#floating world under the moonlight

[sakkiichi]

CASTLES CRUMBLING.

Memories of you are both cathartic and painful when he visits your grave.

ft. Kaedehara Kazuha, Xiao, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Lyney, Neuvillette x gn! reader.

cw/genre: angst.

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✧ KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

Autumn. The time of year that brought warm memories to the wandering samurai despite its chilly winds.

Shades of scarlet coated Inazuma’s grassy plains, like a rain constituted by droplets of dawn light when the maple leaves swayed to the ground.

And amidst this scene, you.

You, who danced to the tune of the foliage floating in the breeze; you, who snuggled his red scarf closer around your neck when he wrapped it around you, taking in his sweet cinnamon-like scent; you, whose hand used to fit perfectly in his, as you ran your thumb over the scarred skin under his bandages.

Kazuha finds himself staring at those now. He remembers all too well how you used to wrap them around his hand. Your lips brushed over every indentation in his burnt skin, overwriting storms with sunlight and blue skies.

“All healed now.” You sing-sang, the tenderness of your kiss over the wrapped scars.

It feels empty now, his grasp, still searching for you every morning, but you’re out of reach.

Even now, as the wandering poet’s head rests against you, he can’t quite feel your touch.

“Hello, my dove.” He begins, fingers brushing over the dendrobiums surrounding you. Moondust lashes kiss his cheeks when the sunsets in his stare cloud over, the image of your smiling face behind his lids. “It’s already autumn, remember how you called it our season, my angel?” He softly says, turning his head slightly, so that his forehead partially leans on you. “The leaves are turning red already, I’ve picked some for you.” Kazuha utters, as he gently threads them around the stone.

Hard. Cold. So unlike the warmth you radiated. He sighs, opening his eyes, tender hearths to warm your paralyzed heart.

“I’ve been writing too…” Dampness pools around his lashes. “Haikus, poems, because I know you love them, hummingbird…” The samurai’s voice cracks, vision blurry, as he traces the letters of the name he used to breathe in between kisses.

Your name. The only one that will forever echo through his sweetest dreams, double edged now.

Droplets of molten moonlight slide down Kazuha’s cheeks, colliding with the earth separating you from the world.

“We will meet again, my dove.” He vows, kneeling on the grass, moist by his tears. “In some corner of the next life. I promise, love.”

As he stands up, retracing his steps, the wind picks up.

Kazuha clutches his red scarf closer to him.

Your scent still lingers.

✧ XIAO

Spring had never felt so cold.

The sun over Liyue’s mountains is too dull; the glaze lilies appear closed off; the days feel too long.

The conqueror of demons makes his way through Guili Plains, his steps slow, as if that would keep away a cruel reality that’s set in stone.

He’s coming to meet you, and yet he’s never felt so far away from you.

In the few steps that separate the yaksha from you, an infinity of memories and bittersweet dreams seem to wash over him. They mingle with the scent of morning dew over qingxins bloomed anew.

Qingxin. What he used to call you.

“Xiaooo!” You cooed, a smile sweeter than the treat you offered him alight on your lips. “Dessert’s ready, love.” You called, offering him the plate of delicious almond tofu.

It was always his favorite, especially the one made by you.

His cheeks took on a tint not unlike the lipstick marks you left on him when you felt like teasing him, peppering his face with your honeyed kisses. You always used to chuckle at the sight.

“Qingxin…” his voice quivered, in awe, gaze of gold widened, sparkly. “There is no need for you to go through this trouble for me…”

“Nonsense!” You cut him off, hands cradling his cheeks. “I love making your favorite food for you, baby.”

Now he brings one of his own scarred hands to his face.

It’s so cold in comparison to your comforting warmth.

Yet even colder is the grey hue of the heavy stone that comes into view: the one marking the spot where you were laid to rest for good.

Slowly, resigned to the inevitability of reality, the vigilant yaksha reaches you.

Even though he knows he will no longer have you.

Xiao’s whole form trembles when he leaves the handmade butterfly over your gravestone. Its petal wings are all crooked, his grip vice-like in his anguish.

Now the flower-made insect will never fly again. A crystal bubble, lit up on his darkest nights, inside which dreams warm and sweet were recounted, as long as the adeptus stayed in your embrace; now shattered, only sharp fragments left to pierce his heart.

“I’m sorry…” is all the demon conqueror can manage as greeting, the moment he sits before you, head hung low.

The karma he bears had never crushed him this badly.

✧ SCARAMOUCHE

Winter squalls leave nothing but ashes behind.

The layers of snow have started melting, decrepit twigs following, the aftermath of a furious gale, death in its wake.

The wanderer seems to verse in the bony hands of it often, after all. This life, this world… they only ever took from him, shattered mirrors as the only remains of promises to never come.

He rests the back of his head on the frigid stone. He doesn’t care about the last remains of snow seeping into his very crafted bones.

Scaramouche’s hand closes into a fist, dirt and melted ice on his skin.

“They took you away too…” The puppet breathes, inexistent puffs of his words sifting against the blackened skies in the cold. His indigo gaze is clouded over, despite stars littering every corner of the midnight above.

A lie.

Make believe. Like thinking he could be happy for once.

Turning around, Scaramouche presses his forehead against what’s left to symbolize you.

“Why?” He asks, teeth gritted, to stop the helpless quiver of his lip. “Why you too?”

The softness of your human embrace takes ahold of his memories, as you both lay beneath the endless firmament above.

“Have you ever wished upon a star, Kuni?” You asked, your warm fingers combing through the distant nights contained in his shiny locks.

“Pft, are you serious?” He used to retort, the mirrored galaxies of his stare coming into view as his eyelids opened.

“Very.” You stated, without stopping your movements, eyes never leaving the starfields above.

“Why?” He asked, focused on your profile, as if a part of him knew how ephemeral instants like this would become, committing to memory the only constellation that lit up his hollow heart.

“Because it’s nice, to hope, to believe in things… wouldn’t you agree?” You smiled down at him, tender hands cradling the coolness of his jawline.

“Huh, if you say so…”

“You know I’m right!” You chuckled, poking his cheek playfully, his nose scrunching up in feigned annoyance.

“Ugh, whatever.”

“Make a wish?” Your fingers found his in the night breeze, entwining together, the warmth of a small sun just for him.

“Fine…” He sighed, closing his eyes, lashes of concealed dreams leaning on his perfect cheekbones.

“I wished for forever with you.” He croaks out now.

An almost god brought to his knees by the treacherous fate written in devious stars.

His vision blurs, headed skyward, the universe above, a multitude of molten wildfires to him, raining down in flammable rain, his own tears the match to ignite them.

The failed god weeps. Winter burns.

✧ LYNEY

“You never know what can happen in the blink of an eye.”

Those were the words the magician once uttered, as your eyes lit up in wonder. He believes to recall it was a summer night, when his dusky gaze set on you for the first time.

Beaming and shining with excitement, you marveled at his sleight of hand, as the lumidouce bell on the performer’s hand vanished, only for its petals to have tinted in rosy shades of rainbow when the bloom next appeared in your hair.

If anyone had told Lyney, in that moment, that you’d end up putting his heart under spell, he wouldn’t have quite believed it.

But thinking back on it now, the time spent next to you certainly feels like mere seconds.

A peculiar figure sporting a top hat makes his way towards Fontaine’s graveyard.

His steps are monotone, the usual cheshire-like grin on his visage is nowhere to be seen, and in his hands, flowers abound.

Lumidouce bells.

The color of goodbyes, separations.

And the summer nights under which he used to kiss you.

“Please, Lyney! I want to see another one!” You begged, hands clasped together, eyes reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.

Your lover hums, his gaze, the backdrop against which the sunsets in your stare sparkled.

“Well, mon coeur,” the magician leaned forward, “I’ll have to charge you for it this time, you know.”

You pouted, marcotte colored lips irresistibly sweet, a bite of sugary peach in the heat of an early midsummer’s night.

“Close your eyes, my rose.” Lyney breathed, in the little dusk-lit millimeters separating you two.

“Okay.”

Warmth flooded around him the instant his lips enveloped yours, akin to fairy lights in the coziness of a familiar room, fiery arrows that linked two hearts. Your lover’s hands cupped your jawline, spells written in the caress of his gloved touch over your skin.

A new breed of magic, with the sun dipping behind the nation of hydro’s mountains to give the lovers privacy.

When he next opens his eyes, the allure has faded.

No trace of you remains, save for the emptiness and cold beside him.

And the only nightmare he can’t undo; your tombstone all too palpable, too real.

“You really never know how everything can change in the blink of an eye, huh?” Lyney utters, his voice raw, hoarse.

Despite the lumidouce bells’ petals shifting from dusk to dawn the moment he lays them to rest over you, the magician feels like he’s shooting arrows made of shadows; there’s no fiery beacon to light up this night.

The curtain closes when he steps away, rainbow roses bleeding and lonely in his wake.

The sun has set.

✧ NEUVILLETTE

Off-key birdsong and steely skies.

Those are Fontaine’s Chief Justice’s companions today.

Alone, he sits next to the ghost of someone he used to adore.

Someone he still loves.

Crystalline amethyst eyes scan the horizon. Even the seas seem turbulent today, relentless waves colliding against jutting rocks, as if by persistence alone they could cut through them.

The wailing ocean mirrors Neuvillette’s actions; as if by staring in the distance, he could somehow conjure you up back into the world, on forgotten dreams and pieces of flashbacks alone.

“It looks like it will rain soon, my dearest.” He softly says, the words lost in the monsoon overcasting the heavens.

Naturally, no answer follows, except for the agonized cry of a fallen sparrow.

The Iudex of Fontaine sighs. An upheaval in the blowing mistral combs through his hair, the sensation unlocking the pages of a diary once rose-colored, now only scattered petals over a lake that’s gone still for good.

“Isn’t the weather so nice lately, Neuvi?” You chirped, knees folded over the azure flowerbeds. Your hands were carded through your lover’s long locks, silver seafoam running almost hypnotizingly between your fingers.

Sunbeams glittered all around you when his eyes opened up to you, enigmas from the depths being laid bare for you alone.

“It is, darling…” He trailed off, one of his hands touching the side of your face, eliciting giggles from you.

Pink dusted over the pallor of his cheeks whenever you did that.

If only all days could be sunny, if only he could have kept the symphony of your laugh forever playing…

The sea’s surface turns charcoal, undulating with the low whistling of uprising gales.

Dark spots start appearing over the stone where your name’s been eternally put to sleep.

Beneath the blindfold, Justice mourns.

It’s raining again.

#astronetwrk #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x you #neuvillette x reader #lyney x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #xiao x reader #genshin impact angst #neuvillette angst #lyney angst #scaramouche angst #wanderer angst #kazuha angst #xiao angst #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact x y/n #neuvillette x you #lyney x you #scaramouche x you #kazuha x you #wanderer x you #xiao x you #genshin imagines #genshin angst

[lxvebun]

A millennium of unsaid I love you's

Synopsis: love is the most twisted curse of all, yuuji wonders if it's twisted enough to have even Sukuna in it's grip.

Content: Sukuna x gender neutral reader. Fluff+little angst. Lovesick!sukuna, I repeat, Lovesick!Sukuna he's so in love with you it shows in everything he does!! Mentions of character death but its open for you to decide. Slight mention of canon violence. Around 1k words♡ eng is not my first language, lmk if there are any annoying mistakes♡♡

"Have you ever been in love?" Yuuji wonders out loud, not necessarily expecting a serious answer. It's a little past midnight if he's reading the blurry red numbers on the digital clock correctly, and despite sleep clouding over his eyes, he can't seem to find rest. Blankets are carelessly kicked to the edge of the bed in an effort to relieve himself from the summer heat but it doesn't do much to help him ease into that sleepy state either.

(Talking to Sukuna seemed a lot more interesting than counting sheep)

The question hangs in the air for a moment, silence twists around it like a vine, and just before it completely swallows it up, the answer floats across his mind similar to a thought but eerily spoken in a different voice.

"Yes"

It's said quietly, almost as if trying to maintain the tranquility of the summer night, but this is Sukuna we're talking about. He doesn't take others into consideration. There's something else that keeps him from voicing his answers out loud.

(Perhaps it's the way he can't talk about you without sounding like a love-sick devotee)

"How!?" Yuuji blurts out before thinking, not realizing the question is rather rude until a sharp flash of pain surges through his body, a little corrective behavior sent from Sukuna, no doubt. "Sorry, sorry. I just didn't expect it, that's all.

It's quiet for a bit. Yuuji takes the time to admire the stars and moonlight shining through the sliver of the curtains. It feels like the moon is extra radiant tonight as it spills a wonderful illuminative light across the room. 

"I don't know"

There's not much he doesn't know, but to this day it's still a miracle to him that you weaved yourself so effortlessly into his very being. Managing to do so without an ounce of resistance from him. Partly believing you were some kind of heavenly punishment sent to bring the king of curses to his knees. To rid the world of a darkness that never should have existed in the first place.

(He'd let you)

"I just was"

There's another part of him that theorizes that maybe you were something that remained of his human self. A soulmate to complete his when his soul wasn't half as dark and twisted as it is now. Born from the same star, hearts carved from the same moon. A red string binds you to him, regardless of the form he takes. How cruel of fate to tie you to a monster and keep it that way.

Quietness tunes back in as Yuuji's thoughts drift elsewhere. For a second, Sukuna thinks he's done with his late-night interrogation.

"What were they like?"

He's not indulging Yuuji, really. But his heart beats back a little warmth into his soul every time he thinks of you. Every time he thinks of your voice, how his name sounded so syrupy and sweet falling from your lips, a stark contrast to how it's usually uttered.

Every time he thinks of your touch, how you always handled him with a gentleness he probably doesn't deserve. As if under all the scars and cursed markings he was made of the most delicate porcelain. Even when you were angry, it never bled violence into your touch.

Gods, your entire being shined so brightly he could pick you out from among the stars. You dug yourself into his chest, ripped out his darkened heart oh so deliciously, and buried yourself in its place. As if you always belonged there.

Just thinking of you stains his mouth all too sweetly, a millennium of unsaid I love you's building up in the back of his throat. He swallows it down.

"They were beautiful" he speaks aloud this time, voice booming around the room. Yuuji flinches a little at the intrusion "And that's enough of your questions tonight, brat"

"Just one more, please"

.....

Yuuji takes the silence as compliance.

"Are they gone?" He puts it into softer terms. Sukuna's a little annoyed at the consideration.

He doesn't know... and he's not sure what hurts more, being oblivious to your fate, or assuming that you have passed. Surely, Uraume would have taken care of you. Then again, are they even around still? A dullness grows in his chest, splinters its way through his ribs, and weighs down into his lungs suffocatingly so at the uneasiness of not knowing.

Looking through Yuuji's eyes, he catches a glint of a star beaming down into the split in the curtain. Shining an ethereal light so brightly he has to avert his gaze.

( he could pick you out amongst the stars. He refuses to believe it's you)

The ache lessens again as the starlight seems to clear his head. You're bound to him by a string of fate, there's not a single universe out there where you're not with him. Even if it's cruel of fate to do so, even if those thousand years apart have turned him into someone almost unrecognizable. You'll be together again. Perhaps your soul is just waiting for the right moment to appear.

"they'll be back" is all he says, and the finality in his tone urges Yuuji to keep his mouth shut despite the whirlwind of questions still racing through his mind. Memories that don't belong to him flicker through Yuujis's mind as Sukuna seems to dream off. They're blurry and foggy and disappear all too quickly for him to make sense of what he's seeing, but he can feel the overwhelming presence of love dripping from the edges. He doesn't question why his heart starts to race too.

Sukuna has been a rot in his side from day one. but if there ever exists an opportunity to save everyone, if he could give him his happy ending should you come back, he thinks he'll grant it to him.

Thank you for reading angels!!♡ i had a lot of fun writing this so I hope you enjoyed this too!

#jujutsu kaisen x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x gn reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #sukuna x gender neutral reader #soft sukuna #jujustu kaisen #jjk

[cutielando]

hi love! i was wondering if you could write an imagine based of the music videoclip of ariana grande’s “we can’t be friends” and than with Lando x reader? the videoclip ends with ariana forgetting her ex boyfriend and they walk next to each other without knowing each other but can you maybe make the end with after reader removes her memories of her and lando they meet each other again ?

a/n: thank you so much for requesting!!❤️

my masterlist

You hadn’t wanted it to come to that. To come to the moment when you wouldn’t even be able to be in the same room as each other without screaming each other’s ears off.

Relationships were not like how people depicted them to be. All sunshine and roses, endless love and no problems whatsoever.

You had wanted to believe that at the beginning. You couldn’t imagine Lando being anything other than a perfect boyfriend. You didn’t even want to pathom the off chance that he would ever hurt you.

And yet, there you two were, screaming at each other in the middle of the streets, dead in the night, under the moonlight and with nobody around. Monaco was silent and peaceful at this hour, but you two weren’t.

You didn’t even remember why you were arguing, what had got the both of you so riled up. It seemed like you didn’t need a reason to fight these days.

After that, after the fighting and the harsh words, came the break up. You should have seen it coming, should have done something to prevent losing the love you two shared, but it was too late.

Your relationship was beyond salvation. And it hurt. It hurt like a real bitch ever since you stopped seeing him walk through the door of your apartment, every time you went to bed and he was not there to hold you as you slipped into unconsciousness.

You felt him everywhere you were, saw him in every little thing you would do, every single day.

It had all been too much.

You couldn’t deal with the pain of losing him, of not being able to see him, feel him or talk to him.

Which is why you did the only thing that could help you.

Wipe your memory clean of him.

You couldn’t bring yourself to really do it at first. The idea of forgetting everything about him, every little thing that you loved about him and the way be made you feel, you didn’t want to live in a world where you would never know the way he loved you.

But as time passed and you saw how careless he was, how he was living his life to the fullest like your relationship had never even existed, that pushed you over the edge.

So you called the doctor and scheduled the procedure. Gathering every single memory that you had of him, anything you had that reminded you of him was stacked in a box and carried with you.

In the waiting room, as you read through the contract you were about to sign, sneaking glances at the box in your lap staring back at you, you couldn’t help but chuckle. Two years of your life with Lando fit in a carton box.

It was almost ironic how the most precious thing in your life fitted into a small box.

And soon enough, the contents of the box would forever disappear and everything would disappear from your mind like it had never even been there.

The feeling that you had after you opened your eyes post-procedure had been the best feeling you had ever had. You felt like you were floating, happiness coursing through every single vein and you felt like you were walking on sugar clouds.

You were carefree, not a single problem in the world.

Lando didn’t know about it. He had thought about reaching out, purely to see how you were doing and curious about how you were handling the break up.

He had hoped, as bad as he knew it was, that you were handling it just as badly as he was. He didn’t sleep the same, the sparkle in his eyes was gone and he wasn’t the same Lando anymore.

Everyone could see that, everyone close to him knew that part of him died with the break up.

He didn’t hear about it until he talked to your sister. She had told him about it, about what you had done, and it felt like he had been stabbed in the heart repeatedly.

You had been so hurt by his actions, the pain having become so unbearable that you had resulted to completely altering your memory to wipe everything good about your relationship from your mind.

Everything the two of you had shared.

He couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t allow that to be the end of your story.

He had to fix it. He had to step up and do the right thing, do right by you. But how?

It was simple.

You would start all over again. A clean slate, taken to a whole new meaning.

Which is why he was standing right now in front of you in the paddock, your sister having dragged you with her to the race and helped him arrange everything.

“Hello, how are you?” he had started the conversation, outstretching his hand and waiting for you to shake his.

You looked at him, seeing his eyes bringing a familiarity to your core but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Something in your heart told you this was no stranger to you, this was someone you knew.

But your mind didn’t register anything, completely void of any information about the man standing in front of you.

“I’m okay, really excited to be here for the weekend” your smile, just as beautiful as he had remembered it, clung to your beautiful face, reminding him of why he had fallen in love with you in the first place.

“I’m Lando, by the way”

“Y/N, it’s nice to meet you”

And maybe, just maybe, you would get another shot at love.

Maybe, this time, you would get your happily ever after.

He would make sure of that.

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[stayfortwominutes]

💭 reaction | bangchan

prompt; first time sharing a bed

disclaimers; a bit suggestive*, petnames, reader is described to have a fuller figure, no depictions of the members' personalities, actions or thoughts reflect their true character.

pairing; bang chan x female reader.

content; fluff, comfort, established relationship | word count; 800+

the downpour came without much warning. abrupt surges of thunder echoed in the street followed by the heavy pelting of thick rain drops against the pavement. believing the weather would soon clear up, y/n and Chan chose to wait out the storm. after a few hours passed, they had already cleared dinner, and finished washing up.

"fancy staying the night? I'll take the couch as usual," chan called down the hallway. as the words floated to y/n, she found herself smiling. he was ever the gentleman, and throughout their steady eight month relationship, chan was cautious to push any boundaries, especially those regarding personal space.

with her face towel in hand, y/n sauntered into the room. chan was stood at the side of the bed, lovingly fluffing the pillows before quickly dashing a spritz of his perfume in the air and fanning it with his hand to evenly distribute the scent. y/n had often complimented his fragrance choices, and he knew a light touch of it on his borrowed sheets would be comforting. sneaking behind his busied figure, y/n secured her arms around his waist.

"baby girl, have you finished showering already?" he asked, his eyes forming crescents as his gaze fell upon her.

"mmmh," y/n dazedly replied, her senses overcome with the soft, warmth of his perfume and the sleepiness that could not be kept at bay.

chan leant down, placing his hands on either side of y/n's shoulder, giving them a gentle squeeze, before placing a soft kiss on her forehead. y/n's cheeks and his own both tinged with hues of pink. the two were still full with the giddiness of puppy love despite their long term status. y/n still felt hesitant, she also did not want to push. chan had already made his way to the door, hand resting on the knob when y/n spoke.

"couldn't we share tonight? the thunder is sort of loud." in the smallest voice, y/n mumbled her question.

chan knew y/n well enough that thunder was neither a concern nor threat, and that she could sleep through the end of the world.

he chuckled to himself, responding with a cheerful "yes."

natually, chan took the side of the bed that wasn't to the wall. y/n settled herself on her left side to face him, but oddly enough, her boyfriend had bundled himself closer to the edge, and she wondered how he hadn't fallen off already.

"i didn't realise how small this bed was for two," y/n uttered. despite her low voice, the sound seemed the fill the room, as the rumbling thunder silenced at that precise moment.

slowly, thoughts of self consciousness took residence in her mind: was chan keeping his space on purpose? was he not ready to be in such an intimate situation yet?

"y/n?" he called out to no response, only the lively hum of the air conditioning could be heard.

"y/n?" he voiced again, a little louder. this time he successfully pulled her from her thoughts. the frown on her face evident under the moonlight that shone through the window.

"baby, what are you thinking about that has you so spaced out?" y/n met his eyes, a shadow half covering his face. unsure if it was the nerves of being within such close proximity or being so tired, y/n took the chance. "are you uncomfortable being this close to me? i can move to the couch, i don't want you to fall off and hurt yourself."

chan sat upright, blinking before taking his head in his hands.

"y/n- baby," he began, turning to face her.

"i was worried about making you uncomfortable. and i won't lie, the way your hips fill out my shirt had me a little preoccupied. i didn't want you to think i was trying to make a move the first time we slept together."

hearty laughter erupted from y/n, "my goodness, how silly could i be? i thought you were being extra careful because you weren't feeling it. i wanted us to cuddle..."

making grabby hands towards chan, the man was quick to shuffle over to her, scooping her up in his arms so y/n's head lay in the crevice of his shoulder as his arm snaked around her waist.

the couple silently admired each other's features in the dark as the rain seemed to calm. the placid atmosphere and shared warmth of their bodies lulled them further into a slumber.

"goodnight, my precious channie," y/n whispered, before gently pecking the tip of his nose. her right hand now tucked against his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart mellowing her previous nerves.

y/n could remember a chaste kiss falling upon her cheek before she was out like a light.

"sleep well, baby girl."

consider reading more: masterlist

notes; i enjoyed writing this piece, and hopefully i can get to the other members too. please let me know if you have any feedback. © stayfortwominutes ; august 14, 2023.

#skz x reader #skz comfort fic #kpop imagine #kpop scenario #stray kids fics #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #bang chan scenario #bang chan imagine #chan x reader #bangchan fluff #chan fluff #bangchan comfort #stayfortwominutes #bangchan x y/n #bangchan x reader #chan x y/n #bang chan x you #bangchan x you

[lovebugism]

hi! not sure if you’re still taking requests but if u are may i request the prompt “it’s okay to cry in front of me, you know. you don’t have to carry this alone.” with reader comforting steve? tysm <3

bug's blurb sleepover (⁎˃ᴗ˂⁎)!

Steve tends to feel things really, really deeply.

When Nancy called him bullshit at a Halloween party and ran off with the weird kid from chemistry class a day later, he felt like it was the end of the world. His world, at least. 

He thought it was going to stick with him for the rest of his life — that she was right, that he really was bullshit, and that that truth would haunt him forever. It did. It does. It lurks over his shoulder sometimes, like a shadow or a sleeping dragon.

And when Robin’s mad at him, like mad mad, it makes him feel like dying. 

One time he overestimated how tired he was after a shift and forgot to pick Robin up after band practice. He was startled awake from his nap out of nowhere, like his brain knew he’d done something wrong, and realized he was supposed to drive her home over an hour ago. 

He found her standing with her trumpet case under the awning in a futile attempt to hide from the pouring rain. She didn’t talk to him for days — not during the drive, not at work the next day, not until he was milliseconds from groveling at her feet for her forgiveness.

But it’s different when he’s happy. He’s got you and he’s got Dustin, and he loves the two of you so much it feels like he might burst sometimes. Adoration spills from his pores like so many little rays of sunshine, leaves him a grinning and gushing thing in the place of a teenage boy. 

It’s so much worse with you, though. Because sometimes he feels like his heart beats only for you — that it follows the rhythm of your pulse, that it will stop when yours does. 

He can taste every word that spills from your mouth, the one’s coated in venom and honey alike. He can hear every sound of your soul, too. It’s the crackles of an old record player when you’re content, autumn leaves crunching when you’re angry, and the sounds of a deep, deep ocean when you’re sad.

You’re embedded into every fiber of his being. You’ve entwined yourself with him without even realizing it, tucked yourself into the outer regions of his bleeding heart with a fuzzy blanket and a good book — no sign of leaving any time soon.

He loves you hard, too hard. So hard there’s no breath without you.

So when Vecna almost kills you, it feels a little like his life is ending.

He watches you float in midair, his feet still stuck on the ground, totally helpless. 

Tears spill from your glazed-over eyes and glitter beneath streams of moonlight. Your body is slack, but your fingers tremble and your brows twitch and your chin quivers. You’re not all there, but you can feel every ounce of fear like an ice-cold bath, painful and numbing all at once. Because you know that you’re going to die. And that there’s nothing anyone else can do to stop it.

Dustin shouts for help into his supercomm, begs for Max to bring her walkman or steal the nearest boombox they see and bring it with them to Lover’s Lake. They’re too far away, though, on the other side of town in Nancy’s too slow Station Wagon picking up more hunting supplies to kill the son of a bitch trying to kill you. He knows they won’t make it in time.

Steve shakes your shoulders and shouts in your face, but you still don’t wake. He keeps a hold of you until you’re out of his reach entirely — rising and rising and rising until you’re six feet off the ground. Then he’s just begging, shouting pleas up at you, at god, at Vecna — the shriveled skin creep doing this to you. 

“Please,” he shouts to everyone and no one all at once. “Please, just— you gotta wake up, okay? I’ll be better, I’ll be so much better, I promise. I’ll listen to all the music you like, watch all the movies you want — even the ones that suck — I’ll be a better boyfriend, okay? You just— You need to wake up!”

You don’t. 

You just keep on crying, like you can hear him in whatever world Vecna’s sucked you into. Eyes fluttering, neck jerking, lips trembling. You succumb completely to the monster’s curse.

It’s Eddie that saves you.

He rushes to the stolen R.V. for his guitar, the one Steve said made him look like he was overcompensating for something, the one that’s about to save your life. “What’s her favorite song?” the boy urges as he slips the strap over his head with pale and trembling fingers.

Steve looks over at his shoulder at him. It’s hard to see through the stinging tears. “Wh— What—” He can’t form words. Or thoughts, really. The only thing going through his head is that you’re about to die, that he’s about to lose you forever. It clouds his mind like thick black smoke.

“Her favorite song?” Eddie snaps. “What is it?”

He scrambles to answer. “Uh, it’s uh— it’s Take— Take On Me… Do you know that one?”

“No,” the boy answers honestly. “But I can try.”

That’s all they can do for now. Try. Hope.

He puts his fingers to the strings, trying to find the right placements, but it’s hard when you don’t know how to play the song and you’re shaking that you’re fucking freezing. Eddie’s forced to play it by ear and tells Steve that it won’t sound exactly right and that it won’t be loud without his amp. 

It takes him a moment to find the melody, but Steve hears it the second it comes — the synth-y da-da-da-dum, da-da-dah, da-da-da-da-dum’s that were practically engrained in his psyche after he heard it on the radio the millionth time.

You weren’t as afflicted by the earworm as he was. You loved it. 

The song came out the year the two of you started dating, so all he heard for months was that catchy beat and even catchier falsetto. You played it on the jukebox when you went to the diner, popped the tape into your radio whenever he was over at your place, requested for it to be played virtually wherever you went.

You hear the song from where you’re stuck in your own head. The strums of the guitar are quiet and a little out of tune, but the uncanny notes make sense when you’re trapped in a world that isn’t really your world. Suddenly you don’t see Vecna or his claw in your face — just Steve, Steve, Steve.

He’s with you at the diner with whipped cream on his chin, making fun of you for singing to the song so off-key. He’s with you in your childhood bedroom, spinning you around and singing all the high notes with you. He’s with you at Enzo’s, the fanciest place in Hawkins for your anniversary, and slips the mini-orchestra a hundred-dollar bill to play the song for you.

Suddenly, you’re on the ground again — back in Hawkins — and gasping for breath in his arms. You can’t see him from where he’s got his face tucked into your neck, but you can feel the scarily rapid beat of his heart and the way it matches your own.

Steve sobs into you, uncaring about how loud he is or how his snot and tears stain your t-shirt. Because he almost fucking lost you. And, for a split second, he tried to think of what a life without you would look like. He quickly came up short. There was nothing — no light, no sound, no music — just darkness. A void. 

Sometimes, he thinks he would’ve died with you that night.

Vecna is dead within the next twenty-four hours after the fact. You and Nancy take turns shooting bullets in the pale patchy skin of his chest where his heart’s supposed to be while Steve and Robin throw hand-made bombs in his direction. He trips and stumbles out the window while the rotting basement erupts into flames. There’s nothing left but ashes.

Steve doesn’t feel a thing for a little while after that, just the acute urge to protect the group of you even though the boogeyman is long gone. 

He doesn’t let go of you for days, always holding onto some part of you, because he’s terrified of you slipping away again. 

He lets Dustin sleep at his place when the boy asks, but it’s for his own peace of mind more than anything else. He doesn’t let the boy out of his sight until his mom gets concerned about him. 

He drives forty-five minutes to the hospital every day for two weeks with you so you can visit Max and Lucas, always with two peanut butter jelly sandwiches for them — just in case.

He’s on auto-pilot for a while. He just keeps on taking care of everyone else because it distracts him from himself — from his own inner turmoil, from the horrors he saw that night, from the boogeyman still in his closet.

It takes you a month for you to tell him what you saw. You were a lot like him in that way, still trying to hide from it all. You would’ve been more than happy if you could squish your great big problem into a tiny little ball that you could stomp underneath your feet and forget about completely. 

But that’s not how life works. 

The thing just swells and swells and swells until it takes everything in you to stay sane.

You sit Steve down on his bed and curl into his lap — knees to your chest, head tucked beneath his chin. And you tell him about it. Everything.

You tell him that Vecna showed you Brad, the boyfriend you had before Steve. It was a replay of the last night you saw him parked at Lover’s Lake, the very same place you had been when Vecna almost took you. You’re sitting in his passenger seat and he’s trying to feel you up. “Billy’s girlfriend lets him fuck her all the time,” he gripes when you swat his hand from your thigh.

“Then maybe go fuck Billy’s girlfriend,” you shoot back. 

It’s the last thing you’d ever said to him before storming off and catching the late bus back home. He went missing the next day; his car still there, but no sign of the boy himself.

Vecna shows you everything you’d been making yourself sick over for years, tells you exactly what happened to him that night.

A demogorgon appears in thin air and snatches the boy, takes him to the Upside Down like he’s some kind of light night snack. The thing doesn’t eat him, though, just plays with its food for a while until it gets bored and lets him rot. Brad was down there, for days, beggingfor someone to save him. Help never came, though. Just the slow, slow hand of death. 

“You never even looked for him…” you recite the words Vecna said to you, voice much softer than his cruel baritone one. “You let him rot down there while you threw yourself at a boy that didn’t even want you…”

Steve eyes squeeze shut then, like he’s trying to hide from your words. It’s about as effective as those idiots in horror movies who try to hide under their bedsheets from demons.

You sought refuge in Steve that night and many others, when Brad was acting especially douchebag-y. It was innocent at first. He was your friend. But somewhere down the line, you realized that you had bigger feelings for him than you ever did for your boyfriend. Steve, meanwhile, was still caught in the web of his complicated feelings for Nancy.

It wasn’t until you got kidnapped by Russian soldiers that he realized how much he loved you.

There’s just something about the end of the world that makes a person see clearly again.

Everything seems to hit him exactly a week later. 

He’d done a pretty good job at hiding it all — the nightmares, the panic attacks, the sleepless nights. He hid that all from you because you were recovering too. He didn’t think it was fair to dump all his hurt on you while you were still trying to get back to normal.

You noticed it very quickly, though, that Steve didn’t seem to be very affected by any of it. 

He was so nonchalant about everything, the kind of casual only a person who was aching could pull off. 

And he’d get real reserved at times, uncharacteristically quiet, and you’d ask him if he was okay. He’d scoffed and say he was fine —of course I’m okay, what do you mean? — while his cheek speckled with red and he blinked back glassy tears. 

You’d try to hug him and he’d let you, but kept shrugging off your concern — I’m fine, babe. I promise. I’m not the one who almost died.

Steve did that a lot. Made it seem like his problems didn’t mean as much because they weren’t as big as yours or Max’s or Eddie’s. He convinced himself that they didn’t. Why should he be upset when he didn’t have to meet the monster face to face or live through something traumatic all over again? What does he have to cry about?

But when he sleeps all he sees in you — in that spot at Lover’s Lake, succumbing to Vecna’s curse, while the rest of them try like hell to bring you back. In his nightmares, they never do. He watches your bones break one by one, piercing cracks in the quiet night that he can feel in his chest, before you fall limply to the ground again.

He wakes with a gasping breath, the same way you had all the time ago. You’re sleeping peacefully beside him, hair wild and face smushed into your pillow, but he can’t seem to get the vision out of his head — of your mangled body and sucked-out sockets. He stumbles off to the bathroom on tired and trembling legs.

You wake to the door slamming shut and stir at the sound of the faucet turning on. 

Light spills from the crack underneath the door, bright in the darkness of your bedroom. You watch Steve’s shadow with bleary eyes, how it stands in one place for a moment and then paces back and forth.

Wiping sleep from your eyes, you tiptoe to the door, but don’t do anything when you reach it. You just wait, listen. 

Steve mumbles something to himself that you can’t quite make out — you’re okay, stop being such a baby, jesus… is all you can hear. He sniffles as his feet pad the length of the tiled bathroom floor. It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s crying.

Your knock upon the door is a soft one. You don’t want to startle him. The second he realizes you’re outside the door, he freezes.

“Stevie…” you call gently out for him. “Are you okay?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah—” Then again. “Yeah, I’m fine… Go back to bed.”

“Are you sure?” you press. “Do you want me to get anything for you?”

The boy has to take a deep breath in to stop himself from snapping at you. He’s angry at himself more than anything — for hiding, for failing at hiding. He runs two anxious hands through his hair and plants himself along the ceramic edge of the bathtub. 

“I’m sure. Just… Just go back to bed, okay?”

You don’t listen. You just slide along the door frame until you’re sat on the carpeted floor of your bedroom. Steve can hear your shuffling outside.

“It’s okay if you’re not okay. You know that, right?” you ask him through the door.

Steve puts his face in his hands before he can catch his scrunching face in the mirror. Just when he thought he wasn’t going to cry, here you come, pulling this shit. 

“I know,” he answers tightly, muffled through his palms. He rubs them up and down his face once, twice, and then a third time before throwing his hands into his lap. “But I’m fine, okay? Seriously.”

“You can cry in front of me, Steve. It’s okay. You don’t have to— You don’t have to go through this shit alone, you know? I’m here. I’m right here, okay? Let me help you.”

It’s that reminder that does him in; the assurance that you’re here and not a disfigured mess in the tall grass of Lover’s Lake. A sob spills from his mouth too abruptly for him to stop it.

“Steve…” you call for him again, heartbreaking on the other side of the door.

“I’m almost lost you,” he cries, more than himself than to you, then sniffles. “I’m almost fucking lost you.”

“But you didn’t. I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere, Steve Harrington. The universe is gonna have to try a whole lot harder to keep me away from you.”

He manages a laugh through his tears. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” you quip. “If Vecna couldn’t stop me from being with you, nothing will.”

The thought of that warms him. He realizes it’s not the universe keeping the two of you together, not fate or some higher power in the clouds. It’s love. It’s all the love the two of you have got for each other, stronger than any demogorgon or Russian soldier or dark wizard. And it’s love that’s gonna hold the two of you together for the next several decades, until you’re old and wrinkly and ugly. 

But Steve won’t think you’re ugly. He’ll think you’re as beautiful as the first moment he saw you — throwing up in the bushes outside Tina’s house after your first high school party.

You rise quickly when the door opens. Steve stands in front of you, eyes puffy and face red and smiling gently down at you anyway. “I love the shit outta you, you know that?” is all he can think to say. Because that’s all that he feels in that moment.

“Of course, I know that,” you grin up at him. Your hands rise to cup his jaw, thumbs swiping at his tear-stained cheeks. Your browns pinch in concern. “You okay?”

For the first time, he’s honest.

“No…” he murmurs with the soft shake of his head. His eyes dart away from yours and to the floor where his and your twenty toes stand, still on the ground, not floating in thin air.

“No— I… I don’t think I am,” he confesses softly. His tired, sad, and heavy honey eyes flit back up to yours again. “But I will be.”

You nod until your words catch up to you. “Yeah. Yeah, you will.”

“If only out of pure spite of all the monsters to all the monsters trying to destroy our lives.”

“They’re gone now,” you promise, like a parent who’s checked under their child’s bed for shadows and ghosts. It works well enough. Here, with his face in your hands and standing in your shared bedroom, he’s never felt safer.

“Can you… Can you hold me?” he wonders, a little meekly because he feels like an idiot saying them. Then he feels even more like an idiot for feeling like an idiot. You’re his girlfriend, after all, cuddles sort of came with the package.

“Of course,” you answer without thinking twice. You grab his hand and tug him back to the bed almost immediately. “I’ll hold you for the rest of our fucking lives, Harrington, you know that.”

The two of you settle into the mattress. Steve uses you like a pillow, wraps all of his limbs around you and tucks his face into your neck. Your scent is a familiar one, warm and comforting, like home. “I like the sound of that,” he mumbles into your shoulder after a moment of quiet.

“Well, buckle in, baby. ‘Cause I got you for the next, like, six decades.”

You feel his smile form against your skin as Steve tucks himself inside your soul.

#bug's blurb sleepover #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #stranger things imagine #published by bug #stevie drabble #st drabbles

[matchingbatbites]

drag me under

Written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge prompt charm.

Word count: 548 | Rating: T | CW: creature!Eddie, possessive behavior, compulsion, ambiguous ending

I have written absolutely nothing in like. A solid two weeks. And then @sentient-trash mentions swamp monster Eddie, which makes me think of lake creature Eddie, and somewhere around working I actually managed to write something. So, thanks Simon. <3

Eddie's beloved is perfect. 

The human has been coming to the lakeside for years, and Eddie's been watching him for just as long, has seen how the sunsets make his skin glow and marveled at the way the moonshine turns his hair to strands of starlight. He's witnessed innumerable smiles and lilting words, none ever aimed at Eddie himself, and yet the boy charmed him regardless, he wrapped the creature around his finger simply by existing.

He brings with him waifish, ungrateful girls, ones who don't appreciate Eddie's beloved the way he does. It pleases him to see that they rarely repeat more than once or twice; each time his sweetheart returns he seems to have a new one with him, yet none who hold any true affection for him, who use him for their own gain before moving on.

There's a long stretch of time where it's the same girl, over and over, his darling always looking at her like she's something special. It makes jealousy curl in his stomach, bright and acidic; makes him want to pull the wretch into his lake, to drag her down so she'll never see the light of day again.

So Eddie's love understands exactly who he belongs to.

One night, unexpectedly, Eddie's beloved arrives alone. 

He shows up with his pretty face bruised and bloodied, and Eddie is instantly worried, finds himself swimming closer to the edge of the water, needing to assure himself that his sweetheart is okay.

The moonlight reflecting from the surface makes his darling look otherworldly, like he's something closer to Eddie's kind than the human he actually is. The desire to be nearer to him swells and crests, and Eddie needs him closer.

He starts with a hum, something gentle that floats over the top of the water and finds its way to the boy. Beautiful, warm eyes turn to find the source, and Eddie sings louder, the soft melody becoming words, and he can see the way his shoulders tense before they drop, slowing relaxing as he hears Eddie's call. 

The human walks over, the expression on his face dream-like as he steps into the water, as he wades in until he's submerged up to his chest. Only then does Eddie move closer. 

The world shakes as the creature touches him for the first time, as he cradles that beautiful, broken face in his hands.

"Oh you sweet, pretty thing. Who hurt you, darling?"

It takes the boy a moment to process, he blinks like he's fighting sleep and mutters "Billy. Was protecting the kids, needed to keep them safe."

So selfless is Eddie's beloved, the protector, the caretaker. 

He's going to get himself killed, and the creature can't stand for that.

"I'm sure you did well, sweetheart, but it's time to rest now, yeah?"

He blinks, confused. "Rest?"

"Yes, darling." 

Eddie leans in and presses their mouths together like he's watched the boy do dozens of times, and suddenly understands why the humans enjoy it, the tender intimacy of it. His darling looks dazed when Eddie pulls away, and doesn't fight when his hands are taken in two chilly, clawed ones. He follows dutifully as Eddie begins to step back, guiding them deeper into the water. 

"Just let me take care of you."

#steve is never named because eddie doesn't know it #but it is steve #steddie #steddiemicroficseptember #steve harrington #eddie munson #creatures #monster eddie munson #steddie fic #ficlet #joey writes

[linkemon]

Confession headcanons

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here.

Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you're interested.

Other headcanons from this series can be found here.

Part 2 | Part 3 of the confession headcanons.

This part contains: Malleus Draconia, Idia Shroud and Kalim Al-Asim.

Malleus Draconia

• Malleus' confession of feelings involved a number of obstacles and misunderstandings, although happily resolved.

• He wrote about you many times in letters to his grandmother. And although it made him realize the fragility of relationships with humans, grandma was also very happy knowing that her grandson had experienced such deep love. She really wanted to meet you, even though you didn't know it at the time.

• Draconia's biggest fear and block from telling you how he felt was the fear of loss. In various aspects of it. He was aware that he would certainly outlive you, and from time to time the thought of you returning to the world you came from floated in the back of his mind. In addition, you were his first real friend, not counting the people who were with him every day. Rejection could cost him the entire relationship.

One most ordinary night, he simply realized that the risk was worth trying to tell you how he felt.

• Malleus sprang into action with eager vigour. Unfortunately, these efforts were somewhat misdirected. It took Lilia to clearly explain to him that the customs adopted among fae do not necessarily translate to humans. He was forced to do this, as it were, because after you threw away his family generational necklace, the clouds over Diasomnia were darkening day by day and a disastrous downpour with lightning was brewing.

Meanwhile, you were simply afraid that Grim would destroy such a valuable and expensive gift. You had absolutely no idea of the additional meaning it carried.

• The second attempt was definitely more successful. Malleus gave you the rose seeds he grew in Briar Valley. Planted in Ramshackle, with his magic they turned into a field of red flowers. Combined with the moonlight and the fireflies dancing around you, it created a wonderful atmosphere that you will remember for a long time.

It was then that the fae confessed to you that he had been smitten with you from the very beginning but it was your friendship, so precious to him, that turned into something more. The fact that he knelt down in front of you and promised to give you everything you wanted made you think for a moment that he was going to propose to you. Initially, that's what he planned, but Lilia talked him out of it...

Idia Shroud

• It's not that Idia didn't know what love was. He had played so many otome games that while he wasn't an expert, he certainly wasn't a noob. However, without Ortho's help, he would not have correctly recognized its signs in real life.

• He started by avoiding you. The rapid heartbeat and red tips of his hair were becoming more and more frequent and it was difficult for him to control them. So he found the best solution he could come up with, which was to lock himself in his room. He avoided you as much as he could all over campus.

• His brother, although he quickly understood through data analysis what was happening to him, did not think it was good to raise the topic too early. Initially, he wanted to give Idia time. Time was clearly running out because the robot, seeing you once again look sadly at the tablet and gave it a wide berth, decided to act. He prepared a series of tests to convince your older brother that you reciprocate his feelings. Of course, Shroud hid under the blanket, mumbled to be left alone. Although he pretended to be uninterested, the speech actually sparked hope in him.

Maybe this time he wasn't a total knight nerd and side hero? Maybe he could play the lead role for once?

• He did what he does best. He designed a program that allowed him to send a request if you wanted to be his girlfriend. At worst, he was going to pretend it was a mistake.

When he saw that instead of checking the tick box, you had come to Ignihyde, he immediately paled. You had to knock on the door, telling him that you wouldn't leave until he explained to you what was actually going on and how this confession related to his constant avoidance of you.

Idia just stuck his head out of the crack, stammered and said that he was like the worst NPC you've ever seen but if you let him have some time, maybe he'll become a main character worthy of you.

Kalim Al-Asim

• Friendzone should be his middle name. From the beginning of your relationship, he sent you signals that you considered romantic. Until you started spending more time with him around others and you found out that Kalim treated them the same way he treated you. That's when everything started to get confusing for you.

• When you tried to tell him that you liked him very much, he replied that he liked you too. When you said more, he said more, more. And when you said he was more than a friend, he said you were his best friend. He did all this with such a wide smile on his face that you didn't have the heart to explain to him the true meaning of your statements. You knew the sincerity of his words. Few people in the NRC matched him in truthfulness. But it was incredibly frustrating for you.

• Grim knew exactly what was happening, seeing your hearty eyes every time you left the desert dormitory. He calculated in his head how many cans of tuna he would get if you got together with the prefect of Scarabia. This prompted him to not-so-subtly blurt out to Kalim that you were romantically interested in him. In return, he received a promise of a container of fish delicacies.

• The boy was in great shock but in a positive way. He didn't know what to do with all his joy, so he grabbed the first flowers in a vase he had at hand and ran towards the flying carpet. You weren't expecting him at all in the evening, dressed in your pajamas and ready to go to bed. He hugged you so tightly that he almost knocked you over and that was before he even remembered that he hadn't told you why he actually came...

#twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #kalim x reader #idia x reader #malleus draconia #kalim al asim #idia shroud #headcanons

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Miguel Feeling Guilty For Accidentally Scratching You

Miguel “Spider-Man 2099″ O’Hara X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, Miguel has nightmares, suggestive themes, slightly spoiler-y, steamy

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) I wasn’t expecting to go see Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse and leaving with a new crush. But here we are and I could not NOT write something for Miguel. Yep count me amongst the fangirls. So here is my offering to this specimen of a Spider-Man (I’m pretty sure it’s the fangs and claws. I’m a sucker for those not gonna even lie.). Hope the rest of the fangirls enjoy it! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Mild Spoilers Below for Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse

Miguel’s story broke your heart the first time he had finally opened up and told you. It’s what broke the ice that remained between you both and let your relationship move a little further along. Deep down you knew you could never replace the family he once had and you never wanted to. But you did want to help him through the pain and find joy once again. Though life brought bitterness there was light in every situation. You wanted to be that light for Miguel. 

You stroked your fingers through his hair as Miguel let himself be lulled into sleep. He’d been restless here lately and he couldn’t sleep well. He put so much pressure upon himself that you were afraid it would drive him mad. The exhaustion wasn’t helping him either as the bags under his eyes only deepened. Plagued by nightmares, you had to beg for Miguel to try and get some rest. He finally; but begrudgingly, gave in and now he found himself wrapped up in your warmth floating away as sleep began to drag him under. You continued to stroke his hair, until you too fell asleep.

Miguel felt himself in a familiar place, his family playing and laughing in the park he brought them to regularly. His daughter scampering around, her giggles echoing in the air. He turned around, taking it all in when the world shattered around him with the sound of screams. Blood splashed the playground equipment and once again his family was gone. He held the lifeless form of his little girl, screaming his pain and anguish to the darkening sky.

Miguel thrashed, waking you from your slumber. His claws and fangs glinting in the moonlight. Without thinking of your own safety you grabbed onto the struggling man. Pressing him tightly into your chest and calling out his name.

“Miguel,” you called while tears trailed down your cheeks. “Please wake up it’s a dream!”

He snarled before jolting awake, finding you in the darkness. With his cheek pressed against your breast, his chest heaved as his sweat soaked into your shirt. Though he couldn’t see your face he could smell the salty tears of your grief in the air.

“I’m alright now,” he grunted trying to pull away but you wouldn’t allow him.

“Stop for a minute,” you ordered. “Just relax and then I’ll let you go.”

He gave in, letting himself lay in your arms while listening to your steady heartbeat. With your soothing pulse, he began to calm down. When you were finally satisfied you loosened your hold. Miguel couldn’t see your face, but the tension was evident in the stiffness of your body.

“Bad dream,” he said before reaching for the lamp. 

You grabbed his hand, stopping him from turning on the light. If he saw what he had done to your cheek, it would only make the situation worse.

“What’s wrong,” he asked while trying to free himself from your grasp.

“We don’t need the light on,” you replied. “Just try to go back to sleep. You’re exhausted Miguel.”

“I can’t right now, just let me turn the light on.”

You still held tightly, causing a slight twinge of annoyance to shoot through Miguel, until he scented a twinge of blood in the air. The metallic tang was unmistakable and his heart sank. Using his strength he ripped away from your grip and switched on the lamp. The light revealing what you didn’t want him to see. Your cheek had three slices in the skin, the wounds dribbling blood. Though not life threatening, Miguel felt guilt crushing him. He never wanted to hurt you with his powers and he feared he had just scarred you because he couldn’t control his mind. Reaching up he smeared away the crimson, only streaking it worse on your beautiful skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Miguel growled the rage at himself barely contained.

“Cause I knew you would torture yourself with guilt,” you sighed.

“I’m a monster.”

You sighed again, “Here we go again. You are not a monster.”

You cupped his cheeks, making Miguel look you in the eye. His eyes darted from yours back to the wounds he caused, still dripping blood.

“You are my handsome Miguel O’Hara and these,” you pointed to your face, “will heal. Stop beating yourself up and get some rest you’re going to kill yourself if you don’t.”

He finally relented knowing that you were right. He was tired of feeling so burdened and weighed down by his failures. He removed the distance between you both and captured your lips with his. You melted against him, his large arms encircling your figure, letting him press you against him. Miguel grew desperate at your taste as he couldn’t get enough. His fangs elongated in his excitement, eyes drawn towards your wound once more. You were about to tell him forget it when his tongue darted out quickly, lapping at your blood. You shivered at the  caress of his tongue against the skin of your cheek. But with his help the blood finally stopped. 

Before you could thank him, Miguel captured your mouth once again. Letting himself fall into the trance that only you could bring. He moaned laying you back down without breaking apart from you. You held tightly, letting him do whatever he needed to ease himself back down. You buried your fingers in his thick hair, scratching at his scalp. Miguel deserved so much love as he had lost so much and you wanted to be that person for him. You kissed him back, not wanting him to do all the work until once again he was satisfied. Without a word he collapsed back on his side of the bed, his chest heaving. You nuzzled in closer, laying your head on his bare chest. Your body heat and gentle touches finally had Miguel falling back into sleep. The only difference this time was the nightmares left him alone this time, letting him get the much needed sleep he needed. 

#Miguel O'Hara X Reader #Miguel O'Hara / Reader #Miguel O'Hara #Spider-Man 2099 #Spider-Man Across The Spider-Verse #Miguel O'Hara Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing

[milequaritchsslut]

Forever and always

Summary: You were supposed to be gone, buried six feet under. So why were you right in front of him?…

Pairing: Miguel x Black Dead!Reader

Warnings: Crying, ghosts, heart break, angst, swearing

Miguel watched as your ghost roamed around his room, transparent hands gliding in and out of the pencils on his desk. You wore one of those sundresses, white with little sunflowers spread across, it flowed behind you as you inspected his belongings. He was speechless, hands shaking at his dead wife in front of him.

He admired the way you drifted so effortlessly around him, not even noticing his stare. You looked just as beautiful as the day you left, hair still in that puffy Afro you always had. Brown skin glistening in the moonlight as his lips quivered at the sight of you. You looked like an angel, born from the ashes of euphoria. He was sat up on his bed, eyes blinking rapidly, not believing what he was seeing.

Your attention moved to his spider suit, legs striding towards the stand he had it on. Your eyes scanned the cloth, filling with awe and memories. Your hand went up to touch the suit, but went right through. A frown begin forming on your dark features, you tried again, but got the same result. He noticed the frown on your lips, one growing on his own at your disappointment. He couldn’t stand seeing his pretty girl being upset, he stood up and walked over to you hesitantly.

‘Y/n?’ He asked softly, looking at your ghost like form. Head racing a million thoughts as he watched you keep trying. You didn’t answer, focused on trying to touch something from this world. ‘Y/n?’ He asked again, hand reaching out to caress your shoulder but going right through. He stumbled forwards, body clashing with your untouchable one. He was inside you, bodies molded into each other. He moved back right away, scared he hurt you. But you hadn’t even noticed, it was like you didn’t even know he was there. He called out your name again and again, your attention never leaving the suit.

He was getting frustrated, a low grunt falling from his lips. He didn’t know what to do, he’s tried everything, all he wanted was to talk with you for just one minute. He cried for you for so many nights, drowning in his own sorrows. But you wouldn’t even give him the time of day, he slammed the wall with his fist. Yelling your name now, hands waving in front of your face but still no response. Then he got an idea, he pulled his suit from the stand, throwing it to the ground. Your eyes grew wide at the clothing flying across the room by itself, your eyebrows raising at the phenomenon.

‘What the fuck?’ You exclaimed, looking around for someone, but it was just you. You backed away, fear moving through your body at the flying object. Feet frantically finding their way to the window you had come through. You turned your back to the room, walking through the wall as you flew away. ‘Y/n! Come back!’ He yelled, rushing to the open window. His heart broke as you floated away, the wind carrying you into the night. He reached out for you, hands trying to grasp something unreachable.

His eyes grew sad, eyelids fluttering open and closed, fighting the tears that dared to fall. You were gone, again. He looked down at his sweaty palms in disbelief, shaking at the realization he scared you off. ‘I-i…’ he trailed off, lips quivering as he was left alone. Without you by his side once again, you were gone, never to be seen again. The tears fell all at once, flooding his vision as he cried out for you. Falling to his knees as he clutched his chest in heart break, he needed you. He was hardly even getting by without you these past few months, you were all he had. You would always be his girl, forever and always.

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara imagines #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x black reader

[silkscream]

𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞

ੈ✩ pairing: eddie munson x reader

ੈ✩ summary: a late night at lover’s lake has eddie falling head over heels for you.

ੈ✩ warnings: smut (18+), unprotected sex, drug use, choking

ੈ✩ wc: 2.6k

ੈ✩ a/n this was supposed to be a blurb um rip

eddie munson is afraid to break you. he treats you like glass, though crystal would be more accurate than anything tempered. he’s afraid to touch you, really touch you, even though you had beckoned him like a river goddess down at the lake with your soft smile and doe-eyes, and god, you’d been invading his dreams since the moment you’d arrived in hawkins.

eddie doesn’t do anything half-assed — not as hellfire club’s DM, not as corroded coffin’s guitarist, certainly not as a lover. it’s what you like about him, that underneath all that sterling silver is calloused bravery.

but now, in the dead of night at lover’s lake, he stands there shivering just a bit and refusing to break the gossamer abstraction of whatever web acts as a barrier between the two of you. he fiddles with his rings as he watches you lick the joint into place. the tension is threadbare and aching to be cut with a knife.

he’s mesmerized by the glow of the flame nearly licking your face when you light the joint. you blink back, blowing smoke at his face with a grin.

“all yours, munchkin,” you murmur.

“that’s new. y’come up with that on your own?” eddie scoffs, taking the joint from you. he thinks that maybe he needs something stronger than weed right now to calm down. he doesn’t know why it feels like every electron in his body seems to shake the closer you get to him. maybe it was yesterday’s acid trip.

he thinks briefly about what that high would be like with you, imagining the two of you peaking at the same time and seeing stars in each other’s irises. maybe one day.

“yes, actually.”

he mumbles some smartass comeback, but you don’t respond. the earth seems to stand still — even the slow current of the lake is eerily stagnant while the two of you wordlessly pass the joint back and forth. "come on eileen” comes on the radio and eddie makes a snide remark awaiting your approval or denouncement, but you’re too busy watching the reflection of the moon on the lake. within minutes, you’re pulling off your denim shorts.

“what’re you--”

“you coming or what?” you tease him as your hair billows around you, framing your face. your back is turned as you strip off your— eddie’s — hellfire club t-shirt. you’d insisted on borrowing his earlier because you wanted your own, and secretly, he wants it back just so he can keep your scent in his room. as it lands on the ground, eddie’s wide eyes trail up your bare body, which gets smaller and enveloped in darkness as you walk away from him.

“fuck it,” he curses under his breath, quick and clumsy in his movements to follow your lead. he contemplates whether or not to take off his boxers but the splash of the water makes him panic, so he runs in after you instead with them still on.

he gulps down the lump in his throat once he sees you floating on your back, eyes closed and brain shut off from the world. you look so peaceful that he doesn’t want to disturb you, but you open your eyes just to smile at him in a way that looks like more. eddie doesn’t know how to describe it, but there’s something different — maybe it’s the moonlight, perhaps it’s the weed, but he swears something shifts.

you swim over to him, splashing him on the way. in fits of giggles, the two of you play like little kids until the endorphins in eddie’s brain make him fearless. suddenly, he disposes of his inhibitions -- he can touch you again. fingertips dancing across your naked waist in retaliation, in innocent tickles, until the gesture feels almost obscene. after you calm down from your hushed, breathless laughter, eddie is hyper-aware of your naked form in front of him, obscured by the lake, but naked nonetheless.

after the upside-down, eddie’s been cautious. it’s against his very nature, but the nightmares hold him to a different standard. but the way you look at him right now makes him want to break free — he’s been good for too long now. two blinks and an exhale and he realizes that he feels lightheaded. maybe you are a river goddess after all.

you lean into him and it takes his breath away. with wide eyes, you look at him with something unfathomable. he’s about to kiss you, but you raise a finger to your lips. shhh.

rustling leaves and footsteps steal your attention from eddie for a few moments as he watches the gears in your brain turn, your ears fine-tuning from the sudden presence of another. when you look towards land, there’s nothing there.

“hawkins is definitely fucking haunted, huh?”

“it’s that damn hellfire cult,” eddie jokes. he’s relieved to hear your laugh, but part of his spirit is broken from the sudden burst in his bubble. he thinks that maybe he’s still high enough to kiss you. maybe.

but you swim to shore before he even has time to think. the humid july air licks your wet skin as you shiver, draping a blanket from eddie’s truck bed around you as you watch him come back to you. he follows your lead, covering himself up with a blanket as he plops down in the grass next to you.

“what’ve you been waiting for, eds?” you ask him slowly, refusing to make eye contact with him.

“what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean.”

it’s this time that you look at him, actually look at him, with your libertine gaze muted under coquettish lashes, mouth pulled into a deceptive, innocent pout. you know exactly what you’re doing. eddie has a hint of it, too, but he doesn’t have the usual confidence that carries his eccentric personality. no, with you, all of his walls are torn down without as much as you trying. the mere proximity of you makes his stomach drop.

he gulps. tries out that cocky attitude of his that he normally parades. he’s high enough, anyway.

“gotta be more specific, sweetheart.”

at this point, you can’t wait any longer. the moment between blinking your lashes at him and closing in the gap between you feels like an hour for him, but a split second for you. but when it happens, when he feels your soft lips on his tasting of sweetness with a hint of weed and mint, he takes the lead that you’ve been secretly prompting him of — strong, silver-adorned hands gripping your jaw as he moves into your space.

you’ve wanted him long enough to not care at how you’re perceived at this moment, which is a miracle that you’re willing to unpack at a later date. when you kiss him, you think that maybe you could consume, be the succubus for once. how beautiful he is when he’s all over your mouth.

you stumble in your balance, too lost in his lips to even be aware of your own body. when you’re conscious of yourself again, you unravel the blanket draped around your shoulders to set beneath you, leaning backward onto its soft cloth. eddie follows your lead and descends his kisses down your throat to suckle on your collarbone. he wishes he could bottle up every sound out of your mouth for later.

“was that specific enough?” you whisper, pulling away. you grin at him and it’s like the moonlight illuminates your face and nothing else. his giant brown eyes trail your bare face and your chest, and he remembers that you’re fully naked under him. and jesus christ, he’s fully naked above you besides the stupid striped blanket bunched around his hips.

“think so,” he grins.

he resumes kissing your mouth, using his teeth to nip you in a way that leaves the slightest red mark, but not enough to linger. you’re still too elusive for him to know whether or not a lovebite would be acceptable, but god knows he’d love to mark you as his.

your tiny mewls encourage him further, so he presses his lips onto your collarbone, then your chest again, until he suckles onto your nipple with eagerness. you moan in response, gripping his dark locks from his scalp as hard as you can. your eagerness makes him harder. he has to tell himself to calm down, convince himself not to completely rut against your thigh, but god, it’s so hard.

“stop playing with me,” you whine in desperation.

“isn’t that what you wanted, huh?” eddie taunts you. his anxiety has dissipated and he’s himself again, that little shit. grinning his little fangs at you before he gets your permission to devour you completely. and you thought you were the succubus.

“was just trying to get a rise outta you, eds. i need you. now,” you demand, bucking your hips upwards as you tug at his still-damp curls. “’m not gonna fuckin’ beg.”

“mm, but what if that’s what’ll get me to do anything to you?”

you let out an irritated huff. two can play at that game.

without a warning, you rise from the ground to flip eddie onto his back, switching your positions. now, you straddle him, the moonlight from the lake slightly backlighting your silhouette in a way that makes you look like a vision from heaven. it’s funny how much eddie wants you — wants you so bad that his mouth is dry from all that thirst but he realizes he’s salivating from the sight of you alone.

you’re on top of him, his naked body, and his dick is hard and raised to hit the small trail of the lining of his stomach. he doesn’t have the time to blush or be embarrassed, so he merely sets his ringed fingers on your hips while he gazes up at you.

“not so used to being controlled, munson?” you tease.

“not used to… much,” he croaks with honesty. his high makes him vulnerable around you. he doesn’t care. “’s been a while.”

“really?”

“mhm.”

“y’know, as the hotshot dungeon master and all, i thought you’d be getting the most pussy.”

“please. i barely have the time. and the time i do have has been for you. ever since you stepped foot in hawkins, i’ve wanted to make time for you.”

“shut up. not the eddie munson getting all soft for me.”

he’s about to retaliate with one of his smart-ass responses but you grind your pussy onto his hard length and it makes him shiver completely. the grip his hands have on your hips get even tighter, clutching you as if you’re about to flee.

“excited, are we?”

“hurry up before i change my mind.”

it’s a first for both of you — this spontaneous intimacy, this lust that each of you is acting upon despite the bottled-up desires lasting for months on both ends. neither of you had ever made the assumption that the two of you would hook up despite the thought lingering in the back of your minds. and tonight, it was only to become a reality.

he pushes his cock into you gently, easily losing himself once he feels how warm and tight you are while you hold back tears from the feeling of his thickness. maybe it’s because you’re high, but you think this is what it feels like — divinity in its purest form.

“you’re so beautiful,” eddie slurs into your neck when he rises his upper body while he pushes into you, stamina at a sudden all-time high.

“you are,” you breathlessly reply.

he’s mesmerized by the way you ride him, the languid shift of your hips as your cunt pulsates around his cock, gripping him like a vice. he brings his hands to cradle your lips and you shiver from the cool silver of those damn rings of his. the feeling of his fingertips dancing around your sides, rising to palm your bouncing breasts.

with a grin, you grind your body forward and moan lewdly. he can’t take it — he nearly bursts right then and there if it isn’t for the fact that he switches your positions.

even in his domination, he’s still gentle, still handling you like you’re a fallen seraphim. you huff at him and buck your hips up aggressively to report otherwise — that you want to be treated roughly, that you want to achieve a certain level of catharsis with his passion.

eddie seems to understand at least a part of it considering the depth and speed of his thrusts, ramming into you mercilessly as you cry out in pleasure.

“holy— shit—”

“eddieeee, think ‘m gonna cum soon,” you gasp as you writhe underneath him. your body feels like it’s vibrating, so you use eddie as a reminder that you’re alive. tugs to the hair, slaps to the skin.

“yeah? cum for me, sweetheart. i wanna see it all over your face.”

his comment alone makes your heart pound even faster. it’s fitting, really, considering that the moment you want to say anything, you realize how much you want to impress him. how much you adore him, how much of those hours of examining him in his quieter state during senior year physics had paid off. he really is a sweetheart, that eddie munson. how could anyone say otherwise?

“oh, god, that feels so good—”

you gasp softly, keening into the warmth of his palm on your face as you kiss his fingers, taking them knuckle-deep into your mouth before he even has the idea to ask. his jaw is slack, watching you.

with a pop, he lets go of your mouth so that he can drag his canines against the swell of your throat, arching along with the rest of your body under him. gripping the towel underneath you, your other hand tangled in his hair, you whine softly.

“yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, and you swear that the raspy sound of his voice, breathless, contributes to the blatant intoxication you have from his touch.

it’s like you’ve gone dumb, your breath rugged and head spinning. he’s lifted himself up now so that he’s supporting his body with his knees. eddie spreads your legs wider, hands gripping your thighs and pulling them upward for easier access. at this angle, you think you’re about to lose it.

there’s no sweeter sound in the world than the sound of you begging for him.

“eddie,” you whine. “oh my god—”

“you gonna let go for me?”

“y-yes. fuck, i’m gonna—”

“fuck— fuck! shit, i’m close, too,” he grunts.

he widens his eyes at the sounds coming from your mouth and suddenly his hands are over your mouth as he chuckles breathlessly.

“y’gonna wake the ghosts up, baby.”

“shut up,” you muffle underneath him. he’s barely holding you down, so you take his hand in yours and move it to your throat.

he squeezes slightly, just enough for that sweet head rush to flow through your fucked-out head. you swear you lose your vision for a second when the threshold comes. it’s tectonic, earth-shattering, the way his cock plunged into you so deeply. you nearly wail as you orgasm. how fragile you are, his poor little thing. underneath the moonlight the slickness of your skin makes you look like you’d been washed ashore.

within seconds, eddie is able to release himself with a guttural groan, his head buried into your shoulder, soft curls tickling the underside of your chin. his hair is still a bit damp, so it’s a cooling sensation. he kisses you right then, swallows up your exhales while your naked chest heaves up and down to calm down from the adrenaline.

eddie attempts to get up but his legs are slightly disoriented. he’s too drunk on your body to leave it, anyways.

he decides to bury his head into your chest, breathing heavily as he watches the swell of your belly move up and down as you breathe with him.

“do you wanna see a movie with me on saturday?”

“you’re asking me out?” you chuckle.

“obviously.”

“thought you’d never ask, munson.”

𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬!

#reposting bc it isnt in the tags sry #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things smut #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #eddie munson oneshot

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟐 | 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchards because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there."

cw brief description of drowning and a claustrophobic struggle with the ocean. suggestions of suicidal intention and self harm. reader tries to fight the sea and your prince has horrible misunderstandings about it. bkg 🫱🏽‍🫲🏼 unethical rescue tactics pt 2, borrowed clothes, a fevered fireside confession in the bedroom you’ve been searching for 6.4k

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If Takoba is the edge of the world, Aldera is the center. You so starved for comfort, stand with your feet at the tip of the surf and tie your braids together.

You watch the sea at midnight and the winds coming off the water bite your scars before they chill your bones. Autumn at the edge of the world is miserable. Lakes freeze but the ocean is colder, and full of tides , like Todoroki said, which you’ve spent the day reading about. Unlike lakes and winter ice skating, the ocean has a taste. Salt and decay. It tastes unfathomably ancient. You watch its many maws foaming under the moonlight and seashells burn in frigid water when you step onto them.

In the view from Bakugou’s bedroom, you’ve lined your boots up neatly in the sand and stand watch beside them for a moment. You’re dressed to stop a midnight siege, in your white nightgown and padded habergeon, staring so small and far away from the warmth of his fireplace. You in a dark blue world, framed by his open window. Bakugou would have sipped his tea and rolled his eyes at his newly fucked up sleep schedule and how ridiculous you insist on looking in public if his cup wasn’t spilt on the rugs where he dropped it. If he hadn’t already ripped his door off its hinges in his sprint out of the castle.

You couldn’t sleep. You have no appetite and no mobility yet for sparring. Just books. Just Uraraka answering your questions about the sea while watching her men train. The ride with Todoroki yesterday was nice but it left your throat stiff and you are still in your kingdom’s service. Today in Takoba, tomorrow and forever behind your prince. Long before the blue gardens and scars, before the kitchen, before sticky crowds and white horses and cold hallways, something somewhere started to die.

You take another step into the swollen water, it rises with the moon, to confirm your suspicions and grimace when a crab scuttles over your foot. Another step and you’re up to your hem. It would all be easier if your heart was still a forest fire. When did that stop? When did the rain come? Up to your knees now. Seawater climbs your nightgown.

As it stands you’re no longer a dragon, just damp tinder. The black sea sways you side to side at the hips now so gently– keep walking, don’t look back. You will free yourself from doubt and you will fight a god to do it.

“Moon makes tides,” Uraraka yawned and slouched and stretched as you sat on your knees beside her in the pit.

“Can you swim in it?”

“In the ocean?” she squinted, “Yeah of course. But don’t tell me you want to swim in this weather?”

“I won’t.”

Shinsou could only pretend not to hear for so long from his spot beside you both this afternoon, “The moon makes tides, and tides make storms.”

Good. Up to your ribs now. Wear the rock there like an anchor.

In the cold water your body heat becomes that much more apparent and it’s lovely like home. Genuinely hot for a second. Your nightgown floats up around you and you sink quickly from chest to nose when the sand under your feet drops to freezing nothing. The sudden dip sends icy pain behind both eyes and the sensation of failing steeles every joint sickly sore. Walking through the ocean is like a fight, like driving a sword through someone solid, like braving a thunderstorm, but sinking into it is easier than sleeping.

You gasp and spit out the aftermath of losing your footing but you also fight too hard in anticipation of sinking and you’re suddenly in the open air up to your waist like a salmon leaping upstream. The weight of the nightgown settles you back down to your shoulders and it’s silent except for the sound of waves kissing the beach and one another. Whistling wind. You bob only some ten meters out from shore, just short of where Todoroki held you back for fear of drowning and something wild like greed blinks open a sleepy brown eye.

You hardly have to move a limb to keep your head above water; the sea is free and gentle. You float easily here, where a lake wants to watch you fight. It’s part of the fun at home and in exchange you are safe in freshwater. Salt stings– saliva pools under your tongue to keep it from getting inside– but it also holds you up in the foam like two hands under the hip.

Is this what you were so afraid of? This is the god you planned on killing tonight?

Every day in this miserable place you have been beaten. You have fallen apart in some way, your hair is too messy, your new clothes don’t fit right. You lose Aldera with every step, heel toe– earrings that are no longer yours, heel toe– a weapon you can't return, heel toe and stand at attention– a brooch you’re too afraid to wear, to lose too, so you keep it under your pillow and wear silver seashells instead. Blue fire took the first victory in the forest and you salvaged your prince with your life thin in your teeth. Takoba took the second victory and strung you out in your nightgown for nobles to pick at like crows. A driftwood table took the third and Bakugou stole the fourth. The only time you have ever won here is when you decided to die. When you churn the water with your arms a pain echoes across your back not quite inside your scars.

Kirishima on the verge of tears, Shinsou above your operating table, Uraraka at your side, Todoroki holding you back from the edge of the world– your prince, wet to his knees– you have never, not once in your life have you ever failed. Their gazes make your throat hurt and you spit again into a tiny rolling wave that lifts itself over your chin and into your ears.

The goddess of the sea does not pity you.

She pulls you into her arms and laughs when you rub your freshwater eyes. She tossels your hair with silent waves you could never have seen coming. She reminds you of her strength. And Todoroki told you that you couldn’t possibly challenge her– eat your words sealace prince. Even just this once, witness me. You are a gem in the crown of Aldera, the left hand of the golden family. Takoba is no setback the sea is not your master, you are a chosen servant, not a mistake. It is so wonderful to be in the presence of a queen again and at night her water is soft and black.

The shore is farther than you remember when you finally glance back at the world. You bob like a peach, a frozen peach, and realize you can’t feel the cold anymore. Time to head back. Today was just a test anyway, to make sure you could put up your fight. Maybe sleep will come now that you’re starting to breathe heavy and now that your muscles ache again after days without real training. Ice creeps up the back of your neck from wet hair.

The goddess of the sea plays with you for a few more seconds and you can’t wait to come back in the warmth of the sun to lay on your back with her to whom you no longer need to prove yourself. The ocean pulls in its depths just as much as it pushes at the shore so you brace your eyes for discomfort and duck under the surface to kick a good length forward. It would have worked in a lake, at the center of the world.

When you resurface you are somehow farther than before and considerably shorter of breath. The cold starts to press on your lungs now that you’re truly using them. It’s okay, one more time. You kick once to let the goddess lift you up with her salt and breathe in the free air before diving under again but all you actually do is stir bubbles around you exactly where you started. If anything even farther. Your boots are too small to see now.

There are no storms, no raging waves, no rain, no thunder, hardly wind, what is putting up the fight? Whatever. You paddle above water, thankful for light clothes, and weary of the growing ache under your jaw– the start of a pulsing headache. More than anything you are finally excited for bed, but no matter how hard you push there seems to be a growing distance between you and safety.

Dread drops in your peachpit stomach and you start to feel long pretty fingers tickle your heels in black water. The ghost of the flame mage happy to drag you with him to the bottom of the sea. Irrational like a fear of the dark, but still there’s no more time for testing pride, you have to get back to shore. The little girl inside of you cowers when you take one more heavy breath and then release it to sink yourself as deep as the salt will let you. You can see the breaking point, all you need is to reach the seafloor and kick yourself to it.

As you drift down into the pitch black something so much better than sand or ghosts meets your feet. You connect with rock as your lungs begin to ache for air and kick with every well trained muscle your legs have, forward towards the shore. Faster than freshwater, you rocket to the surface and gasp excitedly, blink rapidly, and infinitely closer to white sand, and then immediately the goddess pulls you under again.

Sure you found the breaking point, sure your toes tease the start of the shore you want to reach so badly, but that’s what waves do here. Break.

Something so silent couldn’t possibly be this powerful, but your head is forced back under as your hips are pulled back out and you tumble head over knees, mouth filled suddenly with salt and sand in the darkness. Resurfacing is no fun task, choking. You’re thankful it’s easy to float in the ocean but saltwater dries out your mouth as you retch it back out from your throat into the foam and then there’s another break over your head to remind you that humans should stay far away from god.

You’ll die just thirty meters from the shore. Salt blinds you. Water deep in one ear keeps you just dizzy enough to let this sea carry you out once again, and shouting isn’t an option. Shouting or gasping, you have to pick one. Ache has turned to paralysis; muscles so beaten and a heart beating so fast you’re already at the last limit reached by your master, training to failure. Striking and swinging until you can no longer hold your weapon. Hours of training reduced to fifteen minutes at sea.

The bruises of your shoulder protest every paddle you force out of them and go much stiffer much faster than the rest of you. In a way, the mage is drowning you. In every way the sea is much more claustrophobic than a war room.

The moon watches you heaving for air stuck between beating waves and being swept back out to sea. She doesn’t do anything. You are pulled under again. The rocks beneath you scratch your soft skin this time and your instinct is to flinch which fills your nose with water and drowning is certainly not as peaceful as poetry makes it out to be.

Of course it ends like this. A soggy creature fighting gods alone.

Of course he’s watching you, his Captain, being stolen by the sea.

You surface forcefully with a grip on your scruff and while your body remembers how to breathe, magic every furious color of the rainbow arcs above your head. The water recoils for a moment around you in the force of his impact. Bakugou erupts from the sky as he always does into the tragedy of your life in Takoba and you have no control over your searing gaze when it turns to him above you, framed by sparks and stars. Halo from the moon.

You both fall back into the water but not so helplessly as a moment ago. Your prince hooks and arm across your chest, pressing your back to his front and with so much more strength than you could ever muster, rips his way through the water in half of a backstroke. Half of him focused on keeping you afloat and only half of him conquering the sea. His legs create their own current. He holds you and you’re sure you’re breathing loudly enough into his collar to hurt his ears.

You are an excellent swimmer. Weak children, drunk diplomats, tests from your master; you have dragged your fair share of victims out of rivers and as the victim yourself you know better than to struggle or panic in your prince’s grip as he drags you from the goddess, but you can’t help how your fingers scratch at his translucent tunic. Cling to the warmth of his bicep.

In twenty seconds he has reached the break. Strength like a war criminal, like a godslayer. He turns in the water, times it to match the swell of a wave for height, and pulls you chest to chest with a guiding hand on the side of your head to fold you into him. The sea drops you and you know what comes next. Bakugou anticipates your struggle, or a drowned man’s panic, any logical thing and wraps another arm around you tight as he pulls you both under, but you don’t fight a single second and neither do you breathe.

He knows the sea so much better. If you weren’t unraveling like a common soldier you would have realized too, just how much calmer the water is underneath its surface. Even with ears full of sand you can hear the wave crash above you but there is no pull underwater. The roll of the goddess back out to sea twirls through your hair but nothing else. She lets your prince push up to the surface and doesn’t stop you from catching your breath inside the crook of his neck. Eleven seconds to beat the break. What does he even need a captain for?

This time when the tide drops, you don’t quite drop with it. Knees in the sand. Back on solid ground you realize how hard a body can shake and then water is beating you down again from behind, and a warm hand has you by the back of the haubergeon to keep you from slipping out to sea or laying flat down to sleep in the surf.

Both hardly walking, and you more-than-half carried, you and your prince stagger over seashells like glass back to the spot where your boots rest like nothing bad has ever happened at all, chased the whole time by a disappointed tide. You collapse the second he lets you. You, useless with cold and vomiting seafoam.

“Why?!” Your prince chokes, similarly out of breath beside you, hunched over his knees from the effort of winning your war. You can feel the glare. You are warmed by it and then entirely numb again, in a terrible turn of events, to even his attention. The very last ember dies without smoke.

Bakugou, even in a temper tantrum, has never looked quite so disheveled. He’s been wet before, and pushed his hair back with big hands and caught his breath through his teeth just like this, but he’s never looked at you with such confusion. His eyebrows don’t sit right. Without a scowl his whole thing really falls apart, huh?

“Answer me, Eyes!”

You wheeze instead of speaking when you try to use your voice for the first time and spit out the last of the salt that comes up with it. He doesn’t move, catching his breath across the sand at midnight. Your prince really is so pretty and something inside is eating you alive to the beat of the wash of waves. He is a star and you are the bloody little creature beneath him always, not chosen at all.

You sit yourself up. Bakugou is beautiful. Broad chest and shoulders trained for his magic and a wet tunic that clings to every lovely shape, just a few feet too far away to touch. Unmarred face and shaggy hair. His eyes. His jaw slopes sharp, sharper still in the moonlight and dripping with water, up towards his hungry red eyes that eat everything they’ve e–

“Wake up!” He barks.

He’s not eating you. He brings back your focus and when you hold his stare this time it’s so obvious he’s not confused, or angry, not exhausted or embarrassed or exasperated. He’s six and he’s holding your hands in a velvet carriage, terrified.

Oh boy. You guess self-control died with your heart, because your shoulders start to shake in a chuckle. Bakugou stares. Any fold of his brows melts immediately at the sound of your soft laughter but he hardens again when he speaks.

“What about this is funny?!” and pulls himself up to his knees as you lower yourself to clamshells, not-quite-laughing but not fighting the smile either. This is exhausting. “You just tried to kill yourself!”

This makes you snort, which is ugly, and shuts your prince up entirely. One laugh like a lie and then another and you curl in on yourself, shivering arms folded above your head and forehead pressed flat to the sand. Something like an apology. You are redundant, not suicidal.

If it were a real apology you would wait until he spoke again to raise your head like Todoroki in the stables, but that’s not what you’re doing at all. You ache from the inside. Burn in fact. You chuckle again and spit salt one last time when you sit up, then grab for your shoes with muscle memory instead of feeling since the cold has stolen that from you too. Bakugou is staring again– it is irritating, you should do it less.

The ocean makes a lovely noise when you are not drowning in it. It’s much quieter and sounds a bit like laundry sliding over itself. Or apples tumbling into a basket. You are the first to your feet, clumsily, and you are not so delirious that you forget you need proximity to a fire. Anyone else might not be able to stand through this adrenaline trembling but how many apprentices have come so close to death so many times as you?

“Oi,” Bakugou growls, confused again by the wrong emotion for just long enough to let you escape.

The hill between the castle and the sea is overgrown with dune grasses tall enough to tickle your hips and that is what you decide to climb. Empty stomach, ruined shoulder, shaking legs, deep dead eyes.

Your clothes cling to you. They make you small. He can hardly breathe in the cold as he rushes to catch up, dripping what he's sure are icicles, and you look as if you could hardly stay conscious in it. Does your face feel as red as it looks? Friction or fever? “Captain!” And it’s obvious Bakugou can’t decide on his volume, but bulldozes after you nonetheless husky with exertion, “fuckin wait–”

There are sandy paths beaten into this seaside hill, small like children made them on their happy little way to swim. Bakugou makes quick work of it. You hike. You put all your effort into staying on two feet through a chill you could hardly ever imagine. Heat pounds in your temples, cruelly imitating Alderan fire when really it’s something poisoned like liquor.

“Please don’t follow me sir,” you call over the wind when the prince gets a few steps too close to catching up and he makes a sound almost like words, like words you shot dead in his throat. You know that sound because you have been shot at the same exact angle. Deadly isn’t it? He falls back.

Just for a moment Bakugou stops and watches, filled with something neither of you have the words for yet. Recovering just as quickly as you are succumbing to exhaustion.

Wait, he stares. Just– “Y/n.”

Wrapped in white, you are framed by rolling seagrass in the moonlight. You finally stop climbing and turn. You like a half-drowned painting. In a furred cape you might be a queen. From your spot smiling sadly at the edge of the world, your nose has started to bleed.

“Give me an order.”

Six and shaking in his hands. Eleven soaked in a fruit filled hallway, always working and fond of libraries. Sense of humor that doubles over his queen. Often covered in blood, staring too earnestly right now for him to remember that anger might fix this. Bakugou doesn’t breathe.

You turn back towards the castle alone and for the very last time, your body keeps the tears at bay. On a hill of swaying green grass and bright in the moonlight, your prince, frozen, looks so much like his mother you should kill him for it.

You always thought you were hiding from him on duty, only slightly more stealthy than a dragon. It got better when Jeanist stopped training you in chainmail, but your excitement at every small job bounced off the walls of his castle so obviously. Squirrel duty? You helped a hundred bastards back outside without pause. Sent up to swept bookshelves under the Great Oak and you're the only person he’s ever seen hum to themself so high in the air. Stable duty? Stable master more like. Seven and stacking stools to reach the saddles before Jeanist set you back on the ground by your scruff like his kitten. Bakugou can’t remember what went first, your heartbeat or his hearing.

The very first time you snuck up on him was in August under a plum tree, nine years old. He slept beside his book in the shade on a perfect day, perfectly alone and free of tutoring for the afternoon. Maybe because you were barefoot, but somehow even out of breath, the only thing that gave you away was your voice.

“Careful Highness.” He shot awake with that and figured for a moment that you were a dream while his eyes adjusted to the light through the leaves behind you– panting above him and holding tight to a plum. Like premonition your other hand lurched to catch another as it fell toward him, “they’re ready for harvest.”

Bakugou sat up. Off at an impossible distance for you to have run to catch plums, Jeanist stood beside a hanging line of red uniforms waving a beckoning hand.

“Laundry calls,” you whispered. As the little prince turned stupidly back to you above him, you set both plums on the grass beside his book and bowed.

Wait.

“Maybe a nap in the vineyard? Grapes won't bruise.”

Wait, I know you.

He watched you bow one last time and jog out of the shade back to Jeanist and Alderan laundry, just as he watches you stumble now in the dark, towards the faraway lights of a castle without the fire you need.

Wait!

“Y/n!” Bakugou bursts over the ridge and back onto marble pavement, what the fuck is he gonna do– your name won’t work twice, he’s wasted too much time. “Captain!”

You pay him no mind drifting away with your back still turned and with even less coordination than when you dragged yourself from the sea. You are deteriorating– fuck, fuck it. Bakugou, brimming with something to the left of anger, charges. If you hear him coming you do nothing to stop him. Not as he closes your distance with eight good strides and slings you over his shoulder.

"I–!" you jerk to strike instinctively, “Put me down!”

Good, you can shout. He still has time, you’re still alive. He’ll apologize for touching you later, for hesitating and staring, he will say everything he set aside in anger when you are not trying to kill yourself.

“Put me down,” you hiss like you know you’re one of three people that can make his skin prickle with threat.

“Not a chance.”

You grip the back of his tunic, clinging so wet to his body that you grab equal parts flesh and he turns away from your path to the glowing front gates all those hundreds of meters away, to kick in a door on an insignificant corner of an insignificant annex in the shadows of the castle that is only unlocked because it’s the same one he flew from, instead of his window, when he was trying not to startle you with his magic and into the sea.

You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchards because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there. Your nails on his back begin to burn with your silence and it’s haunting not only because you weigh less to him than a phantom, but because the smell of the sea follows you inside when there is no one else left to close the door. Immediately it is warmer without the wind but he will not slow until he finds fire, because you are gripping him instead of screaming again– because you are freezing to death and he will not let you win under new circumstances after he worked so hard to save you from the first.

This part of the castle is his, below the kitchens, the deep white underbelly in the cliff over the sea where no one will find him except cooks and staff who keep his secret and the queen who kindly ordered these quarters before she lost her mind. There is no difference of weight or warmth when he sets you down without a fight in front of the only red door in the hall. You aren’t a ghost. Even if you aren’t convincing. He throws the door open.

You would win in a contest but Bakugou too can make a steady fire. It’s still chirping bright in his fireplace when he crowds you inside of his quarters. Wood and furs. The smell of bread, everything so unlike Takoba. Small. Hard surfaces cushioned or covered in anticipation of winter, with red and gold and wool, forest tapestries from home– and it is a small victory that you take another step, then another, deeper inside without hint or suggestion.

“where are we?”

“You need to change,” Bakugou dismisses when you’re far enough inside to close the door, and pulls open a cherry chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. It’s draped in pelts and pillows. Faded herbs hang in bundles above you.

“have clothes in my room.”

“Didn’t ask.” When he looks over his shoulder, you are wobbling towards the fire like a starving woman, with two hands reaching subtly from your side. Good, shut up and warm up. Bakugou rifles through his options one more time and grimaces, raising his own black Alderan riding tunic aloft; it’s the only thing that’s going to be long enough to cover all of you.

He’ll sort out this shitshow step by step– dry you off, shout scream scold, get you warm, shout some more– a good Alderan lecture, and then tie you to him if he must since you obviously can���t be trusted alone. Walking into the sea when you thought everyone was sleeping. And for what? He grinds his teeth and grips the sids of his dresser with the realization that he’s probably not going to sleep again tonight. He’d kill you if that wasn’t what you so obviously wanted.

“Alright asshole, get ch–” Bakugou chokes when he turns back to you, sitting politely fireside with a dagger materialized in your good hand, blade pressed flat to your collar. He jumps, black tunic flying and shouts indiscernibly in a lunge for the weapon.

Not fast enough because by the time he makes one step, you’ve driven the blade down your chest and clear through your shirt. It falls open and your bare ribs seize in goosebumps this close to the fire, “told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Drop it!” He wails, as if to a dog.

Oh how you will haunt him until the end of time. A month with you, just some soldier from his castle– a prodigal apprentice in a kingdom of geniuses– an impersonable, silent, invisible guard, who should cause harm only when necessary and appear only in danger– a woman who does this job to a tee, and still somehow steals his attention to any corner of the room she conceals herself in– just a month and you have beguiled him. Reaping grim satisfaction from watching you wreak havoc in this place he loathes.

You sit in front of his fire in his secret room, half bare now that you’ve decided to cut your clothes off of yourself, and entirely bare when you run the lip of the dagger across your shoulder to catch the fabric and then rough straight down the other side. You are pink from heat and staring through him entirely unfocused, all chaotic braids and parted lips. There’s a dry track of blood smeared under your nose and he shudders to think what part of his back it was wiped on while he was carrying you away. The fingertips of your scar peek into free air. Bakugou can’t spin around fast enough, howling in anger.

You sound like you’re smiling again mournfully like last time, “following orders, sir.”

“Don’t call me that!” He roars and shoves the black tunic behind his back towards you. This room is small, maybe five paces wide, and so he sits as far as he can from you on the floor beside his bed, still within arms reach. Back turned.

What the fuck is so funny? This isn’t a headache this is sustained torture. Bakugou’s own wet clothes cling to him in dry patches of salt and stick and grit that he’s desperate to bathe away just as soon as you are tethered to another magician. In another kingdom. You breathe heavily behind him in a mismatch between effort and task and then a sopping thud reminds Bakugou that you are stripping to nothing behind him and piling your rags onto his fine rugs.

“You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“you’ll be free of me in a moment.”

And it dawns on him, seasick irony, that there isn’t a person alive in this kingdom but him who could stop you from doing a single thing.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight you’re concussed.”

You pause your fiddling behind him for a second before resuming and you’re close enough that he can still hear your less than methodic pulling and ripping. A huff here and there. In the seconds it takes you to speak again your voice is still laced with the amusement that makes his skin crawl, “third time I’ve told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Save it– just hurry up.”

“was just saying a prayer.”

“Save. It. An excuse that fulla holes wouldn’t even work on Kirishima the naif.”

“because nothing gets past the Champion.”

Bakugou erupts, out of unwounded fists to clench, and jerks around with every intention of barking at you. He’s not sure what he pictured before turning and he’s not sure where his voice went, but you are sat beside his fire draped in his black tunic with an expression he can hardly find the words for.

What is it in the way your shoulders hang? Exhaustion? The way your chin tips or your eyes flutter? Hunger? You watch him like you’ll eat him alive, like your life is the least of his concerns. The laces at your collar drape limp over your fingers from where you gave up their tying and so the shirt hangs loose and open, and much much too big. Bakugou has never thought of the shape your sternum makes between your breasts or what color the fine hair on your thighs might be. He knows the answers now because you’ve given up on posture like a selkie out of water and everything so unlike his Captain– because something inside of you is slipping.

“don’t bother the Champion with this,” your voice is still draconian. Even as your body fails, your eyes are still dark and infinite and possessive beside the glow of his fireplace and under a window that looks out over black water, “or Lady Mina, or your Lords. Don’t worry them with me.”

Bakugou mirrors you unconsciously in the way he sits close enough to touch. Why do you say that? You keep saying it, ‘Lady Mina,’ all month the same thing. Sir Sero, like he’s not a soldier in Jeanist’s rear guard. Like Mina and Denki didn’t grow up in the castle with you all to learn magic fifteen years ago.

“They’re not,” he admits because something about you unraveling by the sea sucks the malice like marrow from his bones. Maybe something inside of him is slipping too.

The pair of you slouch on the soft rugs from home and sticky with foreign salt, looking. Your next smile seems to take every ounce of strength, “what?”

“They’re not lords.”

And in a rush, such horror ignites in the eaves of this tiny room like an Alderan dollhouse. It is a grease fire film of oil on water. He is the match. You drop your head to your shoulder and start to laugh like Bakugou isn’t watching the life evaporate from the top of your head and out his window in the heat that pinks your cheeks and blotches your chest. You laugh like you have life to spare, “course they’re not.”

You manage enough coordination to hold the chest of his tunic closed with one hand as you rise, still giggling bitter, nothing like the bells you rang for Todoroki.

“Stop–” Bakugou reaches for you as you walk past him towards the door but stops short of touching even the air.

“dream something sweet Highness, I won’t interrupt again.”

“Oi, wait–” He gathers himself awkwardly barefoot and still dripping seawater, to catch the door before you pull it open. You bow your head and reach for the knob at the same time as he manages to slam his palm and weight against it in case you decide you have enough life left to fight.

“Told you, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Maybe staring isn’t so much a habit as it is a system to keep you from collapsing under the weight of Alderan sun. You who watch the world carefully so that when you attack it is silent and succinct. As long as you’re only looking, just watching carefully, the world will never be in danger of you spilling the secrets obvious only to you, and your kingdom won’t have to acknowledge the war crimes it takes to teach a kid how to kill.

Bakugou looms above you and rests against his door on a forearm. You raise your head like it’s lead to look at him. Your mouth even opens to speak but then something like fire punches to life in the blacks of your eyes.

It’s not a blink this time, it’s a stutter at first– and your face is so flushed that it almost looks like you’re glowing– before something you see feeds the kindling to roaring. For a blessed second you aren’t smiling. You stare so deeply into your prince he can’t look away for long enough to realize that you’re reaching for him.

Why? Why are you leaning closer?

The first heat pools at the hinge of his jaw and then scalding follows. Why are your hands so hot? You pinch his earlobe between thumb and pinky and let your fingers graze over the ridges of ear just so gently that sparks itch where sweat prickles at his neck.

It’s still for a second before chills, agonizing, erupt up his spine, bone by bone as he realizes– as your prince’s face drops and his own hand jumps to reach his ears and what’s no longer there. His right hand grasps at Alderan gold, a tiny sun. His left only cups yours, so much smaller– and the ghost of your earring lost somewhere deep at sea. Six and bleeding in his hands, all grown up and at his mercy.

“I hate you.” You smile in anguish.

You don’t bother pulling your hand from his, only rest your head against the door and let your heavy eyes finally close. Nothing to hold back the freshwater tears now.

Bakugou almost isn’t fast enough in his shock to catch you when you begin to slide down the wall in collapse, “Y– shit– Y/n!” One hand pulls up on your own and the other reaches around your back to try and bring you into him instead of hard against the wooden floor like he’s still a prince and not just a man whose heart won’t stop racing.

“Y/n? Y/n,” he shuffles you in his lap where you landed, and breathes the shapes he hopes make the sound of your name as he searches, distracted. You are limp in his arms and entirely too warm to have been freezing to death a few minutes ago. Lips parted and rolling like you’re trying to speak. Running to safety with you on his shoulder, the seachill must have hidden your fever from him. He cradles your head to check for blood and holds your cheek when his fingers come out dry from your hair, "c'mon, Captain."

“majesty..”

Your heartbreaking laughter still bubbles up in quiet sobs and incoherence murmured through abandoned ego, “..m sorry,” when you manage to see through the tears for a moment before falling unconscious again. Every apology laced always with “mitsuki.” You must have been holding it back. You must have been keeping the fever at bay by sheer force of will because now on the floor against him, your body is so hot it’s making his chest clammy. Sweat has soaked into the nooks of your black tunic and pools in salt licks between your breasts. Fuck Alderan fire.

Your prince gathers your shoulders and chest, your waist hips and exhaustion, into a bundle in his arms and pulls himself up with his doorknob because he will not let you drown, he will not let you freeze, and you will not win by setting yourself on fire. As he rises, blood leaks again from your nose. Tears fall aimlessly against his heart split to six like a pomegranate. When Bakugou is king there will be no child soldiers.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @zombiewarprincess @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @arayoflia @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @mecuryxmoonstone @onlysarcasm @ilovemushroomss @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl

#told you ch 12 was steamy #insofar as its hot and wet #can you tell im the eldest daughter? #a hymn to black water #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #bakugou fantasy au #bakugo fantasy au

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A/n: song popped up so I couldn’t help but write to part of lyrics in this song with some RE boys.

• Chris Redfield •

But you got me like a rocket,Shooting straight across the sky.

When Chris kissed you, you felt like a rocket shooting across the sky. He made you feel loved, he made you feel important, like you felt something.

His kisses were soft yet intense, the sparks, it was exhilarating.

Smiling a against the man’s lips, a giggle tore from your lips as Chris scooped you up in his arms as he spun you around.

Kissing Chris made you see stars.

•

+ Leon S. Kennedy +

All I wanted was a white knight,With a good heart, soft touch, fast horse.

Leon was your white knight, your protector, the man with a good heart and soft touch.

When he kissed you, it was perpetual bliss, centrifugal motion.

Your head would always spin, your breath stolen, when Leon kissed you, it made you feel like a Princess.

Leaning into his touch, you titled your head to the side letting your eyes slip close.

“I love you.”

Humming, you gave Leon another smile as you stood on your toes giving him a soft kiss. “I love you too Leon.”

•

* Luis Serra *

You can kiss me with the windows open,While the rain comes pouring inside.

Luis was spontaneous, unpredictable. He was always coming with ideas to make you smile. Plans to make you swoon.

His favorite thing to do was getting trapped in the rain. You two dancing on the night, not a single cafe in the world, laughing your worries away.

Oh how he loved to kiss you in the rain, to kiss you inside not carrying about the rain pouring inside.

He couldn’t help but let his fingers run up your arms to warm you up. His lips still firmly pressed against yours as the rain continues to pour in the room.

And you couldn’t find yourself to care at all.

Breaking the kiss you let your fingers run through his dark strands. “You got me floating, you got me flying Luis.”

“And you have my heart racing whenever I am near you Mi Amore.”

•

« Carlos Oliveria »

You can kiss me in the moonlight,On the rooftop under the sky.

“So what do ya think?”

Laughing softly, you shook your head seeing the rooftop decorated. It was a sweet gesture, something that Carlos went out of his way to do for you.

Turning to face the man you gave him a bright smile as your ran your hands through his Ahhh hair messing it up even more.

“It’s perfect Carlos.”

Giving you a teasing grin the man pulled you to his chest glancing down at you. “Can I kiss you?”

“Carlos, You can kiss me in the moonlight, you can kiss me on the rooftop under the sky. I’ll never say no to your kisses.”

Grinning, he quickly scooped you up placing a rather large kiss on your lips. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

•

• Ethan Winters •

Baby, I'm forever yours

Ethan had suffered a lot, so much that the man never thought he deserved love. So you made sure he was loved, that he felt loved.

Sitting on the bed next to him, you grasped his hand gently. Cupping his cheek, you let your thumb glide across his cheek. “Ethan.”

“Hmm?” Glancing up at you the man gave you a tired smile. “Ya?”

Scooting closer you then pressed your head against his give him a soft kiss. “I love you.”

Pausing for a moment, he then wrapped his arm around your waist tugging you close to his chest as he nuzzled his nose against your neck. “I love you too.”

Grinning you then pushing him down onto the bed as your crawled onto his hips. “And baby, I’m forever yours.”

#carlos oliveria x reader #drabbles #drabble #carlos oliveira #chris Redfield #Carlos oliveria #chris redfield x you #chris redfield x reader #leon s lennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy x y/n #luis serra x you #luis serra x reader #Luis Serra #resident evil #resident evil x y/n #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #might get a part two

[ya-zz]

Thank you for your kind words! I wanted to leave this little request, for headcannons, since I loved how you did Sigma's and if it's ok to put more than one character in them! What about reaper and ramattra headcannons in how they attempted to cheer reader up? -Reaper wife

REAPER AND RAMATTRA HEADCANONS COMING RIGHT UP

REAPER

He hadn't seen you for awhile so he got worried.

It wasn't like him to care for someone so much, but you meant something to him.

He admired your work ethic, but he mostly loved the way you brought light to every room.

When you had gone missing for a few days, of course he got concerned, leaving to go and find you.

While his demeanour was usually quite dark, he did have a soft side, one he only brought out on occasions such as this.

He found you on the roof, looking over the ocean, a vast sea of nothingness as the night rolled in.

Rain was threatening to come down, dark clouds covering the night sky, but it wasn't yet raining, yet there were droplets on your face.

He noted that you were crying, trying to approach you slowly as to not startle you.

His hand gently touched your back which made you quickly wipe your tears with the back of your hand.

He smiled awkwardly as he stood next to you, leaning over the railing with you.

His voice was low as he asked if you were okay, head looking out to the horizon with you.

A small mumble and a sigh was all he needed, his hand coming back up to pull you in closer, letting you rest your body against his.

When your head connected with his shoulder, he smiled softly, letting his hand rub up and down your back as he stood there with you.

The silence was calming, the weight of the world slowly coming off your shoulders as you stood there with him in silence, the sadness leaving your body.

Nobody else got the soothing treatment from him, it was just you.

You were special to him, whether you knew it or not, he was happy spending time with you no matter the circumstances.

He was a man of little words, yet his company was always welcome, especially in moments like this.

When you smiled up at him, eyes sparkling in the moonlight, his heart flutters with content and happiness. Something of which was a rare feeling.

RAMATTRA

At first, he didn't care that you were upset but as the days went by, he noticed that the atmosphere was passing onto others.

He wasn't one to show much kindness to humans, but he wanted to try.

At least, for his sake so he didn't have to see everyone so depressed.

When he tried to find you, however, you were nowhere to be seen, his sensors scanning over the areas he searched.

When he wandered outside to the community garden, he saw you sitting under the tree, knees to your chest and head buried.

He froze for a moment, noticing your heartbeat was rapid in your chest.

When he approached, he did so silently.

You looked up at him, the sad look plastered on your face as you sighed and looked back forward.

Something within his sensors pushed him to sit with you, his staff laying across his lap as his orb floated just next to him.

He asked if everything was okay, and when you shook your head, he asked what was wrong.

Part of him wondered why he cared, but when you opened up, talking to him about why you were feeling the way you were, he wanted to pull you in and hug you.

It was a strange feeling, but one he didn't mind.

He noticed his meditation orb was humming in response to your feelings so he moved his hand ever so slightly to let it hover next to you instead.

You smiled at the notion, feeling a slight warmth emanating from it which gained a chuckle from the omnic.

He spoke out against the breeze, words mangled into stories of his time in the Monastery, funny incidents surrounding his sparring matches with Zenyatta.

The time was passing and he noticed your heart rate had decreased significantly, and he realised that talking to you was something that calmed not you down, but him as well.

Your smile warmed him up and he knew he was doing the right thing.

#overwatch #ramattra #reaper #ow #overwatch ramattra #overwatch reaper #overwatch headcanons #overwatch fanfiction #reader #overwatch 2 #ramattra x reader #gabriel reyes #ow reaper #reaper overwatch #reaper x reader #fanfic #headcanons #yazzfics

[lost-between-letters]

Black Lipstick

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (she/her)

Requested by: @animealways

Warnings: outsider pov (Enid's), my attempt at humour, excessive use of italics

Word Count: 618

Summary: Wednesday blushing ? Surely the world was ending

A/N: requests for the Wednesday characters are still open :)

Enid had just walked past the single most fascinating conversation of her life and Wednesday had to hear about it. Now.

With a spring to her step - excited to describe the whatever-that-had-been between Xavier and Ajax in excruciating detail to her roommate (and best friend - they totally were besties even if Wednesday refused to use that word) - Enid barged into their room. "Wednes, you won't believe-"

And cut short in her tracks.

There on her black bedsheets sat Wednesday, hands folded in her lap. Perfectly prim, expression schooled into an annoyed scowl. Face redder than the red thread she had used on her Ted Bundy Boards.

Oh, this was going to be so interesting.

"Are you blushing ?" Okay, that wasn't the best approach, Enid had to admit. She could have at least stopped gawking.

Well, what was done was done, she guessed.

Wednesday raised her chin higher and stared her down. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, you so are hiding something," Enid said and pointed a fake accusatory finger at her, "is it because you ran up here and refuse to admit that you forgot something?"

"Obviously not." Wednesday shook her head, feigning nonchalance.

Key word: feigning.

If there was one trait Enid shared with her wolf, it was that if she got her nose buried in something, she wasn't letting go. "Maybe you got some alone time that I interrupted?"

"Enid." There was that stern voice again.

She was definitely getting closer.

Enid laughed gleefully.

"Please tell me that you finally realised your massive crush on Y/N," Enid was shooting in the dark, she knew it but someone had to get these two together. And who else than her? "Wait wait wait. Is this where you're waiting nervously to actually tell me how right I am?"

A snort was her answer.

Not from Wednesday.

No, her roommate was still scowling at her.

Though that turned into a brief flash of panic when Enid crouched down on the floor. The noise had definitely come from there.

"Please tell me that this is who I'm thinking it is."

Y/N rolled out from under the bed, laughs shaking her body.

"Yes!! Finally!!" Enid was not doing a victory dance. No, she was only ... showing her happiness for her friends.

For some reason, that made Y/N laugh even harder.

Even Wednesday was smiling. Down at Y/N (her girlfriend, Enid realised at the sweet intimacy she could see floating around the two of them), who she helped getting up from the ground and down on the bed next to her.

Only then, Enid saw the black lipstick stains down her neck. So that was what she had walke-

"Finally?" Y/N was still chuckling as she leaned into Wednesday.

If there weren't more pressing matters at hand, Enid would so be teasing Wednesday right about now. But- "What do you mean?"

"Love, you still haven't told her?" That was adressed to the girl by her side.

"And have her all up in our business?"

"You love it when she's all up in your business, mi amor," Y/N countered and threaded her fingers between Wednesday's.

Who shot another round of daggers with her eyes. Though their handles were probably in heart shapes. Enid could feel the affection overflowing from her best friend. It was a little unsettling to watch.

"So this is already an established thing?" She butted in before anything got out of hand.

Y/N grinned, turned and planted a kiss on Wednesday's lips before either of the girls could react. Tugged on one braid for good measure. "Two and a half months since I confessed to that lovely monster."

Oh, Wednesday would never hear the end of this.

Wednesday Taglist: @the-night-owl-blr @kenobette @lovelyy-moonlight

Join a Taglist

#wednesday x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x you #wednesday fanfiction

[cambion-companion]

Raphael x Aasimar!reader

My favorite chapter from my Ao3 fanfic Fallen in Flame.

Nostalgic for my cambion x angel dynamic.

Word count: 3500

Flames licked around you, the enveloping darkness surrounding you interrupted by dancing orange light as sparks of fire illuminated the edges of your vision. Instead of harming you, the strokes of heat caressed your legs, all while lapping a possessive trail up to the apex of your thighs and your burning arousal.

You felt strong unseen hands gripping and squeezing your flesh, the nails that bit into your skin drawing blood. These roughly intimate ministrations in the darkness were met by your sighs of pleasure; a drawn-out whimper as you felt him enter you, thrusting deliciously deep only to withdraw and repeat the motion.

A sharp pain in your rib jolted you awake, sending you bolt upright in your bedroll, a sheen of cold sweat on your forehead.

 

“Sorry darling, the noises you’re making are unconscionable even by my low standards.” Astarion withdrew his foot from your side and returned with a slight glower to his bedroll.

“Don’t you have a bear to wrestle?” Your words slurred together.

You were still distracted by the feelings of pleasure that had not disappeared as the waking world intruded.

You pressed your thighs together and bit back a moan as the feeling of being fucked roughly grew to a crescendo and then eased with surprising swiftness.

“What has gotten into you?” Astarion griped, giving your movements a roguishly appraising look. “If you need to relieve some tension, darling, all you have to do is ask.”

“Shut up, Astarion.” You retorted, squeezing your eyes closed as the phantom caresses stilled completely, mercifully, but left you feeling empty and frustrated.

“Mhm.” The vampire said tersely. “Sweet dreams.” Astarion made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and rolled over, facing his back to you as he entered his trance once more.

You waited for a moment before getting quietly to your feet, wobbling slightly and wracking your brain to make sense of what the hells had just happened.

Moonlight shone gently upon your person as you walked away from your resting companions. You saw Dame Aylin and Isobel speaking together near the rubble of an ancient stone building, repurposed for the moment to house training activities.

You looked at Aylin with mild jealousy, her beautiful full feathered wings gleaming white under the starry sky. Her silver eyes caught your own as she marked your approach and she gave you a curt nod, her gaze following you as you walked past.

Your fellow Aasimar, daughter of Selune as she was, had been little help when you asked if there was a way to regain the missing shard of your soul. She held pity for you, that much was obvious, but there was certainly an undercurrent of disdain as well. As though she saw you as something defiled.

“Away.” Aylin had said haughtily earlier that week when you first tried to speak more with her about your predicament. “I have a darling to adore.” Her attention spent solely on Isobel, her lover.

Aylin’s most helpful advice had been said in clipped tones of annoyance at your own persistence, “Ketheric is vanquished. Your goal must now be ridding yourself of the Illithid parasite”.

Perhaps it was the distance between yourself and the celestial plane, but you couldn’t remember your fellow Aasimar having such an infuriating sense of self-righteous arrogance.

You glanced back over your shoulder at the silvered couple radiating light from the Moonmaiden’s power. An odd wistfulness took hold of your heart, unbidden memories of Raphael and all he had allowed you to experience floated to the forefront of your mind.

Lost in thought you approached the edge of where the roiling shadows of Shar’s curse remained. The dark coils probed against where the silver moon shone her light upon the ground as if trying to test the strength of it.

Halsin had said it would take time for the land to recover, yet in your bones you could sense movements of a great healing taking place in the earth beneath your feet.

You saw movement in the darkness and stopped abruptly, the full moon behind you casting your image in shadow upon the ground and illuminating the path ahead. Another flicker of movement caught your eye; someone or something hiding behind the trunk of a gnarled oak tree long bereft of any leaves.

You withdrew your sword with the long sound of metal against metal finished by a delicate ringing and the ethereal glow the weapon cast around it.

Korilla stepped out from behind the dead tree.

She seemed preoccupied with keeping an eye on the distant toll house looming dark and seemingly empty against the grey horizon. She therefore didn’t mark your surprised expression at her sudden appearance.

“You should be more careful where you set camp.” She said, her voice a harsh whisper. “There are some things not even my master can protect you from.”

“You’re scared of a…toll collector?” You sheathed your weapon, in doing so your surroundings dimmed. “Seems a bit ironic, no?”

Korilla didn’t smile. “I came to warn you to stay away from there. You have proved prone to wandering, so heed my words this time.”

“Speaking of your master…” You waved your hand and negated the whirring orange portal Korilla had just conjured. “Sorry to disrupt your usual dramatic exit but I need to speak with him.”

“He isn’t taking house calls currently.” Korilla gave you a curious look, between suspicion and pity.

“Make an exception.” You growled; your stature so much taller than the shorter woman put in stark contrast as you walked into her personal space.

Korilla hesitated, looking you up and down with a dubious brow. Finally, she shrugged. “Your funeral, angel.”

She turned away, hesitated, then glanced back at you. “May I?” She asked sardonically.

You nodded, suppressing a small smile.

Korilla waved her hand again and conjured her flaming portal. You felt a prickle on the back of your neck as you followed her through into the foyer of Raphael’s home.

“Gaudy as ever.” You murmured, looking around and spotting a bronze statue of the cambion himself set high as it overlooked the marbled hall.

“Be good and stay here.” Korilla said sternly, making a beeline down the dimly lit corridor and out of sight.

She did not return.

You turned slowly on the spot, looking up at the grossly oversized chandelier. Something about the glittering lights reminded you of your own home.

You drew closer while watching how the flame inside each shining crystal moved around like some kind of viscous fluid. You realized it wasn’t flame at all and your stomach clenched.

You pulled your face away and averted your gaze.

These were remnants of souls, shredded and confined into crystals to illuminate the home of a devil. You imagined you could hear the echoes of their screams.

Footsteps, the rustling of leathery wings unfurling and the smell of cherries, musk and sulphur.

“What have we here?” Raphael spoke behind you. “A plucked hen willfully wandering into the fox’s den.”

You huffed an annoyed sigh and faced him, turning your back firmly to the haunting chandelier. “Rhymes?” You forced bravado, clenching your hands to keep from shaking, whether from fear or anger you didn’t know. “Very well, get it all out of your system.”

His yellow eyes flickered in mild surprise before darkening with delight. “But you are no hen are you, my dove?” He approached slowly, his wings moving and stretching languidly with each measured step. “I was going to wait until you came crawling back to me, but I do so enjoy taming my pets.” Raphael slid his hand up along your side, smirking when he felt you shiver beneath his fingers.

“I am not your pet.” You said with vitriol.

Raphael smiled sharply, his eyebrows angling just enough to accentuate the dangerous angles of his face. “Yet with every word uttered from that lush mouth, my grip on your lovely neck tightens.”

To demonstrate he placed his hand gently against your throat, giving a brief squeeze. “I do not enjoy unexpected visitors, my dear. What is the adage? ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”

“’But satisfaction brought him back’.” You replied, fighting back a smile at his smoldering reaction. “Besides, I thought I was the dove. Or was it a mouse?”

“Take your pick of whatever prey you wish.” Raphael murmured, stroking your skin with deliberate movements. “Tell me, what ill-conceived notion brought you back to my House of Hope?”

“I want an answer, Raphael.” You said, leveling an impassive gaze on him as you pushed his hand away from your neck. “I was visited in dreams by an incubus not long ago.” Your eyes narrowed into slits as Raphael chortled. “Did you send it?”

“I am a generous host.” Raphael ignored your question and burning look. “Therefore, I shall overlook your lack of decorum. Intruding into the home of a devil such as myself isn’t the wisest course of action, columba mea.”

You winced at the sound of the infernal words. Raphael chuckled, amused by your reaction. He tilted your chin up, stroking a thumb along your tense jaw. “Instead of singeing your fingertips, I will offer you a less unpleasant penance.”

“Penance?”

“Why yes. You angels are all about such tripe, after all.” Raphael chuckled again, his face darkening. “Come.”

You hesitated, then followed him into the familiar dining hall. The food was still there, this time however you noticed the foul stench and the flies swarming around the spoiled fruits and meats.

“Did you servants go on strike?” You wrinkled your nose in distaste.

“Something like that.” Raphael intoned, unamused. “They have been preoccupied attending other messes.”

You stopped in your tracks, a cold shudder running from your head down to your feet. Your eyes locked on a feminine figure leaning casually against a dark stone pillar. For a moment you thought it a mirror, your own image made flesh stood casually watching you with a sly smirk.

“Haarlep.” Raphael gestured to your double, his eyes calculating each movement your body made in reaction to this revelation. “Meet…well, you two are already intimately acquainted.”

Your eyes widened in rage, and you reached for the sword on your back. “Devil.” You hissed, realizing too late all of your weapons had been magically stripped from your person upon entering through Korilla’s portal.

“An astute one.” Haarlep straightened slightly and gave you a condescending round of applause. “A nice change from the usual, Raphael.”

“’Haarlep’?” You intoned, pausing as you thought it over. You gave Raphael a disbelieving glance. “This creature bears an anagram of your name?”

Raphael looked slightly impressed. “What a clever little thing you’re turning out to be.”

Your eyes flicked between the cambion and the devil and like a strike of lightning on a humid summer night the truth came to you. “It’s been you.” You pointed with disgust at the incubus. “You’re the reason I’ve been plagued by…these feelings of…” You trailed off, hating yourself for the burning in your cheeks.

“She is a darling broken thing.” Haarlep said in an affectation of your voice. You watched your own lips move to form the words, chills dragging cold fingers down your spine. “I can see why you favor her.” The incubus approached with movements akin to a forest cat stalking prey, causing you to hiss warningly though gritted teeth. “Such a passionate little soul, even if it isn’t whole.”

“Please tell me you don’t speak in rhyme as well.” Steeling your nerves, you remained standing tall and unmoving.

Haarlep only giggled, the coquettish sound making you want to throw a punch and knock yourself flat.

You glared over at where Raphael had sunk languidly into an ebony chair adorned with gothic detailing carved into the black wood. He watched with detached amusement as his orchestrated scene unfolded.

“I signed no agreement to this.” You spat out, keeping a wary side eye on your double as it began circling you.

“Your body signed the contract for you. Your moans of pleasure illustrating a signature dripping with ecstasy rather than ink.” Raphael said, his flaming gaze dropping to the shine of perspiration on your chest. “But I am no incubus, I leave such…unimaginative methods to those more restricted by their natures.”

Next to you Haarlep pouted, pulling yet another simpering expression you hoped to never see upon your face again.

“Now, where were we?” Raphael put a finger to his chin in thought. “Ah, yes. Payment for your impudence.” He beckoned you imperiously with one finger. “Approach.”

Raphael smiled slightly as you grudgingly obeyed. “Kneel.”

You grimaced and wavered where you stood, looking down at his smug expression. You felt hands upon your shoulders and sweet breath on your face as Haarlep intruded into your space, pressing down to encourage continued obeisance.

“Get your hands off me, devil.” A moment of incandescent rage overtook your body at the fiend’s touch, a purely instinctual reaction you had not experienced when Raphael touched you.

Your eyes emitted a sharp blue glow and a burst of stark white energy rippled like a shockwave from your person, pushing Haarlep back several paces. The incubus’ form flickered for a moment before resolving back into your perfect double. The devil opened its mouth, sharp snakelike fangs protruding from your replicated lips as it made an ugly sound between scream and infernal speech.

Claws grew from its hands and Haarlep raised them to swipe at your side.

“Stop.” Raphael said sharply, and to your surprise the incubus froze mid swing. “I will not tolerate such chaos in my house.” He remained calm, untouched by your burst of divine energy, though his appraisal of you had changed into something you’d not seen from him before. He dismissed his incubus with a wave of his hand and impatient glare.

For the first time Raphael spoke your name, and what lingered of your soul within your body responded. “Kneel.” He said again, less genteel this time. “You will come seeking me willing and wanton soon, but that is not my intent tonight.”

You hesitated as Raphael gave you a look of rising impatience and so you knelt upon the hard marble floor.

“Good. She learns.” Raphael purred, looking down at you. He fell silent for a moment, relishing the sight of you so vulnerable before him. “What an interesting little display, we will have to explore such passionate reactions in the future.” He caressed the ebony wood on which his arms rested. “For now, I wish to discuss the matter of your soul.”

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. “I could say I’m shocked.”

“Part of your soul has tragically been parted from you.” Raphael leaned forward slightly, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. “And I prefer to deal with those who are whole. Half a meal is not as satisfying after all.”

“I taste terrible.” You said, an echo of Gale’s words to Astarion ringing in your mind. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it.”

“I have it on good authority you taste quite delicious.” Raphael said softly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip with relish that made your skin crawl and your thighs tighten.

“Do continue to bite your lip like that as I explain my terms.” Raphael continued dryly, his eyes falling appreciatively to your lips. “I will assist you in retrieving the shard of your soul from your estranged kindred. In exchange, you agree to perform three favors for me.”

You furrowed your brow at him, perplexed. “Do you think I’m stupid, Raphael?”

“It depends on the day, my dear.” Raphael gives a short wry laugh and leans back again. “I think you are endlessly entertaining. Which is more than can be said for most who wander so prettily into the palm of my hand.”

You fall silent, the flames crackling in the oversized hearth as you mulled over Raphael’s offer. It was tantalizing how achingly close you were to what you’d fervently desired since landing on the beach beside the Nautiloid wreckage. Since being spurned and cast out of the only home you’d ever known.

“I require revisions.”

“As do all great performances.” Raphael didn’t seem at all surprised or put off. “Life is but a stage, after all. And you, little fledgling, are a most fascinating player.”

“I’m flattered.” You deadpanned.

“Don’t be.” Raphael drawled, his lips twisting into a sinister smirk. “Be careful how you walk this rope. After all you have no wings to catch you, and one misstep would see you hanging from it.” He demonstrated the motion of swinging with his hand.

Despite yourself, you heeded his advice. “I would require you to detail these ‘three favors’ before I sign any contract or make any deal with you. Also, I need a way to reach you, so I don’t have to track down Korilla every time.”

“You’ve had the means to reach me always at the tip of your tongue.” Raphael sighed theatrically and produced a small black sphere into his hand and tossed it to you. “However, this sending stone should suffice for those lacking in imagination.”

You caught the heavy stone orb and looked into it, seeing nothing but your own face mirrored back at you, distorted on the round surface.

“You may call, I may answer.” Raphael stood and offered you his hand, his skin glinting a deep cherry red in the flickering firelight. “Have we an accord?”

You hesitated, your knees aching. You stared for a long minute at the offered hand. Your very blood reviling against the decision you were about to make.

The heat from his skin enveloped your own as you slid your fingers against his and he helped you up. “I agree to seeing and reading the contract you draw up.”

“An angel after my own heart.” Raphael’s voice dripped sarcasm as his clawlike nails bit into your hand momentarily, but he nodded. “Very well, you may peruse the infernal text to your heart’s content.”

Raphael produced a roll of parchment from a conjured cloud of sulphur that stung your eyes and nostrils. He waited with veiled annoyance as you coughed several times.

You spoke again only after clearing the acrid stench from your airways. “Very well, I will have Gale help me translate this since you seem to be hell-bent on making it as hard as possible.”

“Please!” Raphael said in a wounded tone. “Everything I do is aimed to help.”

You rolled your eyes and took the scroll, wincing as it scorched your fingers upon contact. You hastily stowed it and your newly acquired scrying orb into your small pouch of holding.

“Once your binding signature is made upon the parchment, I will come to collect.” Raphael smiled archly at you. “If you do not seek me out first.”

You snorted. “Don’t count on it, devil.” Your words were lined with a touch of familiarity at your usual tension-laden banter.

“I require something more to set the balance. Your intrusion and your little display earlier have set the score against you.” Raphael approached confidently, taking your chin rather roughly before you could protest.

Your eyes widened, thinking he was going to kiss you again but instead his lips and teeth found the side of your neck.

“First Astarion, now you!” You squeaked with undignified aggravation, biting your tongue to suppress a groan of pleasure at the unexpected scrape of his teeth against your skin. You arched into his touch, a ripple of something primal awakening deep within you.

Then his saliva against your neck began to burn and you felt the devil’s mark take hold as Raphael withdrew and licked his lips, his flaming eyes hooded. “While wandering the chaos of the mortal plane, don’t forget the laws of cause and effect, sweetling. There is a reckoning for every action you take with one such as I.”

“As with all devils.” You winced, unable to keep the worry off your face as you felt the welted flesh of where he’d marked your skin.

“I promise you on everything I own.” Raphael leaned into your space again and brushed his fingers through your hair, scraping his nails against your scalp not unpleasantly. He paused, catching your eyes with his before continuing. “You’ve never dealt with a devil like me before.”

And with a sharp push he sent you plummeting through an infernal portal, landing flat on your back upon your vacated bedroll. The noise of impact followed by your groan of pain awakened the rest of camp. Karlach was first on her feet, sword in hand before Gale’s eyes even opened.

You fought to gasp the air back into your lungs, slowly sitting up and opening your bag to gingerly retrieve the contract Raphael had drawn up. Your eyes found the wizard of the party as he too began voicing the same questions being lobbied at you from all sides.

Your voice was shaky but determined. “Gale, do you have the spell Comprehend Languages prepared?”

#raphael bg3 #fanfic #ao3 #raphael x reader #aasimar #raphael the cambion #raphael x tav #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction