one had noticed. It was just as likely no one had questioned your choice at all, despite its simplicity for a family meal. Were you being paranoid? Maybe.

Keeping the secret was surprisingly easy, but nerve-wracking. You wished it wasn’t summer break - going back to work might have helped, but thinking of your students now… also made the secret harder to keep. It had only been about a week since the positive tests. It just didn't feel real yet. It may have been the denial fading, then, that made your heart race as you thought about this recipe. Your mother would make this for you when you were sick. The wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over you as you made quiet conversation. Maybe being a mother wouldn’t be so bad.

Your mind drifted through possible names, through halloween costumes, through swim lessons and birthday parties and singing, through childrens’ books and screaming laughs and splashing in puddles. You thought about all the pictures you’d take, the height marks against the wall, the bright eyes. 

This feeling always left you awash with joy - I guess this is what people are talking about when they say someone’s *glowing.* Lost in thought, you tried to hold on to the feeling, chasing memories you had yet to make.

“Dear?” You felt a hand on your shoulder. You looked up at Jo, who looked at you with concerned eyes. You shook your head slightly as the feeling flitted away. 

“Sorry, lost in thought,” you said with a smile. Your heart sank slightly as you looked around, suddenly aware. “I’m sorry, did anyone need anything? Oh the jell-o!” You rose slowly at first, then all at once struck by the memory of the orange jell-o setting in the fridge - hopefully not frozen.

You hurried to the fridge, pulling out the mold and slowly turning it onto a plate. The orange surface was maybe a little too stiff, but glassy and cool nonetheless. You sighed with relief. 

“It’s alright,” you called to the dining room, carrying the platter shakily to the table. Chris watched from the table, with a puzzled look on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” you said with a laugh.

“Seems like you’ve been lost in thought a lot lately,” He put a hand on your arm. “What’s going on with you?” You stood there for a moment, face hot in the spotlight. A chill prickled over your skin and you swallowed thickly. You hated being put on the spot, and this was not the time. 

“It’s just that flu lingering.” You smiled and patted his hand. “I always seem to get sick in the summer - good thing work was keeping you out of the house, you might’ve caught it.” You deflected the question, starting to gather empty plates. 

You caught Chris’ expression in the corner of your eye. He seems convinced. Jo joined you in clearing the plates as your husband delved into the gelatin. Retreating to the kitchen with the plates, you wondered if you imagined the sigh you shared, the facade falling. Something about holding a smile like that… It felt like speaking to a particularly anxious student - like trying to get ahead of something. You looked at Jo in the moment you shared in the kitchen, her face blank, eyes tired. What must it be like, staying ahead of him? You returned to the dining room, resolved to keep your joy buried a little deeper.

“-is a pretty broad topic, so there’s a lot to consider. Feels like each time I’m close to completing it, something happens that proves my point just a little bit more, and then I just have to add it.” Chris spoke with serious excitement about his book. You were pretty sure you could pass a philosophy exam with all he’d told you at this point - and that look he would get in his eye, that furrowed brow, that deep patience for questions and discussion - you always thought he was at his best when he was talking about his work. 

“I think it’ll make some waves with the current political climate, I’ve just got to finish it in this lifetime.” He smiled. “Actually, the women’s movement is my current inspiration.”

“Oh?” You asked, genuinely intrigued. Chris had never been one to spend much time outside of his own head, maybe this was a sign of change? He straightened, his eyes bright with the thrill of an audience. 

“Make your speech,” You prompted, scooting forward and shooting him a curious smile. 

“Well, women’s issues and inequalities have been the subject of philosophical debate since men learned to think,” He smiled a little at that. “And what we’re seeing as the women’s movement is a product of everything that has been thought of, decided, and enacted upon women for years. But I would argue that what we perceive as an independent movement of collective thought is rather the work of fate.”

“I think, then, if we work backwards from this conclusion, we find that all of the things these women are protesting, and saying ‘should never have happened,’ were always going to happen. And, that whatever outcome is reached from the movement, if change occurs at all, will have been destined to happen as well,” He continued, gesturing following his words in clear movements. You looked at him with a degree of confusion, nodding for him to go on.

“So, I don’t think we can blame them for questioning it all, but I also think that if change occurs, will it be anything more than the re-packaging of every other social movement that has ever occurred? And to that extent, will it prove to actually change anything? Women are biologically destined for certain events in their lives - and collectively, until now, have never objected to that.” He said it as if it was a fact, but you suddenly found him very opinionated, and a little cold-blooded to reduce the movement to a personal marketing decision, and a futile one at that. Your skin crawled. 

“If we see change, it will have been the product of everything women have never objected to before - think childcare, marriage, preparation of food - ” He looked at his father expectantly. 

“Do we see women, on a mass scale, demanding to be put on the front lines?” he replied, amused.

“Socially, I'd argue that it was always going to happen, but biologically, it was never meant to be. Simple as that. We’ll have to see where it goes, but it’s just another layer of a repeating pattern, and choosing a side is pointless. The pattern was decided on a long time ago - all we can ever do is catch up to it.” He seemed satisfied with that, smiling as he returned to his dessert. Your face flushed with rage, and you watched as your parents-in-law nodded along, understanding. Even Jo seemed convinced. The conversation continued, muffled by a ringing in your ears. Your stomach turned and the room swam around you, like the air above a car on a hot summer day. 

“Excuse me,” you blurted quietly, pushing yourself away from the table and forcing yourself to walk, rather than run to the bathroom. You shut the door with careful silence, breathing ragged breaths through clenched teeth as you crumpled onto the floor. You backed away from the door, your back finding the cool side of the bathtub, mind reeling with a crashing realization. Cold tears dripped silently from your chin.

The feeling at the back of your mind revealed itself in all its snarling glory, the same one that had you hesitating with the thought of having this baby. If I have a daughter, she will grow up to be just like me. Your breaths were tight and fast. He’ll teach her to be a slave to responsibility, to be perfect and quiet, to marry a man who takes everything from her. You pressed a cold hand to your mouth, quieting your broken breaths. If I have a son, he’ll be just like him. He will take him far, far away from me and everything I can teach him. Whoever you are, you are doomed.

All at once, you could see what it had all done to you. Your mind was silent as you rose, slowly turning to the mirror, looking at a person you didn’t recognize. Clothes you didn’t own, hair longer and straighter than yours, dull eyes full of tears and surrounded in dark rings. I am doomed.

—

Big TW for miscarriage here, regulate your reading and proceed with caution.

—

You faced into the fan perched next to your window, relishing in the cool breeze on your brow. The school didn’t have air conditioning, and your room was on the second floor, so the heat was overbearing. The tinny clatter of the highest setting filled the room, white noise you welcomed, drowning out your thoughts. You sighed. It had been two weeks since your realization in the bathroom. Home hadn’t felt right since - you were grateful for the upcoming school year, you could bury yourself in work in the classroom, refusing to think about anything other than ordering finger paints and writing lesson plans.

There were a few other teachers here relatively early, and you had the occasional quick conversation with them as they passed your open door. You wonder if anyone could tell.

You were sorting through slides of animals and places, holding them up to the sun through the blinds and labeling them, when you felt it. Your back slowly tensed, a deep ache spreading through your abdomen. The pain wasn’t so bad, but it made you stop for a moment, and breathe slowly through your nose. The pain subsided. 

You pressed a hand to your back and straightened. This chair is finally catching up to me, you thought. You decided to move to the lounge - where the couches are. You smiled at the thought - and where the ac unit is. You collected the slides, a few piles of work, and your keys, feeling the ache seep in again. You gritted your teeth and left for the lounge, walking slowly. 

Entering the lounge, you sighed in the cool air. Two other women had the same idea, Mrs. Farrow and Claire sat at the round table in the middle of the room, chatting over their work, papers strewn between them. 

“Mind if I join you?” You asked with a smile, unloading your pile on a side table next to a sinking orange couch. You collapsed carefully into the deep cushions, the springs creaking under your weight. “It’s got to be almost 100 degrees up there.” They laughed with you, and you marveled at how Mrs. Farrow’s salt and pepper hair somehow managed to keep its height in the heat, thinking of your own frizzy bun. 

“Dehlia, you’ve got to tell me how you keep your hair looking that good,” you said. She chuckled.

“Honey, I’ve been up on the second floor a lot longer than you have,” she said with a smile. “What took you so long? We’ve been down here for hours.” 

“I have no idea,” you said, leaning your head back onto the arm of the chair, swinging your legs across the couch. “Ah-” You gasped at this new wave, the pain gripping around to your entire abdomen, stealing your breath away. You shut your eyes hard, mouth open in a silent wail. It felt like it held on like that for minutes before it finally let go. You breathed a shaky gasp, static filling your mind as you tried to catch your breath. Panic was starting to set in as the color drained from the room. With a jolt, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder.

“Honey, are you okay?” Claire’s voice ebbed in, ringing. You wanted to nod, to look over and tell her you were fine, that it was just your back hurting, but you were frozen, waiting for the pain to return. Your thoughts were spinning out of control - you barely heard her next words. “Y/n look at me, what’s going on?”

Mrs. Farrow’s face joined Claire’s now, and you pushed out a response.

“M’ okay, just need the bathroom-” You swung your legs over gingerly. I just need to be alone, you thought, trying to put thoughts to words and failing embarrassingly, only stammering. Claire crouched in front of you, hands on your shoulders, keeping you down. Mrs. Farrow pressed a cool hand to your forehead.

“I think you need to lay down,” she said. “You have no color at all!” You shook your head, bracing yourself before standing shakily, the two women moving to support you. They helped drag you to the small attached bathroom while you tried to say something. 

You sunk to the floor, Claire holding your hand as Mrs. Farrow looked down at you, a hand over her mouth. 

“Call Christian, Dehlia, she needs to go to a hospital,” Claire said. Mrs. Farrow nodded, turning to leave the small room, but you reached out, catching the edge of her skirt and holding on as tightly as you could, awake enough now to a single thought, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NONONO-

“No!” you croaked, looking up at her, pleading with every fiber of your being. “No, no, no, he can’t know-” you stopped with a strangled yelp, the pain flooding back around you. All you could do was curl up on the floor, holding your breath and sweating against the dirty green tile. 

You heard her leave the room in a rush, and panic buzzed through you, static filling your ears - I can’t - she can’t- 

You blacked out.

—

You weren’t sure how long those two women stayed with you - hours? All night? You breathed slowly and sipped metallic tap water from a mug, shivering, but conscious. You felt empty with exhaustion. 

Mrs. Farrow leaned against the door frame - the lounge was dark behind her, the yellow glow of a light overhead projecting a halo over her. You almost smiled at the image. You’d gotten to know these women well in the last few hours. She knew what you were going through - the cool dark of her eyes were profoundly sad behind the brave face she wore. She assured you it wasn’t your fault, that sometimes these things happen, but she didn’t tell you to smile. She didn’t tell you to feel better. She didn’t tell you not to cry. 

Claire had been by your side the whole time - your life line. She held onto you and coached you through the worst cramps. She held your hair away from your face when you vomited, listened to your stammering, and distracted you by telling you all about the play she had been to see a few weeks ago - Applause with Lauren Bacall. 

You had all aged a millennia tonight - their eyes were deep and bloodshot, hair frizzy, clothes rumpled and jackets ruined. You almost laughed at the thought of how you probably looked. How can I ever repay them?

You were feeling relatively well for everything that had happened, but the shaky, cold feeling still worried you. You knew you had to go to the hospital - but the idea of leaving the small green bathroom, of leaving Claire and Mrs. Farrow, of telling a doctor everything that had happened, of them seeing- You couldn’t do it. 

“Is-” Claire hesitated to ask you, looking askance before meeting your hollow stare, resolute. “Dear, is there someone we can call?” You looked away and swallowed. You knew you should call Chris. You also knew you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Maybe…

“You need to go to a doctor, honey.” Mrs. Farrow’s tired voice joined Claire’s pleading look. You nodded slowly.

“Yes,” You said, voice quiet. You had someone you could call.

—

The sun was rising by the time you left the hospital. You were lucky - it was a complete miscarriage, and the doctor let you go with some light pain medicine. Part of you was nervous about some kind of complication, and the pain still radiated through you, but you were grateful to get out of the hospital so quickly. 

Jo helped you into the car carefully, her tidy beige coat draped over your slumped shoulders. She’d been at the school in mere moments - eyes glassy. She only asked a few questions - Claire and Mrs. Farrow helped you answer as you stood slowly. You thought you’d cried every tear in your body - but falling into her tight embrace had you sobbing silently again. She said she was glad you called her. Told you you were so brave. 

You didn’t need to tell her to lie to the doctor when you shuffled into the hospital at around 2am - she drove a little ways out of the city to the next closest emergency room and signed you in as her daughter, explaining that her son-in-law was out of town, and had been informed. You stared ahead blankly through swollen eyes. 

Now, as she drove you home through the rising sun, she asked you if you wanted to go home. 

The question struck you dumb - and remembering your husband lit a violent strike through you. Yes, you begged internally. I want to go home. Away from here. Back to the city. Back to my small apartment, back to my parents, back to smoke and shade and noise and painting and safety. I want to go home. Please. 

“Yes,” you answered. The thought of being in that big, hot house all alone scared you though, and in your streak of relying on her, you asked one more favor. “Jo, I know I’ve asked you for a lot tonight- but…” She looked over at you, expectant. “Could you- would you stay with me? Just for a little while?”

She looked ahead at the road and smiled.

“Of course.” She sniffed. You sighed. 

“Thank you.” You said. 

—

Jo hadn't lied on one account: Chris really was out of town, as he so often was in the summer. Conferences, research, and binge-writing sessions kept him out of the house often. Sometimes he worked from his office, the shrill clunking of the typewriter resonating through the house into the early hours. You were grateful this was not one of those times. 

When you crawled into bed that morning, you wanted to sleep forever. Just… close your eyes and slip away. All you knew was that you didn’t want to do what you had to do next. Your thoughts blurred as you sank into a deep sleep, only barely registering that Jo had crept through to close the blinds. 

When you awoke, sweat clung to you in an oppressive sheen, your sheets sticky. You laid there for a while, thoughts swimming in the heat. You could hear Jo on the phone downstairs, the tall ceilings and ajar door carrying a few words to you. She was talking to Dr. Martin. Telling him you were sick - the flu had come back worse, and you needed to be alone. She was taking care of it. She’d be home later to fix his dinner. 

You pushed yourself away from the cling of the sheets and swung your legs over the side of the bed slowly. The pain had faded now to nothing more than a dull throb, and your hands had stopped their shaking. You looked at the clock on the wall - 6:23pm. 

Jo had placed your medicine next to your bed with a glass of water, the outside dewy in the humid air. You gulped a couple of pills down and finished the glass, gasping. Combing your hands through your hair, you found it tangled and dirty. You stayed like that for a few moments, head in your hands, stealing a moment to enjoy the lack of pain before it washed over you again every few moments.

When Jo walked in with a tray, you looked up, blinking through swollen eyes. 

“You’re awake,” she said with some shock, setting the tray down at the end of the bed and pressing the back of her hand to your temple. “You look a lot better.” You breathed a small smile. 

“Do you think you convinced him? Was he too upset?” you asked suddenly, previously unspoken words now spoken. Something about the last several hours had your mind feeling clear, and frankly, a little blunt. She hesitated for only a moment - you could almost hear the wall come down between you as she sat down on the bed next to you. 

“No… he believed me easily enough,” she answered, quietly. You sat there in silence for a minute. “He- he’s a good man-”

“Jo,” you squeezed her hand. She looked down. 

“It’s my life dear,” she said with a sad smile, sniffing. “He’s my husband. I love him.” You nodded as she turned for the tray by her side, handing you a warm mug of savory-smelling soup. You breathed the salty steam for a moment, your nose running and head loosening a bit with the heat. 

“Oh thank you,” you said, smiling at her over the edge as you took a sip. She watched you, expression lightening. “I think this is the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.”

You stayed like that for a while, making easy conversation and drinking beef and barley soup from a mug, ignoring everything that hurt.

—

You didn’t leave the house for a few days. Jo visited you a few times a day, bringing you meals and passing a few hours by reading, or mindlessly watching television. You couldn’t hold up a conversation very well. Claire and Mrs. Farrow visited once too. They brought you cookies, but you didn’t feel like eating.

You enjoyed the company while it lasted, but it was only a matter of time before they were gone again, a sad look and a gentle touch lingering as they left. The rest of the time you spent in bed, all the shades drawn and a fan pointed in from the window. 

Sometimes you would wander the house, stopping to clean a surface mindlessly until your hands were raw and red. Sometimes you would just… lay on the floor, trying to quiet your mind. Nothing seemed to work. 

Biologically, it was never meant to be. Simple as that. Simple as that, simple as that, simple as that, his words rang in your mind. You felt… hollow. Empty. You didn’t even feel like crying anymore. You didn’t know what to do. It was easier to just sleep.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, you found yourself on the floor of your room, sweating through your clothes. You weren’t sure what time it was - what day is it? Pushing yourself up slowly, you blinked in a stripe of pale sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. 

Rising slowly to your feet, you crept to your unmade bed in the dark and sat on the edge. Biologically it was never meant to be. Simple as that. You looked down at the table. Down at the clock that read 6:31pm. Down at the book you started- before it all. Turning on the bedside lamp with a wince, you opened the worn book to the marked page. 

He hurts her if she stays, someone new hurts her if she leaves. What would you tell her? 

I submit to the idea that everything happens for a reason - but I think “God’s plan” is often misunderstood. I think God obliges us to the ones we love. This is not love.

You looked up from the page - this is not love. And just like that, you decided. It was time to leave. You’d go home. You let your head fall back with a sigh, a few cool tears falling silently. Resolute, you rolled your shoulders around stiffly, cracking your back and taking a quick breath. With your mission clear in mind, you rose to your feet - a bright, flaring will fueling your every move. I have so much work to do, you thought.

With that, you carried yourself to the shower, turning the hot water on before walking back to the bedroom to make the bed. With each step, you told yourself you were a terrible wife. A terrible daughter. A terrible friend. Deceiving, distrustful, guarded, cowardly - a grieving, overreacting mess of a woman. 

As you scrubbed your skin in the scalding water, the thoughts faded to the low, desperate blaze of your fury. You unburied every memory of his condescending speeches, his raised voice, his candy-sweet, biting comments, his lingering, empty touches, his excuses - your fear, your complacency, your blindness - I’ve wasted so much time. 

The cool tile felt like ice through the rolling steam as you stepped out. The relief of your decision had settled easily over you - but each moment you stayed in the house was worse than the last, like realizing you were drowning at the bottom of the ocean, clawing through miles of black, praying that it wasn’t too late. 

Every movement was frantic. The house contorted neatly to its pristine coldness, your two-week notice lay neatly folded in a stark white envelope on the desk, and deep, golden light fell over the house by the late evening. Like you were never there. 

You hadn’t known how to start a letter to Chris - what could you say? You stared at the paper for a long time, lost for words. Everything with him had always been so easy for you before - you always knew what to do, what to say. You’d gladly siphoned away your life and your personhood to him, it just felt like what you were supposed to do. Now - tearing away - you didn’t know where to start.

Cold fear swept in around you then - what will he do when he finds out?

You scribbled out a few weak sentences - I’m going home for a while… Not sure when I’ll be back… I’ll call…I’ll write… You figured that you would at some point, and until then, he would survive. He’s a smart man - he’ll be alright. You couldn’t bear to think about him for another moment - his furrowed brow as he’d read your note, his confusion, his heartbreak. So you folded the note into a peak, and set it squarely on the desk. I refuse to spend another moment on his heart. He never could spare a moment for mine. 

With that, fiery urgency filled you once more, the dark sky like a ticking clock, reminding you he would be back in the morning. You packed in silence, working single-mindedly by the dim light of the lamp. You took only what you needed- only what was beloved. 

Your favorite clothes, most of which were old and dusty at the back of your closet, pushed there years ago. Some money you'd tucked away in a cigar box, your jewelry, some hygiene essentials. The silence of the house echoed, and you worked faster. Important papers, another pair of shoes, drawings and notes from your students. You made sure to bring the book, nestling it among Damien’s letters. Pictures of your family. Scribbled phone numbers and addresses on the back of an empty envelope. A few recipe cards of your mother's. Your two bags were almost full. It was like a bad dream - this is all I have. 

“Y/n?” A small voice called from the dark of the hallway, freezing you in place. Your blood was icy cold as you stared like a deer in headlights, watching with bated breath as Jo stepped into the room, wide-eyed. You didn’t hear her come in. 

She’s here to stop me. She’ll tell Chris, she’ll tell everybody- 

“Please,” was all you managed to say. A tear fell from her eye, a deep frown clear on her face. “I’m sorry-” you choked. I can’t leave her with them, you realized. She’d be all alone. This was the worst doubt you’d felt in hours - you’d stay if it meant she’d be safe. You’d stay if it meant she’d have someone. You’d stay if she asked you to. 

But she didn’t. She let out a shaky sigh and began to help you pack. The relief, the gratitude, the guilt washed over you as you followed suit, tears flooding your vision. 

“You don’t have much time,” she said as she zipped your suitcase closed. You looked up. “The latest bus leaves in an hour. From there you can catch the midnight train out of state.” 

“What-” You sniffed, astounded. “How did you know?”

“I look at the bus schedule every day.” She smiled. “I think about leaving here - every day. Every day.” She shook her head with a broken laugh, smearing a tear away with the back of her hand. You noticed the red bruise forming underneath, barely noticeable under her thick makeup. You were at her side in a moment, gathering her in your arms and sinking to the floor. She shook with quiet, laughing sobs, clinging to you for dear life. 

“Come with me,” You asked, looking bleary-eyed over her. “Please, Jo. You can get out. You can stay with me. You can be free. Please.”  You knew what she would say. She stayed like that for a moment, face buried in your shoulder, not saying a word. Then she drew away from you, smiling with her hands on your shoulders, looking into your eyes. You thought it was the saddest thing you’d ever seen. She sighed heavily.

“I’m too old, and too old-fashioned, dear.” She said, slipping back into her familiar resignation. “He can’t go without me- and I can’t go without him.” She sniffed.

“I won’t leave you-” you started to protest.

“You have to. Or you’ll never do it,” she said, gripping you and looking into your eyes with determination. “It’s time.” She smiled again - this one was real. Her face was bright in the deep shadows of the room as she stood. You nodded. 

—

Jo drove you to the bus station in the dark, and you spent the time in terrified silence, watching the red taillights float along outside the window. It had been years since you were alone - what will I do? Where will I go? 

You thought of all of your friends here, the other teachers, the other wives. You thought of Mrs. Farrow and Claire - you thought of Jo. You’d never been alone here, they’d made sure of that. So you thought of your friends who were still in the city, the people who had gotten you through the long nights at school, who had helped you move into your first apartment, who had been there at your wedding. 

You thought of Damien and his mother. No, I can’t - they’ve already done so much for me. You thought about the letters stacked in your suitcase. You knew they would help you, he wouldn’t think twice about it. But you knew his mother was - well, to put it lightly, not doing well. You refused to be a burden to them. I can find something. But… the thought of seeing Damien again was comforting. He was your best friend, and though you felt abysmally guilty for it, you were a little excited. 

You thought of your parents. Of course I could go home - god, I’d love to go home, you thought. Christmas two years ago had been wonderful - everything felt right in that moment, however short it had been. Your parents are retired now, though, and your father spends most of his time taking care of your mother, who had started going blind a few years ago. Regardless, they were in good spirits when you saw them, though you remembered their silence as you told them about Chris and his work - as you told them about the party. They’d been insinuating that they wanted you to come live at home in their letters since. 

But they were on a slim fixed income now. And worse, I hate to even imagine - Chris knew where they lived. If he did come looking for you, he’d look there first. You wanted to avoid that at all costs. You needed somewhere to hide for a few months - somewhere you could restart, where you could heal. 

You thought of Sharon. You hadn’t written to her for a few months now, but from what you remembered, she was living in Georgetown, working as a personal secretary and tutor for a rich Hollywood family living there. She had a boyfriend - but he was in California. She didn’t know anything about what had happened in the last few weeks - and she hated living alone. So, you elected to call Sharon on the first phone you found in the morning. I still don’t like the idea of relying on her until I can find a job, but… I can’t do this alone. 

Having a plan, however uncertain, helped you steady yourself as you stepped out of the car next to the station, hot exhaust collecting in the street as the bus idled in the cool night air. You rushed to load your luggage - the bus would only stay another few minutes.

Reality sunk in fast as you approached the open door, Jo pressing a worn ticket into your hand. Her ticket. You hugged her one more time. Your heart beat fast as your chest grew tight.

“I’ll write-” you said over the engine. “If you ever need me, if you decide to go - I’ll come get you, just say the word- promise you’ll tell me?” She was quiet.

“Promise me!” You looked at her eyes. She looked away for a moment and nodded. 

“Okay.” She took your hands in hers. “Take care of yourself. Please.” She smiled at you. 

“I will.” You stepped back. “I love you. God I don’t know how I can ever thank you-”

“Don’t look back.” She said, holding your gaze, resolute. “I’ll look for your letter - even if you don’t write your name on it, I’ll find it.” You nodded as the brakes hissed - you had to go now. With one last look, you kissed her cheek and rushed to board the bus, avoiding the bloodshot eyes peering over their seats at you, waiting for you to sit down. You found a seat far in the back, and the bus lurched as it began to speed away. You watched her headlights get smaller and smaller as you moved, until they were nothing but pinpricks in the dark. And then you were gone. 

— 

The day was overcast, and a thick fog blanketed the track as Damien ran. With each step, new pavement revealed itself through the mist. Good for losing track of time, he thought. Days like this, he’d run until he couldn’t anymore, and as his steps grew shaky and his breaths stung in the cold air, he decided this lap would be his last. 

Rounding the last corner, he ran a little faster as the steely shine of the bleachers appeared through the fog, along with the distinct form of a person sitting at the far end, watching him. As he got closer, he could make out the soft brown of her long coat and the color of the scarf wrapped casually over her hair. He slowed to a stop with a huff as she stepped down from the bleachers, two paper take away coffee cups in hand. 

It had been about a month since he’d started seeing her in Georgetown again. At first he thought he’d been seeing things - her face among a crowd, a flash of her distinct hair color on the floor of Carol’s station at the salon when he visited, her laugh floating over a sea of voices while he waited in line. Of course he’d always brushed it off - it seemed to be in his nature to see her everywhere, it wasn't the first time.

But when she had appeared in the church, struggling alongside Sister Tallis to lift a long-faded painting from the wall of the south hall, he had frozen in his tracks. Her hair was cut much shorter than he remembered, regaining some of its original shape after having been straightened when he saw her last, a bandana holding it away from her face. 

She wore a tattered, olive green smock with the sleeves rolled up to the bend of her elbows and a pair of boxy jeans rolled up at the cuffs. She’s painting again. As she spoke, her voice was clear and light, and her movements were steady, if a bit hesitant. She seemed like she’d returned to the land of the living, in a manner of speaking. And when she’d looked down the hall to where he stood, she smiled, and despite all her energy and color, he’d noticed a shadow in her eyes - a deep sadness that lurked quietly under her joy. 

After that, you’d started taking walks, getting coffee, eating, and reading together often. You saw each other almost every day - if she didn’t find him, he’d find her. She told him a little about the last few months, but not much. Only that she’d left Chris, and stayed with Sharon for a few weeks before the church hired her to do some restoration work. Along with a few other projects and a slot lecturing art history at the university, she’d made enough for a small apartment nearby. He didn’t push for anymore details - he knew there were things she wasn’t telling him, but he also knew that they hurt enough to have her looking away, knuckles white and voice growing quiet. He didn’t mind. He was just glad to have his friend back. 

He did find however, that he hit a lot harder in practice when he imagined the bag with Christian Martin’s face.

“Almost didn’t see you in the fog. Good run?” She asked, handing him one of the cups. He looked down at it. 

“Is this water?” He asked, a little disappointed. She laughed.

“I read somewhere that coffee dehydrates you!” she said. He took a long drink, emptying the cup quickly. 

“I know that,” he said as you started to walk. I needed that - but she doesn’t need to know. He feigned a deep frown. 

“Pfff-” She set the full cup into the empty one he held, the familiar bitter smell of black coffee drifting up from the dark drink. “You know I don’t like coffee.” She smiled. 

“Hm.” his frown broke into a small smile as he took a short drink. She took his arm, as usual. “If this was a scheme to get me to buy you a tea, it’s working.” She smiled mischievously, not meeting his eyes. He drank the coffee slowly as you walked, listening as she talked about her work on the towering painting that hung in the sanctuary, and her anxiety in working on such a tall ladder. 

“I can hold it for you if you like,” Damien offered. She sighed. 

“Not for hours at a time you can’t,” she said with a laugh, looking up at him. “I’d appreciate it if you made sure I have white flowers at my funeral, though.” He knew it was a joke, but he pulled her a little closer nonetheless. 

He hadn’t told her this, but those two years since seeing her at Christmas had been… terrifying. He kept thinking of how miserable she looked, of how ragged her voice was, how tattered and calloused her hands had been. He didn’t know if Chris had ever hit her, but he knew enough to gather that he was something of a narcissist, and that he was, at the least, emotionally abusive.

The thought of letting her go back to him, once he’d held her in his arms at the station - he almost couldn’t let go. But she loved him. And she could take care of herself. So he resigned himself to writing her letters whenever he could, and praying. When he stopped hearing from her out of the blue two months ago, he'd assumed the worst. 

He’d sit awake in his room, imagining that Chris had forbidden her from writing to him, that Chris had taken her somewhere farther away where he’d never see you again, that Chris had finally hurt her- he didn’t know what to do. 

So he waited, and prayed that she was safe. Somewhere along the line, he started to pray that she would leave him. That she would come home. He knew that God didn’t work that way - but asked all the same. And here she was.

—

Damien loved to watch her paint. Restore, he could hear her say, telling him for the 100th time - she was painting all the same. She stuck out her tongue when she was really focused, and wore thick glasses that he assumed gave her a closer look at the finer details. Every movement was so slow and controlled, it barely looked like she was moving at all. But gradually, she could bring a painting back from the dead - push new life and color into once dusty faces, and bring out details that were once unnoticeable. It was like magic.

“Father Karras.” A voice called behind him. He turned to find Father Hale walking towards him, hands behind his back.

“Father Hale,” Damien greeted him in a civil tone. Some part of him found it strange that she would have an audience of anyone other than him - besides, Father Hale carried with him everywhere an obtrusive piousness that seemed to drown any interesting conversation. He was pretty sure the man had no inkling of his dislike, however, and preferred to keep it that way. “Good to see St. Michael is getting a makeover, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He stopped beside him, watching her work for a moment, before looking over at Damien. “May I… have a word with you, Father?” 

Damien looked over at him, puzzled, but nodded. Father Hale turned to walk down the hall as Damien followed. They walked until they reached the far end of the hall, turning into an office. Father Hale shut the door behind them.

“What can I do for you?” Damien asked, trying to hide his annoyance. Father Hale’s voice was condescending in tone as he spoke. 

“I’m worried about you Karras, that’s all,” his face showed genuine concern. Damien held back a scoff.

“Go on,” Damien said.

“It’s been good to see you in better spirits since Mrs. Martin joined us,” He said. Damien shot him a dark look. Don’t call her that, he thought. He suddenly didn’t care about whatever Hale said next, but he stayed silent despite himself.

“But I’ve noticed you together outside this church-” he said, looking out the window to the street. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Karras.” He looked at him, all at once serious. Damien was furious - what is he insinuating?

“She’s a friend - what are you trying to say?” Damien raised his voice. Hale stepped toward him, undeterred.

“You’re young,” he said, stern. “She’s married, and you have taken an oath to serve our lord in poverty, obedience, and chastity. What else is the church meant to assume, with her parading you about like a-” Damien closed the distance between them in a moment, towering over Hale and gripping his collar in his fist.

“What? Like what, Hale?” He wanted him to say it. To call her whatever he was going to call her so he could make sure he knew he couldn’t get away with saying it. All he could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears, grateful now for the closed door. Hale paled - stammering. He held his gaze like that for a moment, daring him to say something. The man seemed to steel himself then, pushing Damien away in a huff, a bead of sweat formed on his broad forehead. 

As the roaring in his ears died down, he watched as Hale straightened his collar with a huff. 

“I won’t listen to this for another moment. How dare you doubt my vows?” Damien shook as he spoke, breathing even. He knew, deep down, he couldn’t do anything. Hale always had the Bishop’s ear - and she’d despise him if he ever hurt anyone in her name. He took a deep breath. “Good day, Father Hale.” 

Hale held his eyes, furious, but too intimidated to stop him as he slammed the door behind him. 

Damien had never made an enemy like that before in the church - he wasn’t sure if it would mean anything - but Hale's words had found their target. He thought of his vows for a moment, and of her-

He stopped. He could see the ladder standing empty in the sanctuary, and as he walked closer, her palate and the thick glasses lay on the floor - paint splattered as if she’d dropped it. He walked faster.

“Y/n?” He called, fear rising in his chest.

She’d stepped in the paint - a trail of yellow-tan paint leading a patchy trail to the side hall. Snatching his coat from where it lay over a pew, he rushed to follow it to the courtyard door. 

—

You were focused on a shadow. The shadow under St. Michael’s chin to be exact - it had long since lost its darkness, and you needed to bring it out - softly. Times like these, you wondered how Raphael managed such soft shadows with such clear contrast. All the same, the challenge was wonderful. You missed restoration with all your heart, and getting to return to it now, and on a Raphael, too. Well, at least a damn good copy. You knew it wasn’t the real thing - it had been in the Louvre since 1667, after all. I’m going to make it a better copy, you thought, smiling to yourself as you dabbed on the smallest speck of the deep yellow-black-

“Y/N.” You froze completely, breath hitching and blood running ice cold. You knew that voice. You prayed you’d imagined it. No, this isn’t happening-

“Y/N!” Chris yelled again. You dropped the palate, the loud clattering echoing over Chris’ deep bellowing. You shook, gripping the ladder with all your strength as you pulled the glasses from your face, setting them on the table of the ladder with a clatter. You turned your head slowly to look down at him. 

He stood about 20 feet away from the base of the ladder, eyes blazing and mouth open in shock. 

The few other people in the sanctuary looked on in confusion, some staring, some averting their eyes with obvious effort. You didn’t want to go down there. 

“Please-” He choked. His strangled voice struck you as his gaze softened. You watched his face, now noticing the thick stubble and dark shadows under his eyes - his hair unkempt. He looked… miserable. “I just want to talk- can we just talk? Please?” You hesitated for another moment, white noise filling your ears in the dead silence of the room. You nodded, and descended the ladder slowly, hands trembling. 

Panic distracted you as your feet found the floor, and you missed the last step, the ladder jumping with a clatter. Your glasses fell with an echoing ‘clack,' Chris’ hands biting into your shoulder and arm, steadying you. Too tight, you thought, fear spiking through you. You looked down the hall, searching for Damien. Please, please, please, you begged for him to appear. You didn’t see him. 

Chris released you after a moment, hands hovering near you, afraid you might bolt. 

“Follow me,” you said, walking slowly to the side hallway - I won't do this here, you thought. But you made sure to smear your foot in the paint before you turned, trailing a pattern of light-colored paint as you walked. Please find me, please. 

You didn’t think he’d hurt you - but you didn’t know what he would do like this, his eyes bloodshot and tear-stained. Your thoughts spun, screaming that this was a bad idea, that you should stay where the people are- but your feet carried you to the courtyard door all the same.

You held the door for him and closed it behind you, stepping out onto the stone landing. Steps fell away from the landing about eight feet away from the double doors, and Chris stood in the sun a few feet away from the edge. Though the sun had seemingly emerged, the day was still bitingly cold, and you shivered in the realization that you had left your coat inside. Can I even get back in this way? You wanted to check, but Chris’ gaze had you locked in place. You held your arms at the elbows, steadying yourself in the cold.

“How are you?” he asked. It surprised you. 

“I’m alright,” you said. That soft tone in his voice - you weren’t prepared for it. It broke your resolve. Maybe he’s here to listen, you thought hopefully. “How have you been?” He snorted.

“I’ve been better,” he said, looking down. “How could- do you know how worried I’ve been?” His voice rose.

“I’m sorry-” You started. You looked up. “I just couldn’t stay - I had to leave.” 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me what was going on with you?” He said, voice strained. “Nobody would tell me anything, it feels like everyone’s hiding something from me.” You were quiet for a moment.

“I didn’t feel like I could talk to you. You were always gone- away at a conference or working, I didn’t want to interfere-” Your voice shook. “I tried to be everything you wanted from me. I thought being a good wife would make us happy… but it was never enough.” He was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not a bad husband,” He insisted. “I work so, so hard to build you a nice home, a nice life - the book was for us-”

“The book was for you, Chris," you said. “Everything was for you. I know you tried - I tried too, but it just wasn’t enough-” 

“You’re not telling me everything,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “Why are you still lying to me? Have I ever known you?” He was yelling now, and he took a step towards you. You shrank back. What? He-he can't know- Your silence seemed to make him more upset. “What aren’t you telling me-” You winced as he hissed in your face, backing up.

The door opened behind you, and you turned to see Damien step through quickly, standing behind you. Relief flooded over you.

“Damien,” you whispered as you gripped the cuff of his coat, clinging to him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You nodded, letting him go as you looked back to Chris, who stood motionless, eyes dark with realization.

“Was it because of him?” he demanded, eyes darting. His voice shook with rage. “You left me for a priest?” 

“No.” You tried to explain. “Chris, it wasn’t-” 

“No, I see now. You’re here for him - after everything we’ve been through, after everything I did for you, our life- you’re here fucking a Priest?” He smiled as he spoke, incredulous. You wished he would stop. You tried to say something - tried to defend yourself - 

“Stop.”

“How long have you been seeing him? Is he-” he laughed now, looking away before smiling up at Damien. “You know she’s pregnant, right?” All the air left your body, your stomach sinking.

“-no.” you could barely get the word out, recoiling away. 

“I kept waiting for you to tell me after I found the tests- I was so excited for us, y/n.” His voice broke. “And now I know why you never said anything-” His words were drowning in static, the floor pitching beneath you. Damien was yelling now too- it’s too much-

“I had a miscarriage.” You blurted out, forcing yourself to look up at Chris. The courtyard was silent, the static roared. Tears fell from your eyes, but you didn’t feel them. You felt a firm hand on your shoulder as Damien braced you. You took a shaky breath. The static quieted.

“I had a miscarriage,” You said it again. “And I-I couldn't tell you, because I didn’t - I couldn’t imagine raising a child with you.” You paused between sentences, taking a deep breath. Chris’ face fell, his eyes empty as he listened.

“And I should’ve said something. Years ago. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, because I knew it would break your heart like it was breaking mine-” Your voice cracked. You continued. “So I came home.” 

His face was set in stone, a tear falling from his face. “You’re not leaving me.” He seemed to be losing his grip on anger, and it fell away in pieces as it was replaced by despair.

“No, you’re right,” you ventured, concentrating on keeping your voice steady as you met his eyes. “You’re leaving me.” He looked at you, incredulous.

“I won’t-” he started, quiet now. “I’ve been a terrible husband-” 

“I’ve been a terrible wife.” you held his gaze. Make your speech.

“Despite it all - despite everything I think what you hate is that you do love me,” he said, his voice wavering, but with a weak note of hope. “I think you stayed all this time because you love me, and it was real. I think this - this was meant to happen. We’re supposed to be broken and terrible together, and despite it all, I love you, and I’m not leaving you until you get down on your knees and beg me.” He looked into your eyes then, seething. 

You looked at him, and kneeled - cold pavement stinging your knuckles as you steadied yourself. 

“Please leave me.” You said, as clearly as you could. He looked truly lost now, mouth slightly open in surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” he said plainly. He waited for a moment more, as if waiting for you to take it back. You didn’t. “Fuck,” he said with an empty laugh. Then he inhaled deeply and with a sigh, turned and left. Descending the stairs, walking down the sidewalk beside the building, and turning at the front of the building, he disappeared.

When you were sure he was gone, you fell back onto your legs and breathed a shaky laugh that descended into a broken sob. The tears wouldn’t stop - you couldn't see or get a breath in - but crying was all you could do.

Something heavy and warm fell over you like a blanket as Damien’s coat wrapped around your shoulders. You couldn't see him, but you felt his strong arms encircle your waist and hold your head gentle against him as you collapsed into his shoulder, surrendering to the shaking sobs.

He held you and rocked you gently as you wept, whispering quiet ‘I’m sorry's' and ‘I’ve got you’s’ into your hair. You stayed like that for a long time. 

#damien karras x reader #damien karras/you #friends to lovers #slow burn #my first fic #mutual pining #the exorcist #love this man #damien karras #what if instead of writing a fic like a normal person i wrote a novel #angst

[robinette-green]

Murder's Doll

[Ao3 link]

Summary:

a small child forced to live on the streets is abducted by Eclipse and raised to be sold off as a pawn.

the first year of MC's life they live with Eclipse's charges, Sun and Moon and are tutored mercilessly until they are finally sent off to boarding school.

after finishing school, MC is married off to an abusive husband but is eventually saved by Sun and Moon.

From then on she’s treated like a treasure.

3753 words

Notes:

she/her pronouns

TW: -blood -bullying -domestic violence -body mutilation

My parents died when I was 5 or 6. 

Time hasn't meant much to me in a long time, and a lot is hazy about my past. 

I still remember living on the cold streets in the months after their death, keeping hidden and begging for scraps. 

I remember the day a tall man dressed in black stopped to look at my tiny form, huddled on a doorstep in the fading light of evening.

I hadn't had a choice when he bent down and scooped me up, taking me away from the streets to a new kind of hell. Too weak and cold to kick or scream, and even if I had fought, I wouldn't have been able to escape. 

The man's name was Eclipse. He took me to his home and had his staff wash and dress me in fine clothing. I was fed a delicious meal and allowed to sleep in a soft bed. It was like a dream. An angel had come and saved me. 

It wasn't until the next morning that things turned for the worse. 

Eclipse presented me to his charges explaining that I would live with them until I left for boarding school. 

This was news to me. Eclipse hadn't bothered to tell me anything about what he had planned, and never once did he ever explain things to me. 

The charges were Sun and Moon, children Eclipse were looking over and teaching. They were only a little older than me at 10, but they were from wealthy families. 

Sun Starr was a ginger while Moon Altalune had silver hair. Both were gorgeous, with flawless skin and incident faces. Both tortured me throughout my entire stay in that manor house. 

Spiders in my bed, traps set in the yard, shoves down the stairs, chili pepper in my food, holding me down to cut my hair, and so much more. 

On top of that, Eclipse would take their side in any conflict. Nothing I could do would ever please him. 

I spent most of my time trying to stay out of the way, but the boys would hunt me down and make me 'play' with them. 

I would be forced to go into town with them and carry their bags, buying treats so I would be forced to watch them eat them. They would have me watch them dissect rodents while I cried for the poor critter. Sometimes Sun would get a wild hair and force me to play dress up with him, laughing at me as he did. 

Fun for them… not for me.  

Through the blur of fear and anxiety, one day before I was shipped off for schooling stands out clearly in my memory. 

Sun and Moon had dragged me into town for some 'fun .'The boys were walking a few steps ahead of me, chatting away without a care in the world, when a window display caught my attention. I slowed to a stop without the boys noticing, staring up at the glass flowers. They were so delicately crafted, each looking almost real. 

So mesmerized was I that I didn't notice the group of kids that came up behind me. 

I was shoved to the ground, dropping everything I had been holding, scraping my hand and knees as I smacked down onto the cobblestones. 

"Look, it's the celestial's dog! Do you think you're a noble like the rest of us, doggie?" The lead boy laughed, kicking me hard in the side and making me cry out. 

"Let's make sure the doggie knows their place!"

The children laughed as they kicked and threw stones at me, keeping me down. I curled up as tight as possible, attempting to protect my soft bits. Tears streamed down my cheeks as one kid lifted his foot to stomp on my head, but suddenly he was gone. Something had slammed into him, taking him down. 

The pommelling stopped, the kids backing away, but I didn't look up until I heard the screaming. Sun had the lead boy pinned to the ground and was punching him senseless.

"No one can make her cry but us! She's ours!!" Sun shouted as the other boy's nose broke, squirting blood. 

Slowly I sat up, watching numbly as one of my tormentors defended me but flinched when Moon rested a hand on my shoulder. He didn't say anything as he knelt down and blotted at my face was a handkerchief. I studied his face with big nervous eyes, waiting for some kind of backlash for dropping everything or for lagging behind, maybe even receiving blame for the commotion, but it didn't come. 

"What were you looking at?" Moon asked, his voice soft for once, but I only shook my head. He'd use it against me like always. Maybe buying a glass flower to shatter it in front of me. 

Moon glanced up at the storefront that'd caught my attention and studied the display for a moment but didn't comment.

"There! They won't bother you ever again!" Sun chirped, standing proudly before Moon and me, hands on his hips. There was blood spattered all over him, and I decidedly kept my eyes away from the boy Sun had been beating. 

"You're ours, so we have to protect you!" Sun added, leaning down towards me and grinning. 

From that day until the day I was sent away, Sun and Moon doted on me. It made me unbelievably nervous. 

They gave me flowers and sweets, played much gentler games with me and Sun took every opportunity to call me pretty. 

The sudden shift was terrifying. Every second of every day, I expected some kind of trap to be sprung on me. I peered around corners and flinched at loud noises, waiting for the horrid trick to take place. 

They must want me to let my guard down so they could torment me in some new way. In my mind, there was no other rational explanation. 

If there had been a trick, it didn't have time to play out. 

A month after the boys' attitudes towards me changed, Eclipse had the few possessions I owned packed up, and I was shipped off to a different kind of hell known as school. 

Sun threw an absolute maelstrom of a fit as I was being loaded into the carriage while Moon looked on, his face dark with his own rage. Neither wanted me to leave, but nothing would change Eclipse's mind. I needed proper schooling for what he had planned for me, so I needed to go. 

I was bullied in school, but after what Sun and Moon had put me through, it was nothing I couldn't handle. Keeping my head down and doing as well as possible in my studies, I hoped to earn Eclipse's favor, hoping that when I was finally free of this place, my future would be a good one. Maybe my life could be like the one I'd dreamed of that first night in that soft bed. 

It was not to be. 

Once I finished schooling, I was immediately married off to an influential businessman that Eclipse wanted to have ties with. 

This was yet another hell I had been dropped into. 

Every night my husband would come home drunk, and I would spend the next morning tending to new cuts and bruises from the previous night's beating. 

Sometimes I would see Sun and Moon in town. It had been almost 15 years since I'd seen them, and they had aged into stunning young men. They would stroll through town with gorgeous ladies on their arms, laughing and smiling, looking as though they didn't have a care in the world. 

They wouldn't remember me. They wouldn't have a reason to. 

And I wasn't sure I wanted them to. They had been horrid to me while we had lived together. 

Maybe… 

Maybe I hoped that they would save me? They had both been adamant that I belonged to them and the last month I had lived with them, they had treated me so… kindly. 

Maybe, when I lay broken on the floor in the manor house that was my current prison, I hoped Sun would appear again to take down my attacker, and Moon would gently dab blood from my face. 

Maybe I hoped that I could experience kindness again. 

Things got so much worse before I finally saw a break in the horrid existence that had been my life thus far. 

I was wandering through town on one of my daily excursions. My husband wanted me to spend time out of the house so people would see me whole and well, part of the charade that he treats me kindly. 

Truthfully I also wanted to spend time out of the house. Away from the cold dread I felt between those walls and away from the eyes of the servants as they watched my every move. 

I had found myself standing before a shop window, looking in at the lovely little glass flowers and wishing for the hundredth time that my life could be different when a voice spoke in my ear. 

"You look so melancholic, Sweets." 

Ice shot through my veins as I whipped around to look up at the man behind me. It was Moon, the sly grin that had been on his lips dropping to a frown as he looked into my scared eyes. 

"And still so timid. What has you so scared, turtle dove?" 

He remembers me? I had assumed he had long forgotten who I was. He'd never paid me a second glance when we'd crossed paths in the street before, so I had assumed I was nothing but another passerby to him. Why was he speaking to me now? 

I had opened my mouth to lie, to pretend everything was alright at home, as I had been trained to do, when Moon moved. 

Before I could react, Moon had taken a step closer, pinning me to the wall, and pulled at the collar of my dress, revealing my skin and the dark purple bruises underneath. 

He was so close I could smell lavender on his clothes. 

"Sweets, how did you get these? Don't lie. I'll be very upset if you lie to me." 

My trembling fingers closed lightly around the wrist of the hand on my collar. Eyes on the ground to my side, I whispered.

"He wouldn't like it if I told you." 

Not a lie. I didn't want my husband to be especially angry with me, but I didn't want to lie to Moon either. 

Save me? 

"What do we have here! Oh, Dewdrop!" Sun had come up behind his partner and gave me a dazzling smile when he caught sight of me. He recognized me too. 

"Sun." That was all Moon needed to say to draw Sun's attention to the bruising, still visible as Moon kept a hand on my neck. The smile dropped immediately, fingers reaching out to lightly graze over the discolored skin on my collarbone. 

I could feel a light trimmer through Sun's fingers, and when I glanced up, I could see the blind rage in Sun's eyes, hiding behind a tight smile. 

"Is everything alright here?" 

Moon and Sun were suddenly a step away, as though they had not just been studying the bruises on my upper body, and I found myself anxious at the space between us. 

Some good samaritan had come to ensure I was not being harassed by the men who'd been pinning me to a shop front. We were still on a main street, not very inconspicuous. 

"Y-yes, we're alright," I said quickly, covering for Sun and Moon without fully knowing why. 

The man eyed us momentarily with an odd look before conceding and leaving us be. 

I felt nauseous. 

Did I recognize him? Did he recognize me??

"Darling thing." 

I looked up at Sun's smiling face, the anger seeming to have vanished. 

"It was so good to see you, but we'll have to part ways for now." 

They were… leaving? Just like that? A lump formed in my throat. Moments ago, they were asking about the bruises, angry and upset, so why??

Had I really put so much hope in them saving me? Why would I think they would? Why would I have ever thought they would care? 

My eyes were firmly on the ground as I did all I could to hold myself together, my body shaking slightly. 

"Alright," I whispered. I would not cry. I would not. 

We parted ways, my trek back to the manor house a long one, and when I reached it, my husband was waiting for me. 

The man who had seen me with Sun and Moon had been a family friend. I was called horrible names, my hair was pulled, I was hit and kicked, things were thrown at me, and at the end of it all, I was locked in the cellar. 

Blood oozed from a cut on my forehead, and one of my eyes was swelling closed from a punch to my cheek. Fat wet tears rolled freely down my face as I sat against a wall, staring blankly into the pitch-black around me. 

No one was coming to save me. 

No one cared about the girl that was once a gutter rat. 

I was just a pawn to be disposed of. 

I don't know how long I was down there, sitting in the dark. I may have fallen asleep at some point, but I couldn't be sure. I didn't know if my eyes were open or closed. Part of me had started to assume that I would be left down here to die, and that same part of me was relieved that I would be left in peace and that everything would be over soon. 

But then the door opened, and light filtered down the stairs. 

Footsteps made their way calmly down to me, and when I looked up I found Sun and Moon standing there. 

A small sob escaped me, I couldn't stop it, and Sun was crouching down to wrap his arms around me, lifting me up into a bridal hold. 

My arms wrapped securely around his neck, and I hid my face against him, body wracked with sobs as I was cradled in a firm embrace. 

"There there, we've got you," Sun said calmly, running a hand on my back. 

He smelt of oranges and honeysuckle… and something else… something metallic. 

"You're ours, so we'll always protect you," Sun said softly, lips pressed to my hair. 

"We're sorry it took us so long to save you, Sweets," Moon added, his fingers trailing along my arms.

I was instructed to keep my eyes closed as we left the manor, so I kept my face hidden against Sun, eyes squeezed shut. 

I knew what that metallic smell was, and as I was carried up the cellar stairs, it got stronger and stronger. 

The walls must be painted with blood.

There was a carriage waiting outside for us, and when we settled inside, Sun let me keep my arms around his neck, placing me in his lap. 

Moon sat next to us, and once the carriage was moving, he gently took hold of my chin and turned my face towards him so he could blot at the cut on my forehead with a handkerchief. 

I felt numb inside as I let Moon tend to my wounds. Never in a million years had I thought my childhood tormentors would save me, but here I was, safe in Sun's arms with Moon dabbing at my cut. 

They told me that they wanted to get me as soon as I had finished school, but Eclipse had convinced them that marrying me off would be better for me… though only barely. 

They'd been keeping tabs on me, wanting to ensure I was healthy and safe. It wasn't until recently that they'd noticed how unhappy I was and thought to check-in. 

I guess it makes sense that they wouldn't notice that I was unhappy right away. Not only had I never smiled around these two, neither were good at reading people's emotions… or at least, that's how it had been when we were children. 

The whole ride to their home, I sat with my head resting against Sun's shoulder, staring numbly into space as he held me close. 

All my emotions had shut down. 

I had been taken away from the man I was sold off to, but now I was in the hands of two men who might torture me for fun. This is what I had wanted, but this could end up being another horrible situation. 

Finally closing my eyes and relaxing into Sun, I decided that at least this would be the lesser of two evils. I would rather live in fear of a nasty trick than in fear of my life. 

I was taken to an elegant home with a vast garden. The maids were kind and gentle, helping me to bathe and change, bandaging my wounds, and outing ointment on my bruises. I had dinner with Sun and Moon but ate very little of the delicious meal. 

Even though I was quiet and unresponsive, Sun and Moon chattered away with each other and at me, unbothered by my numb state and keeping me included in the conversation. I managed to give short quiet replies when things needed a response, but otherwise, I looked blankly at my plate. 

Over the next few days, they let me acclimatize to the new environment, staying close and keeping an eye on me but letting me wander aimlessly. Slowly, I started to relax and actually explore. 

This is when the boys started to stick to me like glue whenever they were in the house and… I didn't mind it. 

Sun was quick to point out things in the house and garden that he thought would interest me. He'd pull small gifts from seemingly thin air and present them to me with a grin that could light up a room. 

Moon would have me sit with him in the library, reading stories to me from his favorite books or books he thought I'd like. He'd also set up tea parties in the garden and fed me sweets that were more delicious than anything I'd ever had before. 

I was nervous and hesitant to trust them, but I slowly opened up to them. One of them was almost always by my side, and they were kind and gentle. I would startle at loud noises, and some movements or actions would cause me to flinch or cower back, but I started to smile…

 I started to feel… happy. 

As the days went on, both men began to hold me close whenever they could. They would come up behind me, wrap their arms around me, or run their fingers through my hair or against my cheek. Sweet, tender touches and cuddling. 

I let them. 

Their embraces made me feel anxious but… also safe. 

Even after I accidentally stumbled on their dark secret, I still felt safest in their arms. 

From day one, I was told to never go into the basement. That was the one place I was not allowed to go, and I had no want to go down there. I had no reason to… 

Sometimes, one of the boys would vanish for a day or two. They seemed to take turns leaving to accomplish whatever task it was that took them away. I didn't think much about it until the day I came down to breakfast to find both men gone. 

I'd been living with the two for a little over a year at this point and I had become accustomed to their presence. Never before had both had to leave.

The house seemed so big and empty without them, even with the servants scurrying about. I could chat with the maids if I felt lonely, but they didn't make me feel safe like Sun and Moon did. 

All day I was nervous, fiddling with my fingers, pressing my nails into my palm, and glancing over my shoulder. Every sound made me twitch, made my heart jump into my throat. 

Were they back? 

I tried to fill my day with things to take my mind off their absence, but nothing seemed to work. Books couldn't hold my attention,

Wandering through the garden left me alone with my thoughts, and when I tried to sketch, I found I was drawing their faces. 

Sun and Moon were gone for three days and when they finally came back I was told by the house butler that they should not be disturbed. 

I was crestfallen. They'd returned, but I couldn't see them? Did they not want to see me? Had I done something wrong? 

I tried not to let myself spiral, tried to keep to myself and leave them be, but… I had a scare. 

They hadn't meant to scare me, I was jumpy at the best of times, but one of the servants dropped a vase on their foot and couldn't stop the angry shout that it resulted in. 

My brain sent me back to my time with my husband, the beatings and the anger, and my body reacted. I was in an utter panic, breath coming in small gasps and my body trembling. 

I needed Sun and Moon. 

I knew where they would be. They were in the one place I had been forbidden to go. The door wasn't locked, and I was through it and down a few steps before I hesitated. 

It was a fleeting feeling. A slight fear that coming down here and disrupting them would result in anger. But even in my childhood Sun and Moon had never gotten angry with me.  

Down the dimly lit steps and around a corner, I found myself in a long hallway lined with doors. A door hadn't been fully closed at the end, and a warm light leaked into the hall. 

Without a second thought, I trotted to the door and peered inside. 

A metallic smell hit me. 

Sun was standing at a metal table with his back to me.

Something… 

There was something on the table. 

Is that a body? 

Were those... limbs hanging from the ceiling? 

A warm hand slid over my eyes, an arm wrapped around my waist, and I was pulled back into a solid chest. 

"Turtle dove, you know you're not allowed down here," murmured Moon's soothing tones into my ear. 

#glitter rock #fnaf daycare attendant #sun and moon x reader #dca fanfic #tw violence #tw blood #tw body mutilation #glitter rock writing

[cyberslam]

you will always wonder how

Marty Janetty & The 1-2-3 Kid & The Undertaker

Heartbreak Hotel AU

tw: none

Basically, what happens to Marty after my previous HBH fic. Think of this as an interlude.

[Ao3]

Kid was in Austin. Marty didn’t know by what stroke of luck that he was, but the little guy was and he knew he had to thank the stars for that. It was only an hour and a half out with the current traffic getting out of San Antonio.

Compared to that motel, it seemed like time dragged on. He was almost hesitant to drive out of San Antonio, but he knew he had to get away from the city. The wounds that Shawn Michaels’ left on his heart were being torn open. He couldn’t stand being in the city any longer than having booked a motel for the night to sleep in at. Even then his sleep was restless and tiresome. 

Nightmares of the way Shawn stared him down as he tried to drive away were stuck in his head. Those haunted eyes, the howling wind…He swore his car was going to be blown away with him in it.

The honking of the car behind him snapped him out of it. Light was green for go. He was meeting Kid at some abandoned apartment building which was fine by Marty. Anything but a motel for a while would be good.

Marty parked a block off from the building. It was early, he was sure Kid was asleep despite the younger man assuring him he'd be awake. It was too early for him to be up, unless he was already up all night.

The papers had shown that only a day had passed, when it felt like much more at the Heartbreak Hotel. Marty parked his car, stepped out, and made his way over to the abandoned building. He noted the lone motorbike parked right outside the place, surprised that the owner felt comfortable enough to leave it there.

He was going up the dusty, worn down stairs and swearing at Kid inside his head about why he decided they had to meet up on the third floor of all things. Marty was tired, his body trying to play catch up with the real world. There were ideas and thoughts swirling in the party boy’s head, things that weren’t explainable to just about any normal person. But he knew Kid would believe him, and believe him that it wasn’t just a bad trip.

Marty knocked on the door of the apartment number Kid had told him, 312. He waited a moment, before the door pulled open. Noting the lack of a peephole, he was about to chide Kid about not double checking who he was letting in when he noticed the figure standing towards the back of the room.

“Hey Marty!” Kid was happy to see him, as if he ever wasn’t. The man nodded his head in greeting. He was tall. Taller than the both of them. Dark, braided hair that was clearly dyed if the ginger roots peeking through were anything to go by. A leather jacket that was clearly too big for Kid was slung behind a chair. He was clearly the owner of the bike outside. Black, faded and cut into a muscle-tee Metallica shirt, leather pants. Bandana tied around his head.

“Kid, who is this.”

“This is uh, Mark. He said he needed to be here…I think he’s like, homeless or something. Y’know, crazy guy.” Kid leaned in and whispered, looking over his shoulder. 

To Marty, the man looked way too clean and well kept for someone who would be homeless. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to think of what to do.

“You…nevermind, I’m too tired. He hasn’t tried to do anything to you has he?”

“Oh I just met him like, a few hours after you called me last night.”

So he stayed up all night.

“Right…”

“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Mark interrupted. His tone was far more polite, and his voice was far more gravelly than Marty had expected. “You…you’re Marty, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been…there. Recently.”

“There?” Marty felt his heart drop, but he kept his wits about him the best he could.

“The Heartbreak Hotel.”

It was like ice was coursing through Marty’s veins. He wanted to throw up.

Kid gave him a worried look. “You don’t look too hot man…wait…what’s the Heartbreak Hotel? Some fancy place you hitting up without me?”

“Shh.” Marty made a face at him, thinking for a second about his response. “Hey. How do you know about it?” Something in him knew not to question how he knew that Marty was there. Who cares? He did. Marty wanted to know what Shawn had been through.

“I was there. I met Shawn.” 

Marty’s heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to sink or stop or what.

“I was there.” Marty confirmed Mark’s suspicions. Or his accusation. Marty wasn’t sure. “How did you know Shawn?”

“Know…I met him there.” Mark seemed perplexed by the question.

“You met him–” Marty felt confusion take him over too. “You didn’t know Shawn? Kid you remember Shawn.”

“Michaels?” Kid titled his head.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I remember him a little…we’d just met and then he went missing.”

Mark looked between the two of them, just as confused as before. 

“I did not know Shawn before I met him at the Hotel.” He confessed. “I…assumed he had no human origins.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Kid pouted, feeling out of the loop.

“I-I’ll explain later Kid, okay?” Marty put his hand on Kid’s shoulder, getting a nod in response. “And Shawn was a real, living, breathing human with blood in his veins. He was a friend of mine.”

Mark’s face hardly changes, and Marty wonders what he’s thinking. Did this guy think Shawn was just some random spirit or something? Hell, it’s not like Shawn was famous or anything but with this guy’s accent, he had to be local. Austin was the kind of city Shawn would love to live in too. 

After a while, he speaks.

“I see. That changes my thoughts. You need to come with me.”

And with that, Mark was out the door.

Kid and Marty exchanged glances.

“Kid–”

“GO! I don’t know what’s going on but it’s important to you Marty.” Kid is practically pushing his friend out the door.

“Okay, okay. Love ya, I’ll be in touch when I can, okay?”

“Yeah yeah, just go.”

Marty catches up to Mark, who’s confirmed to be the owner of the chopper that was sitting outside. “So uh, let me go grab my car–”

“I’ll give you a ride to it. When you’re following me, stay close. I won’t hesitate to leave you in the dust.”

Something in Marty’s stomach that was twisted just wrenched even harder. He didn’t doubt the pale man, but it was like being around him there was a shift in the air. Colder, deader.

“Alright.”

#d is writing #heartbreak hotel au #marty jannetty #the 123 kid #undertaker

[auroracalisto]

don't let them see you cry chapter two, room for rent | previous chapter — the handler—the very reason for your personal slice of hell. haunting your every move... in your sleep, during the slow hours of the day. the swedish brothers—should have been strangers who show up and show you that you are more than what she told you. you are more than your mind allows you to believe. and you—the very person who will end the misery that plagues your mind. word count: 1.8k words tw: bad mothers, anxious!reader, fem!reader, self-doubt, reader is still a babysitter,, a/n: surprise shawties i'm back. if you go here tho, i update ao3 before i get to tumblr. so sometimes, you get lucky and see something new.

As you sat at your kitchen table, you allowed yourself to be berated from the very thing that kept you alive. Why not? You didn't have much to do other than listen to what your mother had instilled in you.

You weren’t exactly the kind of person people would miss. 

That had wormed its way in your mind—in your heart.

You didn’t have an award-winning apple pie like Mrs. Little did, and you most definitely didn’t have the sewing skills of Ms. Sanders. You didn’t have powers like Lila and you weren’t significantly powerful like your mother. 

You didn't have parents like Darla, and you didn't have a job like Darla's mom, being a well-known secretary for the local law firm. You were just you.

You had nothing to your name other than your older house, your five cats, and an empty room waiting to be filled by someone—anyone. 

But even your ad seemed to be ignored by anyone and everyone. Months went by without an answer, and as the time flew, your money became even tighter than it had been initially. You did what you could, but even then, Dallas didn’t take kindly to strangers, especially those who stuck to themselves. You worked where you could, odd jobs here and there until more recently, you began to babysit Darla when her mother needed you to. She paid well, and the child was a little sliver of light in your dark corner of the world—in this detrimental timeline you found yourself stuck in.

But it could end, just like that. You didn’t know when, and she didn’t even have to give a reason why. If she was done with your services, that would be it. That sliver of light would be gone in an instant. Some little rumor, some gossip from Mrs. Little and her group of housewives could send her spiraling. 

That’s what you always had been—disposable. 

Invisible, even.

Even here, in a place that never truly accepted you as their own, but took you in against the craziness of it all. 

Your mother always said so. The Handler, as she so demanded you to call her, drove that down your throat far too many times for you to forget about it. 

(Remembering the time she first made you call her the Handler was a moment you would never forget—one that struck you silent, frozen as you took her berating).

Keeping you in the sixties was a reward, she said, one that would keep you alive but out of her hair for good. 

What a joke that was. 

What kind of a reward was it for someone who knew very little about the world around them? Let alone what it was like in the sixties. It was a scary place for many, with dangers lurking around every corner. Hell, that’s how it was before the Handler took you under her wing, but that’s one of the reasons she took you in the first place. Your parents didn’t want you, so she did what she had to—to love and protect you. 

You stared down at your half-empty mug, contemplating just dumping the rest of it out as a knock rang at your door. 

You paused, slowly looking up. It was far too early for Darla to be running around, shouting for Peanut and Ginger (the other cats would hide when she came around). Besides, she would have yelled for you already, giggling and running in with a basket filled with your favorite ingredients to make muffins. 

You sat your mug down, sighing. Another knock sounded. 

Whoever this was, they weren't about to go away. You made your way to the door, swinging it open without any more hesitation. 

Your eyes stayed low, finding three pairs of shoes before you slowly looked up, feeling the blood rush from your face.

You knew them. 

Your mother always talked about these men. How dangerous they were. 

You stared at the three assassins you knew all too well, for someone who had never met them, the striking white hair and handsome features sticking out like a sore thumb.

They didn’t have a clue who you were. 

After all, you kept to the shadows when you 'worked' at the Commission. Your mother would have had a cow had she known you were making friends when you didn’t deserve to. And besides, like she always ‘lovingly’ said, “I’m your only friend. You wouldn’t want to make me sad, now would you?” 

Manipulation at its finest. But when you were younger, it worked. Now, all you could do was wonder why in the hell she even tried that with you. Why would she do that? Did you deserve that?

And why would you create attention when you could be to yourself, pleasing your mother despite her transgressions against you?

It was far too late, now. 

Surely, the Handler knew they were here. Or did she forget about you? 

No, no, she wouldn’t forget about you.

However, a part of you wouldn’t have been surprised if that answer turned out to be yes. 

Maybe this was all some part of a test. Was she hoping to bring you back to the commission with her and Lila? Did she finally find you worthwhile?

Drawing you out of your thoughts, the eldest one who you knew as Axel held out the ad in the newspaper. You froze for a moment, eyeing the newspaper before you looked up at him. 

“There’s only one bedroom,” you said, your voice soft and low. Almost as if you were afraid. “There’s a sofa as well.”

Axel tilted his head at you, his lip quirking up slightly. “That will do.”

You stared at him in return.

The Commission would have given them spending money for their mission. Money was tight, and with the prospect of someone helping out around your home, you would take anyone. Even if that meant you could be killed in your sleep. But even then, you weren’t sure if you would mind. It would put you out of your misery. But then what would happen to your cats? 

You cleared your throat, hesitantly smiling at the three men, each significantly taller than the last. You had to crane your neck just to look at them.

“You… you can come in,” you said, slightly moving out of the way and backing up with the door so it could open all the way. 

Axel gave a curt nod, making his way into the house. He looked back at his siblings, saying something in their mother tongue—Swedish if you remembered correctly. Not that you knew anything of the language. 

Oscar, the youngest one, sent Axel a cheeky smile, responding quickly and glancing at you. His eyes lingered on yours for just a moment before he walked past Axel, leaving Otto and Axel to follow behind him. 

You shut the door behind you, taking in a deep breath. 

Surely this was planned. But what about the Handler? 

She couldn’t have forgotten you that easily. She kept you a well-hid secret, yes, you knew that much. But would she forget her own daughter? 

Lila had her own plateful of worries. The Handler would never forget about her. She was practically her prized possession, and you—a worn doll who would never see the light of day. You were on the back burner, time and time again. But what the hell was this?

Was she fucking with you again? Was this her way of saying, I still have you in the palm of my hands, so watch yourself?

You pursed your lips and wiped your hands off on the fabric of your dress, looking towards your sweet little kitten who meowed at you from his perch on the armchair. You walked over and gently pet his head, giving him a faint smile. 

“It’ll be fine, Peanut,” you whispered, kissing the little tuft of brown and orange hair on the top of his head. 

“Peanut?” 

The voice came from behind you, a soft snicker following. Oscar stood there, his arms over his chest as he watched you. He was as handsome as the photo your mother had showed you once—each of them was.

You smiled faintly. “Yes, Peanut. Darla named him.”

He raised an eyebrow, questioning you silently as to who Darla was.

“She’s a little girl I watch. She lives just down the street.”

He glanced at you before looking down at the cat. A weakness of his, he would suppose—cats and pretty women. Too bad that’s not why they were staying with you. 

He walked over to the kitten, gently holding his hand out to the shying creature. Instantly, the cat nuzzled up to him, and a smile spread across his lips.

“How long will you all be staying?” you asked, leaning against the armchair as you watched him pet the kitten. 

“As long as we have to,” came Axel’s voice as he came back into the living room. He narrowed his eyes at you. “Your name?”

Your eyes widened a bit. Of course, none of you had ‘officially’ met yet. You only knew them because of the Handler, and no one ever knew you. 

“Y/n,” you said, tilting your head as you watched him. “What’s yours?”

“Axel,” he said, pointing to himself. “Oscar,” he said, pointing to the kitten-fiend as he picked up said kitten. “Otto,” he jabbed his thumb back towards the tall, lumbering man who walked down the hallway. 

Otto’s eyes briefly met with yours, a soft blush coating his cheeks. 

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you said, giving them a faint smile. 

You wondered how long it would take for them to figure out your little secret if they didn’t already know it. How long would it take for the Handler to figure out her favored assassins came right to the place she tried to ditch her difficult daughter?

“There, uh, there’s coffee in the kitchen if you guys would like any,” you said, pointing in its direction. “The cupboards should be stocked, but I’ll need to run to the market soon…”

Axel gave a small nod, watching as his youngest brother took the kitten into the kitchen to get himself some coffee. Axel rolled his neck between his shoulders before he glanced up at Otto, frowning. 

“Does she look familiar to you?” he asked, his native tongue thick and intoxicating. 

Otto looked over at you, shoving his hands in his pockets before he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry?” you questioned, tilting your head. Your heart pounded in your chest, but before either of them could say anything more, Axel turned to look at you.

“Sleeping arrangements.” 

That’s all he gave you as a response. 

He left for the kitchen, Otto soon following behind, once again leaving you in the silent comfort of your living room—except for once, you weren’t sure if you were comforted by the quiet or not.

next chapter

#don't let them see you cry #the swedes #ikea mafia #swedes x reader #the swedes x reader #tua swedes #mutual #tua s2 #axel #otto #oscar #oscar x reader #otto x reader #axel x reader #Umbrella Academy #umbrella academy swedes #tua oscar x reader #tua axel x reader #tua otto x reader #tua x reader #reader insert #tua imagines #tua fanfic #ikea mafia fanfic

[edierone]

I posted 2,707 times in 2022

That's 432 more posts than 2021!

34 posts created (1%)

2,673 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@baronessblixen

@ellivia

@enigmaticxbee

@cock-holliday

@basementskylight

I tagged 2,690 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#😂 - 51 posts

#why is she so - 42 posts

#😭 - 39 posts

#leiascully 5 evah - 34 posts

#help immediately - 26 posts

#ohohoho yesss - 22 posts

#these two assholes - 21 posts

#how is this a real person - 19 posts

#your honor i love her - 18 posts

#always reblog long ginger scully - 17 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#10 yrs younger officemate who finall worked up the courage to ask what was in that heavy black bag i disappeared with 2x/day

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I was just re-reading The Things She Carries and wanted to tell you how fantastic it is. You capture them and their dynamic incredibly well. Also I’ve been reading XF fanfic for 25 years and I think this is one of the best explanations for Mulder’s sometimes shitty behavior toward Scully in post-cancer-arc. Head cannon accepted. Thank you for your service. 👏

oh my goddy goddy godd, I have no idea how old this ask is, but whoever you are and whenever you sent this, I love and appreciate the hell out of you!!! Folks, if you're interested: The Things She Carries

13 notes - Posted July 14, 2022

#4

The Fox and the Wolf

Chapter 1 of 2

[AN: Y’all, this will not be everyone’s cup of tea. Inspired by a long-ago anon sent to someone else here that suggested Mulder had had his first sexual experience WAY too young, with a grown woman who absolutely and knowingly took advantage of his loneliness and need. It is in no way explicit, but please take seriously my tw: grooming tag. Read on AO3 here.]

He was fourteen that summer, and hungry — hungry all the time. He ate enormous breakfasts, scarfed any food anyone offered him, made himself stacks of sandwiches before lunch was served, took three-quarters of whatever was on the table at dinner, stood in front of the refrigerator grazing on cold brisket and drinking milk straight from the bottle when his growling stomach woke him at midnight.

His mother never said anything about it to him outright, but he got the sense that she thought it was unseemly, this boundless appetite of his; she’d never been, or raised, a teenage boy before, and he could tell she saw his literal insatiability as somehow tied to other ill-bred, unbound desires. It was common, base — as if he were an uneducated laborer, someone who hadn’t been raised to know which fork to use for the fish course (or even when the fish course should appear in the meal).

But he didn’t start hiding it until he overheard her tell a neighbor over coffee one afternoon, “My girl Elena barely gets the shopping brought into the house before Fox has emptied all the bags himself. It’s as if we’re running an indigent pantry out of our own kitchen.” The disapproval, the scorn, the hesitation and dropped voice before the words “indigent pantry” — he got the message, loud and clear.

After that, he made sure to cover his tracks: He’d have dinner at Paul’s house, where they ate earlier than most, then go home for dinner at his own; slip a $10 out of his mother’s purse to buy two footlong subs and a two-liter of Coke at the deli grocery down by the shore and eat them all himself on the walk home; go with Chrissy Edgar to her church youth group just for the spaghetti supper; lie and say that Elena must have only gotten one loaf of bread instead of three this week.

He just couldn’t help it — he’d shot up from 5’4” to 6’0” in less than a year, for one thing, and spent all his time playing basketball or running; he burned to make the JV team as a freshman this fall, with the vague idea it might impress his parents. And girls, too; Chrissy Edgar wouldn’t let him touch her, and unfortunately Cheryl Tiegs didn’t know he existed (although the poster of her on the back of his bedroom door saw plenty of him).

But he would try — ignored and filled with free-floating need, he would nonetheless try to rein himself in.

————————

One Tuesday in late June, sidewalks shimmering in the 90 degree heat and the sea breeze nowhere to be found, he ordered two double cheeseburgers, two shakes, and a family-size fries at the Burgess Farm Restaurant, planning to pay with another $10 he’d cadged from his mom’s stash in the linen closet. But maybe it fell out of his shorts on the run there, or maybe he’d already spent it? Either way, he didn’t have it, and the dead-eyed kid behind the counter was getting bored of waiting. His stomach grumbled loudly — a cute girl at a table nearby laughed with her friends and turned away. He was actually on the verge of tears from the humiliation and the hunger.

“Fox, dear, did you forget your wallet? Never mind, I’ll take care of it.”

A lady’s voice right behind him, then materializing next to him at the counter — Taffy? Tammy? He can’t remember — he’s only met her a few times, and that was years ago, when his mother was on the local parks board and he was in elementary school.

She was a vision in hip-hugging white pants and some sort of clingy pale blue top, long dark hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail, gigantic diamond ring glittering on her left hand. Her bright green eyes, full of good humor, looked him up and down. “Tabitha Welliver, darling — call me Tabby. Your mother and I … used to know each other.” Her look — wry, knowing — reminds him of why she hasn’t been around in awhile; the fight over park usage permits by “outsiders” had gotten pretty ugly near the end. “Heavens, though — you’ve certainly grown since then.”

“Oh, uh, thanks, thank you, Ta — uhhh, Mrs. Welliver,” he stammers, accepting the armful of food she hands him, feeling his cheeks tingle with an embarrassing flush; caught penniless, and caught fighting off a woody for no damn reason at all, he’s not sure which is worse.

“I can, uh. I can pay you back —” His voice cracks on the last word and he wants to die.

She laughs, patting him on the head; she has to reach up to do it. “You certainly will not! This is my treat. When my stepdaughters were your age, every boy they brought home was always on the verge of starvation — no matter how much they ate! Don’t you dare give it a second thought.”

He mumbles some thanks, desperate to get out before anyone else he knows shows up, but genuinely warmed by her matter-of-fact generosity.

“You know what you could do, though?” She’s gently steering him to the exit, apparently having forgotten her own order.

“Ma’am?”

“Come by my house anytime you’re hungry — I’m all by myself this summer, George is in Japan working on another deal, and his daughters are all in Europe doing god knows what. My housemaid makes more food than I could ever eat — save me from wasting all that, won’t you?”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he repeats, “Ma’am?”

“Oh, don’t call me ma’am, please, Fox! Tabby, or Tabitha if you must. It’s the big white brick house with the green trim, just on the far side of the hill — I spend the afternoons on the porch with a book, most days. Come by anytime, really dear, anytime. You need fattening up!” She laughs again, as if they’re both in on the joke.

He nods dumbly, knowing he will not at all ever do that. She touches his cheek with a fond, indulgent smile, then watches him go, calling after him, “Wonderful to see you again, Fox!”

He’s intensely embarrassed, later, when an unbidden image — Tabitha-in-the-blue-top — manages to blot out the lovely Miss Tiegs in the nightly round of what his mother calls “self-abuse,” but he hopes his mental apology to her, after, will be enough to clear his conscience — and that he’ll never think of her that way again.

——————————————————

The next Saturday is a bad one in his house. His mother sleeps late, then complains of a vicious headache and spends the day sniping at him: He needs a haircut, no he can’t go play basketball at the school and never mind why, that Chrissy Edgar girl is too fast and obviously headed for a bad future, how on earth can one person eat an entire pot roast, she wished she had at least one child who didn’t leave the bathroom looking and smelling like a livestock-grooming business.

Finally he says he’s going for a run and doesn’t wait for permission. It’s close to sundown as he starts out, going a little too fast on the fuel of the day’s anger and irritation. He runs to the shore, turns back on a different road, takes a big loop to avoid anyplace his friends might be (the two-screen movie theater, the ice cream store, their own neighborhood). He’s slowing, finally, as he leans into the long uphill of Center Street; his watch says he’s been running for an hour, which means probably he’s done somewhere around eight miles. And now it’s full dark and he isn’t sure how far he is from home.

He pauses by a wrought-iron fence in a rich-looking neighborhood, stretching his quads and calves, wondering whether to try to find a phone to call his mom, or just start walking and get there when he gets there. His sweaty shirt is starting to make him feel clammy in the night breeze, and all of a sudden the good exhaustion of the run is gone, replaced by the sadness he spends a lot of his time running from.

“Fox, is that you?” A voice calls from nearby.

See the full post

15 notes - Posted February 18, 2022

#3

ok if we’re doing thanksgiving, might as well throw this ‘un out there again 🫠

Until Tonight; Until tonight. (529 words) by Edie_Rone Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The X-Files Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, Dana Scully/Other(s) Characters: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, OC (mentioned Additional Tags: AU, what if Scully quit after she was returned from her abduction, Thanksgiving, Glenmorangie Summary: On Thanksgiving eve, many years after she'd quit the Bureau and moved on with her life, a widowed Dana Scully remembers the man she'd tried to forget.

18 notes - Posted November 23, 2022

#2

Appendicitis - 2022’s first gift to me! ☹️

18 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

out-of-touch show creators be like uuunnnhh eeunnnhh everybody hated my revival series my brother in christ you wrote that shit

43 notes - Posted March 14, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #ahh beans #this really is a place huh #sorry it’s a long post #all the kids’re doin it

[oneangstymotherfucker]

Heavy TW for csa mention

Bit drunk rn but whomsoever needs to hear it:

Horny fantasies are normal. Most people think about "cnc", its one of te most common fa tasies. I've talked to MULTIPLE therapists about everything. if you read my porn on ao3 u know. But its "bad"- everything from.minors to violence to death. And every one of my therapists- before rhey even knew about my fucki g trauma- said that it was normal. That being into whack shit like incest, being a "kid" when it happens, lolis, shotas, abuse, nc,- all of it - didn't really matter. What matters is what you do irl, full stop.

Because the thing is I studied psychology. I went to college for it And because of my ocd and fhe fucked up shit my daddy did to me i had to fucking know why he did it and to know FOR SURE that i wouldnt do it so i sudied and i did literal years of research, not just reading actual psychological studies but also talking to people. I sought out the people you antis think are too gross and too bad to be alive and i talked to them and i learned. I read stidies and.i learned.

Some people are attracted to kids. That's part of the venn diagram of "who hurts kids" but its not the whole fucking thing. And even if you think they all deserve to die or whatever, theres still the matter of stopping the hurt, right? If that's actually what you care about amd not just some ego-stroking witch hunt. If you actually care then you HAVE to face the whole fucking venn diagram. because im sick to DEATH of people who never been hurt say its all one "kind of people" like a fucking nz and then act fucking flabbergasted when its someones good christian fucking dad who never looked twice at a kid amd theyre like "we wish we would have.known" well yeah fuckers you would have known if you actually listened and cared about the situation and not just about looking holy.

(AS A VICTIM I KNOW WHEN YOU ARE BEING FAKE WHEN YOU ARE DOING IT JUST FOR YOUR OWN SAKE I KNOW WHEN YOU REALLY CARE AJD WHEN YOU WOULD LEAVE KIDS LIKE I WAS IN THE DUST BECAUSE YOU HATE ANYONE ASSOCIATED WITH THE PAIN YOU THINK ITS A PLAGUE THAT SPREADS AND THAT ANYONE WHO TOUCHED IT IS DIRTYY YOU THINK IF YOU RUN FAST ENOUGH AND.HATE HARD ENOUG IT WON'T AFFECT YOU ABD YOU WILL GET INTO SOME FAKE HEAVEN THATS EVEN BEYTER THAN THE KIDHOOD I WAS ROBBED OF WHEN MY DAD DECIDED TO RAPE ME).

So if you really care AT LEAST know this.

It is a venn diagram.

Just like adult assault, right?

Some of it is 'passion driven' or whatever the fuck you want to call it. But MOST assault isnt about attraction.

Most people dont want to tryly hurt what they love. Im sorry if you think otherwise.

People who hurt others (regardless of age) usually aren't hurting them becasue they "love them so much". Trust me i spent years wishing that it was just because my dad loved me a little too much in the wrong way.

But it wasn't.

He hurt me because he was insecure, impatient. Because i was a vulnerable and weak six year old with no one else to trust and no where else to go. He wasn't a pedophile. He was just a guy who had a real hard time seeing others as humans. Maybe because of Pearl Harbor. Maybe because he was a ginger scorpio idfc. He felt fucked and so he decided to.take it out on tbe weakest person he could. HE MADE THE ACTIVE DECISION. Because he is a shit person. And thats the thing yall dont act like its a decision. (You are thr ones romanticizing it, as if i seduced him or he gradually decided he "needed to have me"-no. He woke up one day and DECIDED AS AN ADULT TO HURT HIS SIX YESR OLD KID.)

If you're so scared people are just avoiding fucking up kids by not thinkinv about it too much i have QUESTIONS FOR YOU actually. To hurt someone isnt.tje default, no matter what you feel about somone

You have to actively decide to hurt someone and go through with it. Dont listen to your ocd.

Funny enough thats where your eroticization argument comes from. A non-map person decided to fuck a kid, so they gotta get it up enough, so they think about that that kid in particular over and over so they can stomach it. Because they couldn't otherwise.

If you read any psych essays about sex you would know that.

So he did that i guess. How do i guess? How do i guess he wasn't a pedo?

Because he hated me. Because he barely ever paid me any mind. Because i wished he would just look at me, see me as a person, for years. Because kids stjll need thejr dads.

He once said he was amazed how me and.all my five other siblings had different personalities.

Because he put a fucking sheet over my head while he did it over and over so.he.wouldnt have to look at me.

I was just a weak.easy target to him. Nothing more at all. He never loved me, never even cared about me as a person.

So anyway ebough about that shit.

I was introduced to sex at six years old. It was scary and hurt and kind of felt good, something you do with family.

And thats still the biggest impression sex has on my mind.

I dont want it like that irl because ive had it irl and it fucekd me up beyond comprehension. And i dont want to get hurt a d i dont want anyone fucking esle to get hurt like.that ever.

But it is to this day one of the only things i can "enjoy." Becaus eas long as im the victim im not hurting anyone right? It is safe and it is.good and it is wajt ive always known!!!! It is the only thing that feels safe, imagining it like that. If somoene actually did love me then.

Amd every fucking one of mytherapists has blinked at me and said, "this is a fantasy you're talking about, right?"

And i, scared for my life and believing i should kms, say, "yes,"

And they've each said "so why are you so upset? It's just a fantasy. Most people have tabboo fantasies, and this one even makes sense for you."

We know what's healthy because its whatever djdnt hurt us. So maybe just step off and worry about yourselves. We aren't "normalizing" anything. "Slippery slope" is a thinking fallacy (hum comm 101) and fantasies have been fucking normal since day one (hum psy 101), and the people reading fucjing anime fics aren't the ones hurting kids (ethics 101, hum psy 101).

You can be a little uncomfortable. Being squicked wont kill you. Just block and move the fuck along.

It's not for you. Move along. And stop fucking coming.at the people you say you want to protect. It looks fucking cheap.

Also also also people dont owe you an explanation of their trauma or to have had/remember/feel definded by it. people can be into anything amd gues what, jts none of your buisness. Why are antis such pervs? jesus fuckinv christ.

#proship #antiship #pro fiction #ship discourse #abuse cw #anticensorship #pr0ship #anti #anti anti #antis get therapy challenge #(not as hard as you think) #get well soon #tw csa mention

[gingerbreadmonsters]

the library of lamentation

all of these works can be found below, or here on my ao3 (also @/gingerbreadmonsters)

my ramblings about the logistics of the obey me! universe, set in two parts to the sound of a very bizarre reading list.

-

study session 01

ginger’s headcanons about magic, humans, demons, and demon-human magic in 2400 words or less. this is a long one! one non-specific mention of alcohol and medicines, but that’s about it. horrible bastardisations of actual science and terrible demon puns ahead.

study session 02 

ginger’s headcanons about the general devildom, and the function of the circles of hell, for just over 2800 words. tw: prolonged discussion of death, the afterlife, pregnancy, childbirth and politics. 

back to ginger’s obey me! masterlist

back to the main masterlist

this masterlist is composed entirely of original fanworks by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute.

#ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters