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munson-blurbs · 4 months

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall.

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place.

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long.

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train.

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive.

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles.

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus.

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear.

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories.

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk.

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?”

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone?

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape.

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93.

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.”

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar.

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two.

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors.

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work?

That was sure to go over well.

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift.

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils.

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar.

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility.

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one.

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn.

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire.

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase.

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot.

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile.

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you.

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you.

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended.

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back.

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.”

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line.

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you. Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again.

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied.

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions.

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again.

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

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blueraineshadows · 4 months

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One Year Later

To celebrate the first anniversary of the release of Hogwarts Legacy on the 10th February, a group of us on Discord decided to create fan work with the theme of One Year Later.

Sebastian Sallow x F!MC

Tags: NSFW, angst, depression, fluff, smut

7.5k words.

Just before returning to Hogwarts for 6th year, MC decides to pay a visit to the boy who opened her eyes to the darkness and fire of magic.

Darkness had fallen over the Highlands, the faintest strip of colour still clinging to the horizon as MC glided across the countryside on her broom. The late August air still held a lingering warmth, the breeze pleasant against her cheeks as she dipped lower, aiming for the cosy lights of the little hamlet spread out below.

There was a charm to Feldrcroft. Quaint cottages and beautiful scenery combined with the small community of magical folk made for a warm and pleasant feel. However, MC had memories of this place that still made her spine tingle with apprehension. She felt the tightness of anxiety claiming her chest as her booted feet touched down to the ground, the trees and grass that still had their lush, green foliage looked dark and hulking in the swallowing night.

With her gaze fixed on one cottage in particular, she wondered if the occupant would be pleased to see her. She had not forewarned him, no letter or laid plans to come and see him. She had not thought to arrange it, thinking he wouldn't want her nearby to remind him of events that took place last spring. The time apart over summer break had been the space needed to try and come to terms with it all, but she had come to realise that she had missed him.

She missed the boy who had urged her feet onto a path that had been dubiously dark but utterly thrilling. She had not looked for such things, and yet they had to come to her. Pain and suffering had come with it, secrets and darkness that still plagued her. But at the end of it all, she had found people who shared magical abilities. Her people. This was where she belonged.

The pull of Sebastian Sallow had not weakened since parting ways with him at the end of fifth year. Despite everything, she was unable to forget him. His smile, his eyes, the way he would tease her, his intelligence, and yes, his darkness. If anything, it was the troubled streak that split through him that lured her in the most. There was a thrill about it, a curiosity. It kept her on the edge, but it had kept her alive, too. If she was truly honest about it, she had a dark and troubled streak of her own, and it recognised his, called to it even. A kindred spirit as he had once put it.

So, here she was, standing outside of his small, country home with her palm pressed against the aged wood of his door with her heart in her mouth. Thoughts raced through her head, tumbling together to heighten the tension in her chest. Would he shut the door in her face? Would he push her away, hating the reminder that her face would bring to him? Maybe he wasn't alone inside there, and she would be intruding. The thought made her stomach twist with something cold and slippery.

She didn't turn away, though. It's better now than on September 1st when school was back in. She wanted to see his face. She needed to know how it would be when face to face with him, without the distraction of everyone else.

Foolish or brave, she lifted her hand from the door, made a fist, and rapped firmly. The knock sounded loud and final in the quiet dark. Her feet twitched in her boots, tingling with the sudden urge to flee. He won't want her here. This was a mistake.

The seconds stretched as she stared at the door, fixated on the grain in the wood as her ears strained for the sound of movement behind it. She swallowed, clenching and unclenching her hands until the sound of the latch came. The door opened a crack, and the shadow of a figure appeared against a warm, low light.

Brown eyes peered curiously through the gap, a tumble of wild brunette locks framing a freckled face that had lost its roundness in their two months apart. His cheekbones were more prominent, shadows had darkened under his eyes, and there was a grim set to his jaw that made him look harder, older.

His hand gripped his wand, aiming it subtly through the gap as his gaze took her in, his mouth parting softly in surprise as his eyebrows lifted. “MC.”

“Hello, Sebastian,” she said, managing a nervous smile.

His gaze darted behind her, scanning the hamlet quickly before he returned his eyes to her, adjusting his wand slightly. He was on edge, and she was quick to reassure him.

“It's just me,” she said, holding up a hand. “I… I thought I would surprise you. A little visit before school begins again, but I can leave if you would prefer that. I don't want to intrude.”

He lowered his wand, eyes still a little wary as he opened the door a bit wider. His dark blue shirt was open at the throat, and the sleeves rolled back. He wore no waistcoat, but braces held up his dark trousers, his shoulders broad, and his hips slim. Her eyes devoured the sight of him, catching up on missed time as he pushed a hand through his messy locks and stepped back, pushing the door fully open before gesturing for her to step inside.

“Not at all, please, come on in,” he said. His gaze also took her in from head to toe, his eyes almost disbelieving as he moved to close the door behind her. “You will have to excuse the mess, I'm afraid. I was not expecting company.”

She smiled, her eyes taking in the untidy cottage quickly, noting the cosy fire and huge pile of books stacked haphazardly by the chair.

“I probably should have sent an owl first,” she said, fiddling with the cuffs of her jacket. “I'm sorry. It was an impulsive idea to come.”

“But a welcome one,” he said softly.

Their eyes met, his lips curving softly as warmth slowly entered his eyes. He looked tired, the boyish look of him long gone, torn away by hardships that nobody should have to endure. But, he looked like he had been eating, his clothes were clean. He had not fallen into a pit of darkness as Ominis had feared.

Sebastian's eyes, now filled with warmth as he looked upon her, were no longer wary, sparkling with that special something that kept her at his side. It was him, still in there, no sign of any eerie glow of forbidden magic, none of the madness or fury that haunted her secret memories. Just Sebastian.

“It's good to see you,” she whispered.

His gaze dipped, shadows flitting across his face as pink coloured his cheeks. He fussed with his hair again and cleared his throat.

“Let me get you something to drink. I have tea if you would like?” He moved towards the kitchen area, looking for clean cups.

“Tea sounds perfect,” she said.

….*....

The sound of his own laughter filled his ears, a sound that had become unfamiliar lately, and yet he welcomed it as he gazed across at the girl sitting cross-legged on the rug before his fire. Strands of her hair had slipped from her braid, framing a face that had haunted his thoughts all summer long.

Fear as chilling as mountain ice had lingered as he imagined her not being able to bear the sight of him. Despite her hug at the end of last term, her goodbye that had stayed with him for days afterwards, he had been convinced that time apart would lead her to abandon him. As the weeks of summer break had passed, he had convinced himself that he had chased her away, that she would glare coldly at him across the classroom when they returned, or worse, she would ignore him completely.

After all, he was a murderer. He had tempted her into darker and more dangerous acts, led her astray, and shamefully coveted her power for his own selfish wants. Who would want to stay near someone like that?

Even now, sitting here with her in his own home, her laughter warming that ice from the back of his neck, her eyes pulling at him like gravity that kept him grounded on the wooden floorboards. Even now, he could scarcely believe that she had turned up here. Uninvited, but so very welcome.

They had not mentioned any of the terrible darkness that had torn through them in the spring. She was chatting about lighter things, funny stories, and urging him to smile and laugh with an ease that was stealing his breath.

He had not realised just how lonely this summer had been until now. How he craved this interaction and connection. He could not stop staring at her, and his cheeks flamed whenever she caught his gaze lingering too long. He could not be inappropriate and chase her away. Not now that she was here and smiling at him.

A glance at the clock revealed the hours slipping towards lateness. Soon, she would be gone. He counted himself lucky she was still here at all, flicking through the pages of a book as they discussed what might be in store this school year. He didn't want her to go. He had a feeling this new and welcome warmth would leave with her.

Going back to Hogwarts tugged at the anxiety in his chest. Another year started with no Anne by his side, his friendship with Ominis strained and distant, his heart almost hollow and shadowed at the thought of being always alone. Dare he hope that MC would remain at his side. Was he asking too much of her again?

Lost in his thoughts, he jumped when he felt her hand on the exposed skin of his forearm, her fingertips grazing softly over the hairs there. He almost shivered under the touch. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt the touch of another person, and he stared at the delicate shape of her hand.

“Hey, it will be alright, you know,” she said softly. “We will be alright.”

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers, fearing what he would find in their depths as the shadow of memories began to cluster at the edges of his mind. She was trying to hide her own pain, but he could see it. How could he not when he had shared so much of it? Been the cause of some of it?

“I am so sorry,” he said, shaking his head. His throat tightened, and the backs of his eyes burned. “How do you not hate me?”

Her eyes widened, and she shifted closer towards him on the rug, her hand lifting to grasp his shoulder. “I don't hate you, Sebastian. Not at all.”

It was hard to hold her gaze. Such beauty and warmth radiated from her face it made him dip his head, his own eyelids closing as staggering memory began to invade. Those lovely eyes had shone with horror, lit with the flash of spells cast to inflict pain and injury. She had watched him bring down his own uncle, murder a member of his own family in a whirlwind of rage and frustration that replayed over and over in his dreams, taunting him. His evil tendencies could have gotten her killed, too. The very thought made him shudder right there beside the fire.

Shame coloured his cheeks, his flesh burning with it as guilt clawed at his insides.

She should go. She deserved better. What kind of friend was he to her? The worst kind, that's what.

“I wouldn't blame you if you did,” he rasped, pushing his hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the tumbled strands. “I've done some terrible things.”

“As have I,” she said firmly. Her hand cupped his jaw, and he met her gaze, her fingers cool against his flushed skin. He swallowed hard. Her face was so close, so close it made his heart thunder. “We both did awful things, and it's impossible to change that now. But, we also did good things. We helped people, too. And we kept each other alive when it came down to it. You kept me alive with your tutoring and help. I could never regret that, Sebastian. I wouldn't be here if I did.”

He stared at her, licking his lips and blinking as a tear slipped free from the corner of his eye. “Why did you come?”

Her eyes, glittering with unshed tears of her own, were deep pools of warmth. He thought he could lose himself and drown in her eyes. He had found them fascinating from day one, felt such a thrill when they would seek him out across the classroom. He couldn't help but stare into them now, wanting to believe with his whole soul that she wasn't going to leave him.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her thumb sliding against the skin of his cheek. She blushed, blinking back her tears. “I wanted to see you before returning to school. Before everything, and everyone became a distraction. Nobody else will ever understand what happened, only you. I just… I needed to see you, I needed to know that you were alright, that we were alright. Does that make sense?”

He nodded. “I missed you, too.”

Her arms encased him, and he found himself held against her, his face pressed against her chest as her chin came to rest on the top of his head. Her scent filled his nose, soft floral elements and apples, and he inhaled deeply, his mind spinning as her hands slid through his hair and down his back. He shivered, closing his eyes against the ache of tears.

“It will be alright,” she whispered again.

He couldn't stop it. It was like a dam being released. Scalding tears leaked from his eyes and slid wildly down his cheeks, soaking into the softness of her blouse and darkening the fabric. He sucked in a stuttering breath, his fingers clutching at her blouse against her back and wincing as a hoarse sob escaped his mouth.

“Fuck,” he said, his voice thick and strangled as he thought to pull away, but her arms only held him tighter.

She was so temptingly soft, so warm, and yet the solidity of her body held against his felt like a life raft in a tossing sea. The fight seeped from him as her warmth began to spread through him. He shamelessly clung to her as sob after sob tore from his throat, and his tears soaked her blouse. She soothed him, held him, her hands gently roaming over him in a touch that he could feel deep in his bones.

How was he ever going to be able to release his grip on her? To let go would be like being cast adrift. It was terrifying, and he thought he might never be able to breathe properly ever again. He wanted her to stay right here and never leave. No, he needed her to stay.

“I will, don't worry. I can stay as long as you need,” she said, stroking his hair with gentle fingers.

Had he said that out loud?

He stilled, fighting to get control of his emotions as her words slowly began to sink through his mind. He swiped a hand over his face and lifted his head to look at her. He saw the flicker of pain, her sadness, and a flash of pity as she stared at him. He must look like an awful sight, red eyed and pathetic, a sad little boy.

Her fingers ghosted over his face, gently wiping away his tears. His skin craved her touch, and he yearned for it, already missing the warmth of her chest against his face where her heart had thudded so reassuringly near his ear.

“You'll really stay?” His voice was raw and utterly vulnerable, and he felt so very exposed.

There was no judgement in her eyes as she nodded. “Of course.”

….*....

It was quiet. So very quiet. The soft sounds of Sebastian's sleeping breaths on the other side of the curtain should have soothed her, but she lay on her back and stared up through the darkness waiting for sleep to come and claim her.

He had made up the bed with clean sheets, his eyes drawn to her constantly as he gave her a shirt to sleep in and tidied up before bed, almost as though he feared she would disappear. Her blouse hung on the dressing screen, the fabric soaked from his tears. Oh, how her heart had broken to hear him like that, the sharp pull of his grip on her clothes revealing the pain he held tight within himself.

Her own torment had risen up and stuck in her throat as she had comforted him.

She should have come sooner. She shouldn't have left him alone so long.

The strange creaks and groans of an unfamiliar house had her wide awake, her thoughts spinning over the last year. She turned her head towards the faded curtain that separated her from Sebastian and realised that in a few days, she would have known him a full year.

Her life had changed since last September.

From a well-behaved, decent girl to an ancient magic wielding witch who could deliver death with a flick of her wrist. Here she was, laying in a bed wearing nothing but a man's shirt and her underwear, that same man sleeping in the next bed over with nothing but a flimsy curtain to separate them. Unchaperoned and barely dressed, she thought of the expanse of Sebastian's naked back she had glimpsed when he had readied for bed. He had freckles everywhere, the sight of his shifting muscles bringing a rising heat to her skin as she had skipped her eyes guiltily away.

The matron of the children's home would have taken the belt to her legs for daring to be so brazen, and yet she stared at the curtain beside her and wished that she could see through it.

Blushing furiously at the thought of Sebastian's bare skin, she turned in the bed to face the stone wall, her breaths quick and uneven as a fierce ache gathered between her thighs. She squirmed and closed her eyes, trying to think of anything else but him, but his scent was everywhere, and she could still remember the hard heat of his body as she had held him earlier on.

Fighting the fire in her blood and the dark memories in her head, she fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning until she was twisted in the sheets.

Movement woke her, and she blinked against morning sunlight streaming around the thin curtain, taking a moment to remember where she was. Her hair was tumbled about her face, and she reached to brush strands aside, her heart leaping behind her ribs as Sebastian peered around the curtain with a cheeky smile.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” he said, his eyes drawn to her bare legs that hung out from the twisted sheets.

Blushing, she tugged the blanket over them, drawing them up closer towards her as that glowing heat in her abdomen nudged awake.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

Sebastian held out a steaming cup. “I thought you might like a cup of tea. I'm going to make you breakfast as well. It's the least I can do after you put up with me blubbering all over you last night.”

MC sat up, noting the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks as she arranged the blankets respectfully over her waist. She smiled and held her hand out for the tea.

“That is very sweet of you, Seb,” she said, taking the cup from him. He was dressed in clean clothes, the fresh scent of soap wafting from his skin. Her gaze lingered over him, and she found herself patting the side of the bed. Fuck propriety. “Sit with me for a moment.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he sat, turning to face her as she wrapped her hands around her cup. “Everything alright?”

She smiled. “Let's do something today, something fun. Maybe you could take me exploring around your old childhood haunts. What do you think?”

A smile twitched his lips, and he fluffed his hair. “There are chores to be done,” he said ruefully. “The wood doesn't chop itself, you know.”

She laughed and gave him a look that suggested she wasn't buying it. They both knew that a simple charm would have the axe swinging all by itself. He grinned at her as she sipped her tea.

“It doesn't hurt to do things by hand sometimes. It's grounding. It reminds us that we are human after all,” he said. He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Merlin, I sound like my parents. How very boring.”

“Then I will help you around the house, we can pack a lunch, and then we can go exploring. Is that grounding enough for you, Mr Sallow?”

He bit his lower lip, the old sparkle she loved appearing in his eyes. “You've got yourself a deal.”

….*....

With the fresh sea breeze tugging at his hair and filling his lungs, Sebastian felt the foggy, dull ache around his eyes begin to recede. His eyes still felt scratchy and his throat raw after his emotional outburst yesterday, and he couldn't help but feel rather foolish for doing it in front of MC like that, but looking at her now as she searched for sea shells in the sand, he couldn't help but feel some of the heaviness lift from his shoulders and chest.

The breeze played with her hair, her blouse rippling with it as she picked up a shell with a smile on her lips. She looked like one of those angels painted in muggle murals, the sun glinting off her hair, her cheeks delicately pink from the late summer warmth of it.

It was so very hard not to stare at her. His gaze was drawn to her, and his whole body pulled towards her gravity, completely caught in her orbit. It stole his breath a little and made his head spin in a dizzying but delightful way. It was one thing to appreciate a pretty girl, but it was quite another to be utterly smitten with one. And he was becoming surer by the moment that he was smitten with her.

Like the sun peeking through the darkest storm clouds, she had appeared on his doorstep and thrown back the shadows. She had danced in the same darkness as him, held his painful secrets alongside her own, and yet she had come back to him. It was more than he deserved.

Spotting the delicate curve of a shell in the sand, he took out his wand and summoned it, letting it hover slowly over towards MC. The shell was perfectly intact, soft pink, and white curling into a graceful shape. MC’s eyes brightened as it appeared before her, those heavenly eyes swinging his way with a smile as she held out her palm. With careful precision, he let the shell sit in the cup of her hand, his gaze soft as her fingers turned it over to examine it.

“It's beautiful!” She exclaimed as she held it up.

He smiled, slipping his wand into his pocket as he began to walk closer towards her, his boots sinking into the soft sand. “Very beautiful,” he agreed, but he wasn't looking at the shell.

Her eyes lifted to meet him as he approached, daring to stand rather close so he could get a closer look at her eyes. The breeze blew strands of hair across her face, and they both lifted their hands to tuck them back, their fingers grazing against each other.

His heart thundered under his ribs at his boldness, his cheeks warming as she stared up at him, and he made to pull his hand away from her hair, but she caught his wrist to stop him. The rapid fire of his pulse made it hard to breathe as her hand slid up to link her fingers with his, their gazes locked on each other as though there was nothing else in the world to look upon. He realised that, even though he was partly terrified of what this might mean, he could quite happily stand and stare at her all day. Forever, in fact.

She stood on tiptoes, leaning forward as she held his hand tightly, the soft sigh of her breath ghosting across his cheek before her lips pressed against the skin there in a quick kiss.

He thought his lungs might burst and burn if he held his breath any longer, her eyes now so close he could definitely drown in them.

“You should smile like that more often, Sebastian,” she said softly. “You have the most lovely smile, quite handsome, in fact.”

Before she could even think about pulling away, removing herself from this perfect moment, his other hand caught her face in a gentle grip, his thumb sliding along the divine softness of her skin as he lowered his mouth to hers. It was the merest brush of lips, a soft taste in return for the one she had placed on his cheek, the tingle of it still there, along with the desire to feel more.

“I shall save those smiles just for you,” he promised.

He kept hold of her hand. Even when they left the beach and headed along the road back towards Feldcroft, their fingers remained laced together. She was a perfect fit, as though her hand had been made to be held by him, and it kept the shadows at bay. His own little ray of sunlight.

….*....

After a long day of chores and wandering around in the sun, MC had been tired, her muscles aching pleasantly as she sat and ate a simple dinner with Sebastian. It hadn't taken much persuading for her to stay at the cottage another night. With only one day left until the start of term, she would have to fetch her things for returning to school, and yet here she lingered.

A second night of laying in the bed, staring up at the wooden rafters of Sebastian's house as he lay sleeping on the other side of the curtain. This time, her thoughts were on the way he had kissed her on the beach, his lips soft and warm, the touch of them delicate and tempting. There had been a fire in his gaze that called to her. Unspoken glimmers of something that felt like she was balancing on the edge of a discovery.

He had not tried to kiss her again, but he had held her hand, his fingers grazing against her waist or her shoulder as they had prepared dinner. How many lingering looks would it take before he kissed her again? Did she dare steal a real kiss for herself?

The very thought made her heart flutter, and her insides flare with aching flame.

Burying her face into the soft feather pillow, she inhaled deeply and was reminded that Sebastian's scent was everywhere. He was everywhere, burying deeply into her soul until she wasn't sure where she ended and he began. She had not thought her heart could have been stolen so soon. At sixteen, she was fairly innocent in such matters, but there was something very powerful and almost frightening about the intensity with which she felt attached to Sebastian.

Perhaps it was the trauma, the darkness of their secrets, and the power of being held in the grip of the fallout of them. Like her, he was alone in the world, and they had gravitated towards each other. His eyes had the power to weave threads around her that drew her in tighter and tighter with each lingering glance, the dark glimmer of such gazes a lure more powerful than magic.

It's why she was here in the first place, was it not? Despite the real concern of how he had been faring, she had longed to be close to him again.

Drifting on the tide these thoughts were carrying her on, she didn't hear the whimpers at first, the jerking shuffles of Sebastian shifting around on his bed. The sounds of distress began to filter through to her, and she sat up, tilting her head as she gazed at the thin curtain between them.

Frowning slightly as a distressed groan sounded through the dark of the cottage, MC slipped from the bed sheets and stepped barefoot across the boards to peer around the curtain.

Sebastian was indeed shuddering beneath his bed covers, pale moonlight filtering through a high window, illuminating him in a ghostly glow.

“Sebastian?” She whispered, watching him twitch and whimper.

He didn't answer. His eyes were closed, but moving rapidly beneath his lids, and as she stepped even closer towards him, she could see beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He was dreaming, and it wasn't a good dream either by the looks of it.

She bit her lip, sadness clouding her face as she stared down at him, knowing too well the kind of horrors that pulled you down in your sleep from her own night terrors. Worried about startling him, she hesitated before touching him, her hand trembling a little as it hovered above his shoulder.

Then, he yelled, a shocking, harsh scream that ripped out of his mouth. MC gasped but didn't move her hand quickly enough. When he sat bolt upright in the bed, her hand hit his face, and he was lightning fast as he grabbed her. One hand clamping about her wrist, the other reaching up to fist into the front of the shirt she wore.

He was like a cornered cat, hissing and frighteningly strong as he shook her, dragging her bodily forward before flipping her onto her back against the mattress. She yelped, her hair fanning out across the twisted sheets as he loomed above her, pinning her to the bed with an iron grip.

She stared up at his flushed face, his eyes wild and unseeing in the pale moonlight.

“It's me!” She cried, her hands grasping at his bare arms, his muscles rigid under her touch. “Seb, it's me, please.”

Breathing hard, he stared, his mouth a harsh grimace, his teeth bared as he gripped her. A sharp flash of fear shot through her, realising that he could hurt her if he wanted to, and her wand was beside her bed behind the curtain. She kept still, her own chest heaving with panicked breaths.

“Sebastian,” she whispered.

He became eerily still, his eyes subtly widening as he stared at her, really looking at her pinned beneath him. Her pulse was racing, throbbing in her ears, as he slowly came around to the reality of the situation.

His gaze travelled over her face, moving down to where his hand had fisted the fabric of her shirt, gathering it tightly just below her collar bone. Her arm was pinned up behind her head, his fingers gripping so tightly at her wrist that she could feel her hand tingling from lack of blood flow.

As a result of the struggle, her shirt was twisted up around her ribcage, exposing her waist and hips, his lower body pinning her to the bed in a rather compromising position. He wore nothing but a pair of undershorts, their bare legs exposed, his knees anchored against the bed.

“What… how did you… MC,” he stuttered, confusion creasing his brow. He let go of her immediately, straightening up onto his knees as he pushed both hands through his hair with a groan of distress. “Did I hurt you?”

His voice was strained, a pained wince on his face as he risked another look at her. He pressed his hands to his cheeks as his gaze roamed over her exposed flesh. “Oh fuck,” he whispered.

MC hadn't moved, her arm still angled up above her head, her other hand hanging limp off the side of the bed as she fought to calm her breathing. “I'm alright,” she murmured.

Sebastian shook his head, closing his eyes tightly as he moaned. “Oh gods, I'm so sorry.”

He shifted his weight off her, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. MC sat up slowly, rubbing her wrist as her gaze lingered over the moonlight reflecting off the skin of his naked back. Her fear faded, her lungs relaxing as she watched him. He wouldn't hurt her, not on purpose. She held onto that thought.

“It's alright,” she said quietly, slowly reaching for him. Her fingers trembled as she touched them against his shoulder blade, his muscles tensing slightly as she smoothed her hand along towards the back of his neck. “I'm okay. You're okay. You didn't hurt me.”

“But I could have,” he said, his voice cracking. He turned his head to look at her, his expression so raw and open it stole her breath. “I could have hurt you. I'd never forgive myself if…” He gulped, raking his fingers through his hair again as he shook his head. “What were you doing out of bed?”

“I came to check on you,” she said, stroking her hand over the flesh of his back in soothing movements. “You were dreaming. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I'm not sure I will ever be okay,” he said, his voice so lost and empty as he stared at the floor. “These thoughts in my head, I know I'm not supposed to feel them, but they always find me in the quiet of night. I try to fight them away, but I’m scared that one night they might get the better of me, that I will get what I deserve.”

Her eyes burned, and she bit her lip, her chest tightening at the sheer depth of sadness in his tone. He looked defeated, shrunken, and nothing like the boy who had faced her in their first ever duel in Defence Against the Dark Arts on her first day at Hogwarts.

“No,” she said firmly, shuffling closer to wrap her arms around him from behind. “That is not going to be your fate.”

She pressed her face against the flushed skin of his back, smooth and warm against her nose. Her hands snaked around to press against his chest, a slight smattering of hair there tickling her fingertips. She held him tight, imagining all of her body heat and strength of affection for him flowing into him as she did so. She hoped that he could feel it.

“You are going to be just fine, Sebastian. I will make sure of it.”

“I'm not sure I deserve it,” he whispered.

Her heart clenched, and she shook her head. No. He couldn't give up. If he gave up, then she would struggle to keep her own head above the drowning waters of everything that had happened. Together. Together, they could fight it and win, just like they always did.

Her lips pressed against his heated skin, and once she started, she couldn't stop. She needed to show him. He was wanted. He was loved. He did deserve it.

She kissed up his spine towards his neck, moving to spread more affection with her mouth along his freckled shoulder. She felt the shift in his breathing, the subtle flex of his muscles as she moved back towards his neck and pressed kisses under his ear.

Her name whispered through his lips, and his hands slid over hers at his chest, their fingers interlocking as he held them tight and close near his thudding heart.

“Don't give up on me,” she pleaded. “You've got this. Sebastian Sallow never backs down from a fight, remember? And this is a fight. You have to win. Do it for me, do it for Anne, but most of all, do it for yourself.”

This time, when he pinned her to the bed, she welcomed it, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss so demanding that it stole her breath in the best possible way. Arching her back in a delicate curve, his hands roamed over her waist, sliding up underneath her back to grasp the back of her neck as his hips rocked achingly against hers.

It was exhilarating to feel his hands against her bare flesh, the shirt riding up to expose the tender peaks of her breasts. He moaned, his mouth moving from her neck to draw one hardening nipple between his lips, his tongue sliding hotly over it in a teasing swipe.

She had never been kissed or touched like this before, but she wasn't scared at all, not even a flutter of nerves as his hand skimmed her hip, reaching under to squeeze longingly at the curve of her behind.

“Stop me,” he panted, his tongue swirling against her breastbone. His hand moulded her backside, his fingers brushing underneath in a devastating caress that made her mouth open in a gasp. Heat flared dangerously.

“No,” she whined, her hand fisting into the softness of his hair.

His groan was feral, his mouth starved as he drew her flesh into a sharp suck that left her marked, his fingers swiping deeper under the curve of her backside against damp heat. She moaned in response, her legs widening shamelessly to welcome him.

“Fuck, you shouldn’t make noises like that. I'm not going to be able to stop,” he said, his hips rocking against her, the nudge of his arousal widening her eyes as a shock of excitement blistered through her blood.

Heart hammering and her breathing ragged, she tilted her pelvis, her body curious and on fire as she rubbed herself against him. He sucked air through his gritted teeth and released it as a groan, his forehead pressed between her breasts.

“MC…” He warned, lifting his head to look at her. The blazing heat in his eyes sent another thrill through her.

Heart in her mouth, but her head determined. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him closer, and he closed his eyes with a soft moan. He caught his lower lip with his teeth, his hips rolling against her in a slow, seductive movement that had her utterly lost.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked breathlessly. “There's no going back from it. I don't want to take advantage of you.”

“You're not,” she said, shaking her head. “I choose you.”

The look in his eyes almost had her in tears, the stunned softness that made him go still, his hand caressing her face before he kissed her, slowly and thoroughly.

It was more than just answering the burn of lust that fired their blood. Each caress, each press of lips, was an affirmation of their need to feel connected. The heat of skin against skin was soothing and arousing at once, what little clothing that formed barriers was discarded swiftly and without care, their sole focus to answer the plea in each other’s eyes.

It was new and thrilling, each fumbled touch as they explored and discovered opened up new possibilities. The erotic and intimate nature of Sebastian's fingers delving deep into her core drew low moans from her mouth. Her body opened to receive him, her heart racing and her thoughts eager to learn the feel of being joined completely with him.

The solemn lectures delivered by her matron at the children's home drifted through her mind, snippets about carnal sin and the proper way to behave. As her hands explored the lines of Sebastian's body, she couldn't fathom why anyone should deny themselves this intimacy.

How could this be so terrible and wrong? The way Sebastian was looking at her, the worship he gave with hands and mouth, it made her feel alive. The bonds that had formed between them strengthened, sharpening to a burning point in her chest as he finally claimed her for his own. The stinging stretch as he filled her made her bite her lip, her fingers digging into his flesh as he began to move, his own moans of pleasure filling her ears.

This was where she was meant to be. This was no sin. This was home.

Pressing his forehead to hers, their combined breaths mere heated gasps as their bodies found a rhythm together, MC stared into the deep, dark pools of his eyes. Lost in his shadows, utterly claimed by them as the tendrils of black curled around her essence and sealed their fate.

“You're mine,” he breathed into her mouth, pushing even deeper into her, his grip tightening. “I'm never going to let you go.”

“And you're mine,” she said firmly.

His thrusts stuttered, soft sounds falling from his lips as he suddenly withdrew, the slick heat of his arousal rubbing lazily against the inside of her thigh before he came, spilling thick pools of release against her trembling flesh. She glanced down, curious and flushed as it dripped slowly to the bed sheets, his cock still firm and slick from their lust.

Their bodies couldn't be any closer, arms and legs entwined as their flesh cooled and their breathing began to regulate. With her face pressed close to his skin, she could breathe him in, every lung full was a soothing comfort enhanced by the soft caresses of his hands.

He was hers, and she was his. Together, they would dance with their shadows, and together they would defeat them.

….*....

The soft glow of lamps lit up Central Hall in Hogwarts, a few Prefects were chatting in the corner and not really paying attention to the girl leaning on the balcony above them, her eyes lingering over the fountain before fixing on her destination. The library door.

MC felt her lips curve upwards in a fond smile as she remembered arriving on this very balcony exactly a year ago, her stomach a bundle of nerves as she met the curious Slytherin boy who had no concerns about breaking school rules. She had been the new girl, desperate to impress, and yet, even then, so soon after meeting Sebastian, he had easily led her astray.

Footsteps sounded behind her on the stairs and she turned to look over her shoulder, her smile widening at the sight of said Slytherin approaching. His gaze was curious, eyes twinkling with familiar mischief as he came right up close to her and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth.

“There you are,” he said quietly. “And what brings us here at this time of night, sweetheart?”

MC smoothed her hands down the front of his waistcoat, her eyes playful as she looked up at him. “Do you know it's exactly one year, to the day, that you smuggled me into the library so I could snoop in the Restricted Section? I think it was the first bit of rule breaking you taught me.”

“Is that so?” He arched an eyebrow and glanced over the balcony rail. “A whole year of teaching you how to break rules. How naughty of me. So, are you up for a little more rule breaking, then? Is that why we are here?”

She nodded, eyes gleaming. “I thought we could sneak back down there, for old times sake, have a nose around. I have it on good authority that there are even some rather naughty books to be found if we look in the right place.”

“Naughty books?” His smirk was positively devilish. “Do you even have to ask? Count me in.”

Tugging her closer and kissing her again, his hand clasped hers. His handsome smile combined with the wicked gleam in his gaze was enough to send her tummy into a riot of butterflies as they pulled out their wands. With a cheeky wink, Sebastian cast his Disillusionment charm and he vanished, his faintly flickering outline tugging her towards the stairs as she cast her own charm.

This time last year she had been shaking with nerves, her palms sweating as they outwitted old Scribner. This year, her pulse flew with anticipation as they made it through the iron gates and hurried down into the Restricted Section. The element of risk added to the excitement of being alone with Sebastian, and it wasn't long before she found herself pressed into a dark corner, his mouth on her skin and his hand under her blouse.

Their shadows hung in the background, the darkness always there waiting for them, memories coming out to play when they least expected it. But, they had each other. They chased down the shadows with the warmth of their smiles and the heat of their embraces.

With Sebastian at her side, she felt unstoppable, truly alive, and ready to face whatever came next. She doubted that life would ever become boring. Not with him.

After all, they did love dark, restricted places, and they both couldn't back down from a challenge. Even when that challenge was each other.

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow #mc x sebastian sallow #blueraineshadows #hogwarts legacy

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frannyzooey · 9 months

Text

Short Days, Long Nights: 13

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist

Rating: E (pregnancy sex, lactation, grief)

A/N: Thank you endlessly for being so patient with me while I've been on hiatus ❤ I'm gonna stay off for another couple weeks, but I didn't want to leave you hanging for too long. I appreciate every single person that has stuck with me on this! Thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @the-scandalorian for helping me with this one - you both are the biggest brains and the most wonderful writers and I am insanely lucky to have you on my team. Enjoy! ❤

Jackson.

The image of the map is burned into Joel’s mind, always present.

More concerned with your safety than anything, he knows you should leave, but as the weeks slip by, what picks at him more is that he didn’t have an answer to your question that day.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He should be one step ahead. He should be on top of the potential outcomes. He should have a plan, since that’s always been his role. Stepped up with one when he had Sarah, took care of Tommy before the Outbreak, and after, led their way in the QZ. After Tommy left, he still did it, even if he was going through the motions more than anything. Doing it has always been second nature, a means to survive.

You’d let his lack of answer drop because he knew you didn’t want to leave, and of course, he knew you shouldn’t. Not right now. But still - still - he should have had a plan for something he knew was bound to happen sometime. Blinded by the light of your fierce optimism and wanting so badly to believe in it, he simply…didn’t think about it. The first time that’s happened in decades.

You’re depending on him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He doesn’t fucking know.

Wood dust floats to settle on the floorboards around his boots, and he runs a piece of sandpaper over the beam of rough lumber that rests across his lap. The rhythmic sweeps soothe his nerves, and he tries to focus on how good it feels to do something useful with wood again. Something familiar, the dry grain sliding against his palms. A task done because he wants to, instead of as a means to get by like so much else in his life.

This…this was for him, and for you.

The late afternoon sun streams through the window in the shed, not quite enough to dissipate the chill. Crisp air breezes in through the open door, the sweet smell of damp leaves blending with the wood and the tips of his fingers are cold enough to stop, but he doesn’t. He has to make the most of your nap times if he wants to get this done before next week.

Before Christmas - or the closest approximation to the date anyway, using your rudimentary calendar. Celebrating the holiday had been your idea, and like every other time when it came to something you asked for, he couldn’t say no. He said yes when you asked him to cut you a tree, nodded when you pointed to the one you wanted after a trek through the woods, helped you rip strips of red, moth bitten flannel that was worthless for clothing just to watch you tie bows to the end of the branches, as a means to decorate it.

He was impressed by your constant resourcefulness and ingenuity when it came to the things you’d been given, and at night, when the lantern shone on it and bathed the living room in a cozy glow, it almost did feel like Christmas time. The closest thing to it that he’s felt in years, anyway.

Placing the sandpaper on the floor and picking up a knife, his mind follows the trail marked on the map. Winding through woods and across open swathes of land, it passes right through your area and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone else follows the first. He knows that man can’t have been the only one with a map.

He frowns, gouging the wood a little more forcibly as he works through a knot, and he pictures the curve of your cheek, the delicate line of your neck, the bright happiness in your eyes here. That Christmas tree, in the front room. Torn between the idea of the unknown being just as unsafe as being a sitting duck at the cabin, he is restless with the need to move. The urge to keep you tucked away and protected from the world spreads beneath his skin and grows stronger every day, along with your stomach.

It’s large enough that it strains against the shirts you’ve borrowed from him, and though you’ve started choosing large sweatshirts instead, it’s begun to push against those too. You’ve begun to sway when you stand in place, an unconscious rock as a means to relieve pressure on your lower back, and he pictures you doing the same with a baby in your arms as you stand next to the cradle that he’s been building.

When he thinks about leaving it behind only to gather dust as he drags you somewhere else, the image eats at him, reminding him too much of another room, left behind to rot.

Another life, upended by abrupt violence.

Guilt has always gnawed at him for so many things, and following the mental image of you holding a baby, he adds to the growing list: the idea of another child replacing the one he had.

He fixates on all the things he couldn’t do for her on that last day but also the things time has robbed from him: the image of her face, the sound of her laugh. The books she liked, the order in which she lost her teeth, the weight of her infant body in his arms. How much of that time he spent without her while trying to provide for her, and how here, he’s got all the time in the world for this new child. His new child.

More feelings; the knife gouging deeper. Looking forward to a holiday that can’t include her, nervously anticipating holding a baby that belongs to him, looking at you and what you’ve built together and being so fucking happy he missed his mark on that bleak day ten years ago.

Is it betrayal to feel joy?

He’s not replacing her. He knows that. He knows, and yet the guilt never stops and so neither do his hands nor his mind, both working on fixing other problems that can be fixed.

Jackson.

A bed for the baby.

–

“I know it would be cold, but I think I’d rather have snow.”

You look out at the sodden garden, the neat, large borders that surround it blending in with the damp landscape. The fence that Joel built the only visual marker of where it’s at, it’s prepped for winter, buried in a dense layer of leaves and compost. You absentmindedly finger the leaf of a plant you brought inside with you, sheets of rain sliding down the window.

“Not me,” he says. “Might look pretty, but it would be a whole lot more dangerous.”

The blurred, muted mash of colors outside all blend together, the world a canvas of dingy brown and bleak gray. Everything soggy and limp, everything saturated with wetness: at this very moment, you’d take danger over another day of this.

Turning away from the depressing sight, you watch him sort through a pile of loose screws and nails on the coffee table. His head bent in his task, his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he hunches over and nudges each piece of metal with the tip of his finger, sorting them. Listening to the pleasant clink of them being dropped into glass jars, you go back to watering the plants.

After a process that had you pouring over the gardening book for days, you left what you could in the garden in order to have a good base for the spring, but took the rest inside, to see if you could keep growing anything through the winter.

Mismatched buckets and pots, an amalgamation of anything that would hold enough soil to plant a seed in, it was an experiment for sure. Enough was stored in the pantry to get you through the winter if you stayed lean enough about rations, and Joel had been pushing his portions upon you like there was no tomorrow, constantly assuring you that he had plenty.

“What is this?”

Stopping to stretch his back with a groan, he’s picked up a loose, shapeless scrap of fabric off the couch.

“Wait –” you protest, setting the watering can down.

He frowns at it, turning it in his hands, and when you make a hasty grab for it, he keeps it out of your reach with a chuckle.

“This my present, honey?” His facial expression still puzzled, he tries to work out what it is.

“It’s for the baby,” you explain. Coming to stand next to him, you turn it upright. “See? This is the neckhole, and the arms go here.”

“.......And the legs?”

“I’m not that good at sewing, okay?” you defend yourself with a laugh. “I thought maybe their legs could just hang out in this little…sack area.”

You make a self deprecating face, looking to him for a reaction, and he fingers the bottom of it.

“That ain’t bad. You should see if you can tie up the bottom, you know, for a draft or somethin’.”

“I used all the spare laces on the pants. I tried to make some, but of course I don’t have elastic and I don’t know how big to make them around the waist for a button, so I thought I could just cut two holes and make like, a little belt so that it would grow with the baby and...”

Your words taper off when you realize he’s staring up at you with an amused expression and you let your shoulders drop in defeat. “This kid is gonna look like they’re from the eighteen hundreds, aren’t they.”

“I guess you would know, with the books you’re always readin’,” he says with a grin, and the stack of historical fiction next to your side of the bed comes to mind.

“Oh God,” you moan quietly to yourself.

Standing with a soft grunt, he bends to press a kiss to the crown of your hair.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” he murmurs. “You about ready for bed? I’m gonna go do a final lap.”

Checking the perimeter of the cabin while you bank the wood stove for the night, he eventually joins you in the bedroom, bringing in the smell of cool night air with him. Already in bed, you’re propped against the headboard with your book in hand, and you admire him as he gets ready for bed himself: the edges of his curling locks catching the light in a glowing chestnut, the warmth held in his tanned skin as he peels off his shirt, the soft give of his still trim stomach as he pads over to bed. He climbs in, adjusting the covers around the two of you.

“What about Mae?” you ask absentmindedly, skimming the book in front of you.

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You make a face at the reception. “What about….Lauren?”

Stretching out on his side to face you, he rests his hand on your bump, smoothing the fabric of your sleep shirt down. A small movement nudges underneath his palm, and the corner of his mouth lifts. An intimate, quiet moment, you keep reading while he chases the constant movements with his touch, his fingers splayed wide, searching.

“Always so squirrely at night,” he says, the words rounded with softness.

“Tell me about it,” you sigh.

You set your book to the side and slide down next to him as he reaches to turn off the lantern, and the two of you lay facing each other, your belly between the length of your bodies. His hand finds your stomach again, and you let yours rest over it, guiding his touch lower. Lower, until the tips of his fingers brush against the band of your underwear and also right where a set of feet (or hands) slide underneath your skin. The taut skin shifts with rapid movement, a sensation that never fails to mesmerize you, but it’s something else when he’s the one who gets to see it. Watching him experiencing it is your favorite.

“What about Margaret? I’ve always liked that name.”

He makes a face, telling you all you need to know. “What makes you so sure it’s gonna be a girl?”

You shrug, lifting the hem of your shirt so you can feel his skin on yours, and his hand slides right back into place.

“Have you thought of any names?” you ask quietly.

“I, uh…I was sorta thinkin’ about June.” His dark eyes flit up to yours. “After June Carter Cash. Or Pearl, after –”

“You wanna name my baby after Pearl Jam?” your eyebrows raise. You’ve heard him humming “Future Days” while working outside, you know the band is a favorite of his.

He grins at your reaction. “That a no?”

“I should have guessed it would be music related,” you tease with a smile, scooting closer. “I like June. It’s pretty.”

The gentle exploration of his touch soothes you, and you close your eyes to savor it.

“What about boy names?” you ask. “I can’t really think of any. It’s actually what makes me think it’s a girl, like she’s trying to tell me something.”

“I haven’t thought of too many either. Thomas, for my brother, maybe?”

“That’s a good one.” You yawn, and sleep softly rounds the edges of your words. “Are you ready for next week?”

The preparation of his gift has your hands aching and grasping one with the other, you rub the tender knuckles, working some of the soreness out. Wordlessly, he reaches for your hand and takes it into his own, kneading the joints.

“I think so. S’kinda nice, havin’ a Christmas.” His touch lingers on the tips of your fingers, warming them. “Too cold in here? I can put another log on if you want.”

“No, it’s just…they ache. They're so swollen they get stiff sometimes. I don’t think the damp is helping.”

You hear it now, peppering the window in the dark. The steady drum of rain on the window, the sound makes the room all the more inviting: warm and safe, his body heat radiating underneath the quilt. He keeps rubbing your fingers, his own larger hands cradling your smaller one, and akin to someone rubbing your back to sleep, the touch lulls you, your eyes fluttering shut.

“This good?” His mouth brushes lightly against your knuckles, his lips pressing against your fingers before he breathes warm air on them.

“Mmmm, yea.” Silent for a moment, you speak. “Joel?”

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, and you voice the nightly request you started asking him weeks ago.

“Tell me what you know.”

A prompt he’s seemingly ready for, he shifts to get comfortable, letting out a sigh. The motion similar to someone getting ready to tell a bedtime story, your reaction to curl tight next to him is the same.

The first time you asked him this, he barely remembered anything. Other memories taking their place, the finer details of pregnancy and birth were buried deep, most of them forgotten. He remembered the doctor's visits but not the frequency. The general concept of birth but not the stages. The pain, but as someone who didn’t go through it, he couldn’t tell you what labor actually felt like.

All guesses and long ago recollections, you took them because they were better than nothing. Tonight, he tells you about the night feedings.

“Babies, they uh…” he begins in his gravely, lowered voice, trying to speak softly in the darkness. “You know they eat every couple of hours or so for a while after they’re born. Weeks of it.”

You nod against his shoulder, listening to his deep drawl.

“I don’t remember much because when you don’t get a lot of sleep it all tends to blur together, y’know? But I do remember some of them. Peaceful, sometimes. Everything is so quiet and still, and there ain’t nothin’ but you and them, sittin’ together.”

He stops, and you reach up to brush your fingers along the edge of his jaw, just enough to let him know you’re listening. He sighs, a heavy, contemplative thing.

“They are so small in your hands. So small it’s scary. I remember bein’ so careful, always feelin’ like I was gonna accidentally hurt her, or –” his breath hitches, and he swallows hard. He’s silent for a moment, and your breath slows and evens out. “Anyway, they don’t let you get any sleep, not for a few months, but sometimes….sometimes, you don’t mind.”

Your body loose and relaxed next to his, you’re on the edge of sleep when the words tumble softly out of your mouth.

“Joel?”

“Yea?”

“I’m scared.” The confession is whispered into his bare skin, and you breathe in his comforting, familiar smell, the steady drum of his heart beating underneath your cheek. His hand is a weighty drag down the line of your spine, the feeling of it steadying you.

The wind blows outside, rain pelting the glass.

“I know, honey,” he answers. “Me too.”

–

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, he stays awake, his mind lost in a memory.

Her tiny body rigid with deceiving strength, he struggles to force her arm into a small sleeve. His hand is huge compared to her fragile arm, her skin downy soft under his palm, and moonlight shines through the window in her bedroom just enough to light the features of her scrunched, upset face. A small wail pierces the darkness, and succeeding in dressing her, he lifts her up.

One hand cupping her entire bottom with the other covering her back, he makes low shushing sounds with his mouth to soothe her, inhaling the milky sweet smell that clings to her skin.

“Hey baby girl, shhh. I got you. I got you.”

Her tiny face burrows into his chest, her body squirming until she gets comfortable, and he keeps soothing with low hums, his hand rubbing a slow circle over her purple pajamas as she settles.

Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he sits down in the rocking chair and continues to hold her; the carpet plush under his bare foot that gently pushes off the floor. His sleep blurred eyes focus on the small turn of a glass butterfly that hangs from her window, the rounded curves catching the moonlight as she sleeps on his chest.

He lets the unearthed, vivid memory wash over him as his chest constricts, the pain suffocating. Finding himself in this position more and more since you started asking him about what he remembers, he closes his eyes and succumbs to the pain: worth it, to see her face again. To remember things he’d thought he’d forgotten.

The edges of the memory blur and crumble, his mind losing its focus on that purple room and on the cusp of sleep, he tries to grasp and hold on tight to the details until they fade away.

–

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Wasn’t much to wrap with.”

Anticipation thrums through you, your features lax with fondness as you wait patiently on the living room floor with your eyes closed. A fire crackles in the wood stove next to you, shadows pooled in the corners of the living room where the light doesn’t reach, and you scoot a little closer to absorb more heat.

Never one to linger in bed, he’s been up since dawn, and when you awoke alone, there was a weighted, peaceful stillness in the air—a significance to the day that was at best, a guess. Still, you felt it all the same: through drinking tea with him on the back porch this morning, through reading on the couch this afternoon, through helping him prep the small feast you allowed yourselves for dinner.

You hear and feel a shift in the air when he comes to sit in front of you, setting your present at your feet.

“Okay, you can open ‘em.”

Laughter bubbles bright and loud when you see what it is.

“Joel Miller, you shouldn’t have.” Picking up the bottle of vinegar, you tilt it in the light to see how much is left: about half, which is a find indeed. “How long have you been hiding this?”

He shrugs, looking pleased with your reaction. “Not too long. I found it when I went to check out that last cabin. I know it’s not a lot, but I thought it would be useful.”

Vinegar means pickling, means cleaning, means acid for the soil of your plants that you moved inside for the winter, and even though the label is half peeled off and the contents might not be as potent as they once were, you have never been so happy to see a bottle of the stuff in your life.

“Thank you,” you say softly, leaning forward as much as you can, presenting your lips for a kiss. He gives you one, and you pull back, your mouth twisted in an apologetic pout. “This is a way better gift than what I got you.”

“That’s not true,” he argues. “You fixed my favorite jacket. Feels brand new.”

After snagging it on a tree branch while hunting, he had been so disappointed when he inspected the size of the rip when he came home. Handing it to you, he had declared it no good anymore and told you to use it for something else, but knowing it was his favorite, you’d been mending it in secret while he went out for the day. Textiles being a scarcity aside, that jacket was also your favorite: it’s the one he’s been wearing since you first started out; the sight of it comforting to you.

“I actually got you somethin’ else, but you’ll have to close your eyes again.”

You automatically squeeze your eyes shut, your hands playfully grabbing the air as you squirm on the floor, and the sound of his low chuckle makes you smile wider. Hearing the front door open and then close, you frown when the object he places at your feet sounds heavy.

“Okay, open em’ up.”

It’s immediate, the way your expression drops from delight into something more reverential. Your breath frozen in your lungs, you reach out and touch the smooth edges of the cradle. Tracing the perfectly fit together corners, you take in how small it is – so small - but perfect.

Your eyes lift to meet his, tears blurring your vision. “Did you make this?”

“Yea,” he replies softly. “I kept in the shed, workin’ on it when you were napping. I knew we needed somewhere to put her, so I thought –”

“Her?” Your fingers brushing along the neat edges, you look up at him with a small, watery smile, and he matches it with a soft one of his own.

“Sure, why not. You’ve convinced me.” Affection is open and obvious on his face, the lines that normally crease his forehead softened as he watches you look it over.

“This is…so much, Joel. It’s beautiful. I don’t even know how…I was thinking we’d have to put her in a dresser drawer or something, and I –” Overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness, you’re at a loss for words. “Thank you,” you eventually settle on, hoping the sincereness in your words expresses everything you feel.

“You look so surprised,” he says, teasing laced in his tone. “Did you really think I would get you just a half bottle of vinegar for Christmas?”

“I don’t know!” you laugh, a hitch in your breathing as you settle your emotions. “We can’t exactly go Christmas shopping, so I figured you did the best you could.”

He reaches to swipe a tear from the round of your cheek, and you chase the heat of his palm, leaning into it. “It’s been so long since I gave anyone a Christmas present. Glad I’m not totally out of practice.”

Gently sliding the cradle out of the way, you rise to your knees to give him a kiss.

“I love it.”

You kiss him again, his lips tinted red from the wine at dinner, and the bitterness sweeps through your mouth when he gifts you a slow slide of his tongue. The tentative heat held in his response passes to you, and swallowing his hunger, it spreads through your limbs to pool between your legs. Pressing forward, your hand reaches out for his shirt, and you deepen the kiss.

You hope it conveys everything you want to put into words but can’t: appreciation, love, gratitude. Keeping your mouth on his, you slip your hand around the back of his neck and threading your fingers up through his locks, you hold him in place, his hand grasping your elbow to steady you as a soft sound rumbles from his throat.

“I guess you really liked it.”

You just nod, pulling him in for another kiss, his familiar taste and scent filling your senses as he presses himself closer, and when you let out the catch of a moan in your throat, he pulls back just far enough for you to see hooded want in his eyes.

“We done with the gift exchange?” He presses a kiss to your your throat, his lips warm and delicate over the skin he finds and you nod, letting him taste.

“Here,” he asks, his mouth moving just below your ear, “or in the bedroom?”

“Here,” you breathe, cupping his whiskered cheeks to pull his mouth back to yours. Your hand slips between his thighs, finding him half hard under his jeans, and groaning into your mouth, he shifts on the floor to kneel in front of you. Your fingers work the buttons of his flannel open, pushing it from his shoulders at the same time he grabs the hem of your shirt to work it over your head and off. Undoing your bra, you fling it onto the floor as his hand reaches back to tug his t-shirt off in a smooth, overhand motion, and your hands drop to his belt buckle, tugging it open.

The back of your knuckles swipe through the line of coarse hair that leads under the waistband of his jeans, a slight shakiness to your movements betraying the need you feel, and it’s something he sees and rewards with another consuming kiss.

The rest of your clothes tugged off in a rush, he rests his back against the couch and guides you onto his lap, the soft inside of your thighs straddling the outside of his firmer ones. One of the only comfortable positions you’ve got left, it’s been your favorite because it gives him unfettered access to your breasts and when he palms them in appreciation, anticipation sends a warm thrill up your spine.

Using both his hands, he cups the sides of your jaw to draw you in, holding you in place while he opens your mouth with his, his tongue sliding smoothly against yours. His fingertips dig into the nape of your neck, one hand dropping to palm the plush weight of your breast, and you kiss him back even harder while he delicately teases your nipple with his thumb.

The calloused pad skims over the top of it, the contrast between the tender touch and the fierceness of his kisses making your head swim with arousal, and pulling back, he takes in your kiss-swollen mouth only for a moment before bending his attention to your breast.

Using the cradle of his hold, he pushes it up to draw the peak of it into his mouth, and your head tips back, a broken cry coming from your throat.

“Please. Please.”

He would give you anything – anything – you ask for, and this is no different. He laves his tongue over the peaked bud, dragging firm pressure over it as he draws it into his mouth, and when you dig your fingers into his hair and pull with a moan of pleasure, his hand cups the underside of your breast to push more in. Frenzied, rough, desperate for more, a deep groan slides out of his throat at the same moment you feel a strange, tingling sensation on your nipple.

Surprise shows in his brown eyes when they flick up to yours, and pulling back, you both stop.

“Was that –” you ask, and he looks down at your breast, his thumb dragging delicately along the peak.

“Yea, I think it was,” he answers, slightly mesmerized.

A drop of milky liquid hangs from the tip of your breast, and he wipes it away, smearing it on your soft skin. Another one takes its place, and his eyes flicker with interest.

“Holy shit.”

The words slip out faster than you can stop them, and the corresponding lift of his eyebrows makes you laugh, his own deeper chuckle joining your lighter one. He pulls you in for a kiss right as you’re leaning down for one, and you find there was no hunger lost while the moment was broken; instead it comes back even stronger as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and he holds onto your back with a splayed grip so fierce it makes you squirm.

Unsure of when you started grinding your hips against his, you work them slightly faster. Spread and wet on his lap, you’re so achingly empty right over where you can feel the heft of him pressing between your bodies, and fire lights under your skin with how much you want him to just take.

He’s been so careful with you, so considerate in his handling of your body these last few weeks. Always taking care of every need that you have, he’s done so with no less attentiveness, but you can tell that he’s been holding back—a telling rigidness to his muscles when he moves above you, a tightness to his strokes every time he fucks you as if he’s keeping his body in check to make sure he doesn’t lose himself. Missing the sharp edges to his love, you kiss him harder, and he groans as if in pain, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth. His beard rubs your chin raw, the pressure of his response forcing your body to tip back slightly in his hold.

“Fuck me,” you whine, the words breathless against his lips, and he groans again, breaking your kiss.

“Christ, honey, turn around.”

Desperate to follow anything he tells you to do, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself as you turn yourself around, your back to his front. His mouth is an immediate brush against the nape of your neck, a heady sensation that has you melting back into him, and his hands travel up your sides to cup your breasts, pulling at the peaks.

Your ass grinds in his lap, the thick, stiff line of his cock trapped between your bodies, and when you arch your back and lean forward in a silent invitation, he reaches down to line himself up. Easing yourself back down, the stretch is delicious but so tight it’s almost unbearable.

“Goddamn,” he groans over your breathless whine.

Wrapping your smaller hands around his thick wrists for purchase, you pull at your bottom lip with your teeth as you sink all the way down to the base, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he bands his arms just under your breasts in a tight hold, keeping you in place. You can feel how hard he’s breathing between your shoulder blades, his beard rubbing against your skin, and squirming in his lap with a soft sound, you start to roll your hips.

He’s so deep this way, so much deeper than he’s been in weeks, and taking a moment to get used to it with a couple of slick strokes down, you chase the thick, filling stretch of his cock. Leaning forward, you brace your hands on his knees, and the deep groan you hear from behind you makes you wetter; your body physically reacting to his wordless praise.

“You feel so fucking good, honey. So good.”

His hands traverse your back—one splayed wide to drag heavily down your spine, the other curled around your hip to guide your movements–and when you bend forward as much as your stomach allows, his hand drops to your ass, spreading you from behind.

“I wish you could see how wet my cock is. I want you to see how you’re soakin’ it.”

“I can feel it,” you moan, your hips working faster.

You can: every down stroke is smooth and audible, the tight walls of your cunt stretching around him to take him perfect and fluid every single time, and when you start to pull him deeper, he sits forward with a cinch, pulling you back towards his body. The solid, warm wall of his chest cages you in, his arm looping around your hip so his hand can reach your clit, and when he finds it, everything spreads warm and thick from your center outwards, your head tipping back to rest against his shoulder.

“There’s my girl,” he smiles when your body drapes pliant and loose against his, your hips chasing the pressure of his fingers. Forward into his touch and backwards onto his cock, you can hear him breathing heavy and low into your ear and your hands find his forearms to hold on tight, your nails digging into the thick muscles as you work yourself faster.

He rubs your clit in quicker, more precise circles, just right with the firm slip of two calloused fingers, and your thighs tighten in their tremble, your release a bright, shining edge that beckons.

When it happens, it breaks you – clamping tight around him as you’re suspended in a state of strained rapture, his hand comes up to cradle the base of your throat in a possessive hold while his other hand keeps working, and a second wave takes you by surprise, washing over your skin as you cry out. You can feel the wetness that soaks his fingers when he reaches down to feel where you’re stretched around him, letting out a groan against your skin.

His hand smears damply across your hip as he lifts you from his lap, slipping out as he guides you on to your hands and knees, and loose and pliant, you let him position you anyway he wants.

“Just a little more, honey. Just a little longer,” he coaxes.

Resting your cheek on the floor, you arch your back to put yourself on display for him as you catch your breath, but it’s stolen just as quickly when he gives you a rough, open mouthed kiss to your cunt. He eats you like a man starved, the wet muscle of his tongue flattening against you as he keeps you open with his hands splayed on your ass, and a deep rumbled groan is felt against the inside of your thighs when you reach back to tug on his hair.

His tongue dips deep inside you for a taste, and just when he pulls back, he goes in for more, like he’s changed his mind because he can’t get enough. Harder this time, more forceful, the action pushing your hips forward, and when you cry out, he’s dragging himself back, pulling away to position himself.

The heat of his body radiates along the back of your thighs, the thick tip of his cock notched against the slick dip of your entrance only for the barest of moments before he pushes himself in with a stroke of his hips, and you hear a hiss behind you, one you almost don’t catch over the low moan that spills out of your mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his hips fitting neatly along your ass. He slides out and then back in, giving you time to adjust to his size. “I want – Christ – I want…can you take it harder for me?”

“Yes. God yes. Please.”

He answers with a rougher slide in, an audible muted pound of his hips against your skin. “You tell me if it’s too much, honey, okay?”

After turning your head and nodding so he can see you, he gives you another rough, smooth stroke in and then another one, each one filling you until the air feels like it’s being pushed from your lungs, and then he picks up his pace, letting out a low, heavy breath for every thrust. It sounds obscene: his rumbled, low groans and grunts, but you can barely focus on it for how sensitive you are to his thickness. Everything tighter, the fit is a snug, slick slide in every time, and you squeeze around him, earning you another hiss of appreciation.

“This pussy is gonna kill me,” he groans and then holds nothing back: his hips snapping against you with his hand resting flat on your tailbone, every jolt rocking your body forward.

Exactly what you asked for and what you’ve been missing, you let him know.

“It feels…it feels so good. God I’ve missed this.”

“Yea?” The word is a breathless growl, and you clench down on him again. “What about this? Did you miss this too?”

His hands wrapping around the inside of your elbows, he tugs you back and up until your back is arched with your ass in his lap and then he’s pounding into you.

“Joel!”

Faster and harder, his hips work ceaselessly behind you for a dozen strokes and when he comes, his fingers dig tight into your skin, your arms aching as he holds you in place to take every last drop. Panting behind you, his strokes slow into a rhythmic grind and sliding out, he eases you gently down onto the floor where you slump, your cheek resting on the fold of your arms.

Dazed and loose, with a content smile on your lips, you lay down on your side and he joins you, dropping to the floor. His arm slung over his eyes, you watch his pulse pound in his neck as he tries to catch his breath.

“So…was that also a Christmas present, or….?” you tease, the question coming out slow and saturated with contentment, and he laughs, a breathless thing that’s carefree and deep.

“Sure,” he answers, rolling onto his side. “Merry Christmas.”

The light of the flames dancing across your bare body, shadows slide over his tanned skin and the bluntness of his reply makes you laugh.

The two of you look at each other for a moment, his hand coming up to brush away an errant lock of hair from your temple. His hand glides down the length of your torso, coming to rest on the swell of your stomach and leaning in, his mouth meets yours.

Still smiling, you cup his cheek and with a slick slide leaking between your thighs, pull him closer to deepen the kiss.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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enviedear · 6 months

Text

jackie and wilson — billy bonney

⤷ modern!billy au

tw— somehow this is 4.6k words. mentions of food and eating, talk of religion and bible verses, (i'm southern and was forced to go to church every sunday it reflects in the writing) smutty themes so, minors dni, 18+ only, kissing, fondling, skinny dipping, (they're in their undies) so horrifically fluffy

i can already tell this is going to become an ongoing series, so be sure to comment and lmk if you want more. also, this is influenced by my daily mantra

request

the summer heat feels like it's baking you as you traverse through the long grass of your farmland. birds call and screech in the trees lining the woods beside you. if you weren't so scared of walking the shortcut in the woods alone, your risk of sun poisoning may seem less apparent.

you grip the wicker basket in your hands tighter, eyes squinting to look for the lean farmhand-for-hire. in years past, you've been keen to take his place whenever your grandparents needed someone for an oddball job. working long hours with the older couple up until you graduated from the county high school. as the seasons changed, and you got older and busier, so did your grandparents. their work on their farm proved in dire need of help.

a simple fix—you. this summer, free from university and your internship, your parents elected you to spend the free time of your summer working on your loving grandparents' farm.

in the early days of the warm season, you managed pretty well on your own. you tended the vegetables and the fruits, took care of the chickens and sheep, and sowed the large fields with grain until sunset.

everything changed after an unfortunate incident with your grandpa's gargantuan baler. luckily, you were fine, but your pa's expensive baler was wrecked all to hell.

so here you were, now relegated to some pseudo farmer's daughter role, hand-delivering water and a full lunch to none other than billy bonney.

your grandparents say billy's nice enough, mannerly yet hushed. but you know there's more to it. at least if small town gossip is anything to believe, and here, it usually is.

everyone knows the crowd billy runs around with. he's also got a vile gang of friends. angry men with sly smirks who spend most of their free time loitering the town's local bar or gambling away their lives at lawrence murphy's corral. the type of men to carry a weapon at all times without any license, and quick to threaten to shoot with even the most minor infraction.

the knowledge was enough to have you hiding away from him every time your grandparents hired him for a job.

everytime that is, until now.

you knew with the way your pa sternly stared into your eyes that a complaint wouldn't be warranted. as your grandma instructed you to bring the farmhand some, "hearty lunch for his hard work," you came to terms with the fact that you had no right to argue.

not when you owe the old man a baler.

you finally reach the young man, covered in grime and leaning against his parked pickup, out of breath and sweltering. you try not to stare at the baler attached to the tractor, about twenty feet from his parked vehicle, your embarrassment over wrecking the last one still ever present.

his truck has its' doors wide open, blaring music through blown speakers. you try to avoid making direct eye contact with him, voice raised slightly to be heard over the folk song playing, "here. figure you're hungry."

lifting the tea towel from the top of the basket, you set it on his open truck bed. despite not looking up, you can see him hurry to turn his music down before sauntering over to you from the side of your gaze.

"thank you," his voice surprises you. it's gruff but gentle. "you kin to the old couple?"

you're not sure why, but you take offense to his question. sure you've ignored him, but you know that he knows who you are. you meet his stare, your tone dry in response, "i am."

he inclines his head toward the basket, ignoring your reply with a hum, "what'd ya' bring me, hon?"

your eyes roll unabashed at his endearment, "my grandma threw a bit of everything in there. i know there's some jambalaya— the last bit of our mud cake too."

"you're spoiling me, you tell her i said thank you," he pauses, peering down at you, "are you going to be bringin' me my lunch everyday?"

his question is innocuous but something in the way he says it makes your stomach drop. you shrug, "sure, i guess."

"i'd like that." he slips the words out before his hands dive into the basket, fishing out one of the water bottles.

you nod, confused by him, "yeah well, be careful. i guess i'll see you tomorrow."

at that you turn from him, walking your trail again to get back to the house. you fight the urge to look over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of him. some proof he's really there, that the interaction actually happened.

because despite the second-hand opinion you've held on him, billy bonney was unexpected. annoyingly so.

as you finish up your day, you can't help but think about the encounter with the dark-haired farmhand. you've known of him for years, sure, but you never expected much of him.

just another one of jesse evans’ rowdy boys.

shocking, that billy would be so different. or maybe, just better at hiding his depravity. you think back to his voice, rough around the edges, yet littered with tenderness. it’s not until you think back to his gentle smile that you realize, there’s a kindness that exudes from him, and it’s got you hook, line, and sinker.

you wonder if he's always been this way? you like to think he has. even if it is only a platitude for your undeniable crush.

in the following days, you continue to bring the farmhand his lunch, stopping to talk to him longer each noon. he's easy to talk to, apt to ask you about your day, or if you need anything. you can't exactly explain why, but you're drawn to him.

it's extra muggy as you pack up his lunch and make your way to him, breaking from his time on the baler to lay in the bed of his truck.

he doesn't take notice of you until your basket finds home right beside him, blasted speakers blaring yet another folk tune.

"hey there," he greets you with a grin, his white work shirt wrought with soil, the short sleeves haphazardly rolled, "you know i'm starting t'get used to this."

you smile back, feeling a warm sensation spreading through your body, "i'm sure you are."

billy takes a look in the lunch basket, grabbing out some water first to clear the dirt on his hands, "you wanna hang around for a bit?"

you hesitate for a moment, not sure if you should. not only do you have a long list of chores, you also still find a bit of nervousness around the young man.

but billy's been nice enough, and if he's anything like his friends you assume he would have shown it by now, "i guess i have some time."

billy nods, handing you a water and patting the free space beside him. you hop up, close enough that his side brushes yours.

the sensation sends shivers down your spine as you try to focus on conversation, pulling for anything you can say. for a moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound is coming from the music blasting from his speakers. an old rock song today, different. your eyes try to look anywhere but at him, taking in the vast expanse of farmland around you.

"must be nice to have all this land to yourself," billy says, breaking the silence.

you nod, grateful for his compliment, "it is. my grandparents have worked hard to keep it running."

"i can tell," billy says, taking a swig from his water bottle, "they got a good thing goin' here."

you agree, taking a sip from your own bottle. the sun beats down on your skin, making you feel sweaty and sticky. billy, on the other hand, seems used to it. he looks up at the sky, squinting against the sunlight.

"you know, i was thinking," billy says, steady voice breaking the silence again, "what would you say if i took you out sometime?"

your heart skips a beat, your mind going into overdrive. you never expected billy to ask you out, even more so that you’d be so willing to entertain the idea.

you hesitate for a moment before answering, "i don't know. i mean, i barely know you."

this is a half truth, you know him. only this version though, the sweet billy bonney who works on your family farm and takes his lunch breaks with you. you don't have any idea who he is outside of these moments.

at least not first hand. just second hand gossip. you wouldn’t even know which stories are real or fake. you’re not sure if he’s a convincing actor or genuine soul. there are rumors he shot a man back in his hometown. that he launders money with jesse evans’ gang. that he’s a cheat from a rodeo front, taking ignorant peoples’ bet money.

billy hums, breaking your anxious thoughts, "what'd you wanna know, hon? i'm an open book."

you chew on your lip, thinking about it. it could be a smart move, you're curious about him and need to know more. you need to know what about him is fact or fiction. but at the same time, you're afraid of what the truth may be, "i don't know," you say finally. "i mean, work, for example. is this all you do?"

billy cracks a smile, "no, hon’. this s’more of a side job.” he sighs, “i was a pickup for jesse evans' rodeo for a while, but that new fella' that just came to town—mr. tunstill, he's got me a better gig."

you furrow your brows, already on edge by the mention of his previous employer, "and what exactly is that?"

he chuckles a bit, "he's got me as a producer, but i do show on the weekends."

"so what? you're a full-fledged rodeo man? with bulls and all?" you'd always know of jesse's grimy ‘rodeo’, really just used as a gambling den and club, but you're intrigued by the idea of billy actually doing it. especially working with tunstill, a sincerely kind wealthy man from overseas. it must be a stark contrast to jesse’s.

"i guess. it's a good time and you can make honest money dependin' on the event," he pauses, "it's not like jesse's, if that's what you're wondering."

you look away from him, "my pa never let me go. when i turned twenty-one i tried to go with a bunch of my girlfriends. he about had a stroke keeping me out the door."

"he's smart, you shouldn't go. those guys are bad news." he's talking quieter now, less sugary and more solemn.

you fight your previous embarrassment, opting to stare straight into his pale blues, "you hang around those guys."

your sentiment is clear and billy goes hush for a long few seconds before speaking, eyes closed, "do not carouse with drunkards or feast with gluttons, for they are on their way to poverty, and too much sleep clothes them in rags."

you know those words, heard primarily while crammed in a pew, "you're a religious man?" you don't mean to, but your question comes out a bit unconvinced.

he opens his eyes back up, a spark of something you can't place within them, "no, not really. jus' something mr. tunstill keeps repeating to me. i didn't really pay it any mind till i met you."

you try to ignore the way his hand inches closer to your own, "why's that?"

"not sure. just seems easier to abide by now. i'd hate to end up like them. i know you don't like 'em." his voice is soft, but the hand that takes hold of yours isn't.

you look down at your feebly interlocked hands, hesitating, and then taking his hand with the same conviction, "no, i don't," a breath, "but i like you."

billy's face lights up at your words, and he leans in closer to you. you can feel his breath on your face, and your heart races with excitement and anticipation. you’ve never felt to entrapped in a man before, so ready to dive in head first.

without thinking, you reach out to touch his sun kissed cheek, and he leans into your hand. your fingers trace a path down his cheek, and then down to his lips. you have an overwhelming urge to kiss him, and you're surprised when he pulls back.

"i'm sorry, i shouldn't have done that." you say, feeling embarrassed.

"no, it's not that. it's just… i want to take you out on a real date. something proper." his cheeks have grown far more pink, only this time it's not the sun's doing.

you consider his words for a moment, before nodding, "that sounds real nice, billy."

he grins, and you feel a flutter in your chest. how he managed to make you feel this way so soon, you're not sure.

"you free this friday?" he asks, amusement in his tone.

you release his hand, grabbing for your phone, "should be, my boss loves me," a stupid joke, but you hand the touchscreen to him, "put your number in, so we can plan a time."

you climb down from the bed of the truck, peering up at the farmhand as he adds his number to your phone. when he's done he hands you back the phone, the sun casting an auburn glow to his hair.

you look up at him, and he smiles down at you, "don't be a stranger." he jokes.

you give him a laugh, "wouldn’t dream of it," you add, "i'll see you friday— i'm going into town with my grandma tomorrow. i'm sure it'll last all day."

billy hums, "till' friday, honey."

you turn and head back to the house, smiling to yourself, feeling happy and alive in a way that you haven't felt in a long time.

the next day, thursday, you wake up early to accompany your grandma into town. the older woman drags you up and down shopping centre's, moaning on and on about how cheaply things are made now.

you make it through the first ten stores without your smile cracking, you think it must be a finely tuned talent.

it's not until well after lunch the woman decides to slow down, stopping at a local diner to eat. she does most of the talking, gossiping about everyone she's run into today.

you love your grandma and you enjoy your time with her, but you're too focused on tomorrow to really be good company.

if she notices your change in behavior though, she doesn't comment. highly unlike her.

by the time the sky is more dark than light, you two head home. she plays old country music the whole ride, teeny-bopper songs that remind you how young she used to be.

and when you finally lay your head down to rest, you don't try to fight off the supercut in your mind of your sweet farmhand.

the next day, fateful friday, arrives with a mix of nerves and excitement. you find yourself checking the clock more often than usual, the anticipation building as the day progresses. your mind drifts to the possible plans for the evening, wondering where billy might take you on this 'proper date.'

a bit after the sun hits noon, you finish up your chores on the farm, your thoughts consumed by your impending evening. you decide to freshen up and put on something nice, an easy way to get your mind together.

your closet here is less thorough than the one at home, but the innocent tops and bottoms of your late teens still fit. you look less severe than you'd normally for a date. forgone are the dark, tight, and sultry clothes of your college town, leaving you looking ever so sweet.

the early afternoon arrives, and you hear the distant rumble of his pickup as it approaches. you feel alight with a muddled mess of nerves as you make your way out of the house to meet him.

you look over your shoulder when you crack the door open. making sure you haven't awoken your sleeping grandparents, who rarely miss their three o'clock naps.

the summer sun is high in the sky, casting a bright glow over the landscape. billy's leaned up against his truck, staring expectantly at your front porch— staring at you, you realize.

as you walk to him, you can't help but notice the effort he put into dressing up. his filthy work shirt is replaced with a clean, green linen button-down, and there's a hint of ambery cologne in the air. he offers you a genuine smile, eyes lighting up as he takes in your appearance.

"hey there, beautiful." he greets you, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder blade, comforting.

"hi," you reply, returning his saccharine smile. "you clean up nice."

he chuckles, a bit bashful, "well, i figured it's a special occasion."

you let him lead you to the passenger side, where he opens the rusty pickup's door for you, you fight back your grin when he follows in after.

as you drive into town, the atmosphere is a blend of excitement and a tinge of nervousness. billy takes you to a quaint little restaurant a bit outside of town. it's casual but with dim lights and a cozy ambiance. certainly it's the most romantic restaurant around without heading an hour out into the city. the two of you share stories and laughs, finding little to no lull in conversation.

"you want any dessert?" you ask, fiddling a loose thread at the hem of your blouse.

billy shrugs, "i've never said no to some banana puddin'. what'd you say?"

you giggle, nodding in agreement. you feel high off of his company. you're giddy and doing a horrible job at hiding it, but he doesn't seem to mind. instead, he relegates to matching your optimism, only validating every enamored thought of him that rings in your mind.

the warm evening air swirls around you as the two of you exit the restaurant. billy offers his hand, and you gladly intertwine your fingers as you stroll down the sidewalk. the town square is alive with the soft glow of streetlights.

as you walk, the conversation continues, easy and simple. billy talks animatedly about his past few weekends at the rodeo and shares some amusing anecdotes about the other rider’s on the circuit. you, in turn, finally divulge your baler incident, much to his chagrin.

the final hours of afternoon are slowly rolling in, and soon you find yourselves back at his pickup truck. you assume he'll drive you home, but to your surprise, he takes a different route, heading towards the backroads right beside your land. you raise an eyebrow, curious about this unexpected detour.

"where are we going?" you inquire, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

billy smirks but doesn't say anything, keeping the destination a secret. the road is winding and narrow— made of dirt and full of large potholes. you know your little front-wheel drive could never make it. eventually, he slows the car off the path, onto the side of the road.

there's an apparent trail just to the right of you, and when billy opens the door for you, he immediately ushers you toward it, "don't worry, we won't go too far in."

you'd be lying if you said the setting sun wasn't adding a level of unease to the idea of entering the woods, but when you look at billy, eyes bright and smile true, you throw aside your worries.

the young man is true to his word. the trek into the woods only lasts a few minutes before you see it. an azure expanse of water— a secluded lake surrounded by towering oak trees and a backdrop of rolling hills.

you turn back to look at him, shocked, "how did you find this?"

"jus’ by chance a few years ago. i figured you'd been out here before, living so close," he remarks, "but i like that i got to show it to you." billy admits, a devoted glint in his eyes.

as you stand there, gazing at the serene lake, you feel a sense of wonder and gratitude for this unexpected and beautiful surprise. you can't remember the last time the familiar landscape of home felt so awing. billy seems to be taking in your reaction, a quiet satisfaction evident on his face.

"it's breathtaking." you finally say, your voice hushed in appreciation.

billy grins, seemingly pleased with your reaction, "so are you."

you turn back to the water to hide your flustered expression.

you watch him find a comfortable spot by the water's edge, sitting on a large flat rock. you follow suit, letting your head nestle into his chest. the sounds of nature surround you—the rustling leaves, the gentle lapping of the water, and the distant calls of birds. it's a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the town and the farm.

you look up at him as inconspicuously as possible, eager to commit his image to memory. his umber hair curls at the nape of his neck, slender nose burnt from the sun, his freckles apparent, and his ever-inspired blue eyes reflecting the water ahead.

you look away as your heartbeat quickens, afraid that if you peer up any longer he'll be able to hear the rhythm.

"can you swim?" you ask, toes dipping into the waters below.

billy's gaze softens, the radiant hues of his eyes flickering with warmth as he looks down at you. his calloused hand idly tracing circles on your back, comforting, "yeah, i can swim. why? you wanna go for a dip?" he replies, a playful glint dancing across his face.

enthusiastically, you nod, "i'd love to. it's been ages since i've been swimming in a place like this."

with a charismatic grin, billy stands up, extending a hand to help you rise. he doesn't hesitate to unbutton his shirt and free himself from his pants— clothed only in his black boxers.

you try to be as carefree as him, but you're slower to shed your attire. by the time you do, he's already shoulder deep in the water.

you make your way to the water's edge, stepping in. the cool embrace of the lake greets your skin as you wade in. the sun now casts a dim golden glow on the rippling surface.

as you move deeper into the water, you feel a sense of liberty wash over you. you let out a contented sigh, feeling weightless and unburdened. billy is a few feet away from you, beckoning you to come closer with a smile on his face. you oblige, splashing water playfully in your wake.

as you approach him, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close. you can feel the heat emanating from his body, warming you up in the cool water. your bare skin presses against his, and you can feel a hint of longing course through your veins.

"you're s'beautiful," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "prettiest girl i've ever seen."

you chuckle slightly, looking beside him to the water, "you're just blowing smoke up my ass."

his hand finds your cheek, gently beckoning you to face him fully, "why would i ever do that?" he hums, "i only say things i mean, honey."

you blink at him, too far gone to stop your gaping, "you're a charmer, billy bonney. do you hear that a lot?"

he laughs, both hands now coming to rest at your hips, forcing you to wrap your legs around his, "i only need to hear it from you."

he says it so carelessly, without a thought. he's telling the truth, you surmise.

"why? you like me or something?" the words come out genuine, despite your teasing intent.

billy's eyes trail down to your lips, "i like you a whole lot, honey," you feel his grip grow steadier, holding you closer to him. he looks back up at you, gaze tempting, "i like you s'much i worked an extra four days on your farm jus’ to see you."

the revelation hangs in the air, and you find yourself caught in a suspended moment, the water lapping gently around you. billy's admission resonates, sinking deep into the newfound connection you've shared over these past days. his stare, earnest and reserved, locks with yours, and you can't help but feel a swirl of emotions.

a smile plays on your lips, a mixture of surprise and awe, "that's dedication." you reply, a playful sparkle in your eyes.

billy grins, his hands still securely holding you. "only for you, honey. i'm nothin' if not devoted."

you gleam at his words, intrinsically leaning closer to him. you're so close to letting your lips brush his before you stop, eager to see the weight of his affection once more, "you can kiss me now, if that's what you're waiting for."

with that, he presses his lips to yours, kissing you with a hunger that leaves you breathless. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you, savoring the taste of him on your tongue.

billy breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck and collarbone, leaving a trail of kisses and nips along the way. you tilt your head back, giving him better access to your skin, letting out a soft sigh as he finds the sensitive spot on your neck.

"you're gonna be the death o'me." he whispers against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

your fingers tangle in his hair as he continues his assault on your neck, alternating between gentle kisses and nibbles. you can feel the heat building between your bodies, the water around you providing a cooling effect to your heated embrace.

billy's hands slip down to cup your ass, pulling you closer to him so that there's barely any space between you. he grinds his hips against yours, earning a moan from deep in your throat. you can feel his hardness pressing against you through the thin fabric of his boxers.

your eyes flutter open and you lock gazes with him, the intensity of his gaze mesmerizing. you tilt your head back down, allowing him to steal another kiss. his tongue teases yours. his hands roam up and down your body, exploring every inch of you he can with a passionate fervor.

you can feel yourself being taken into the depths of him until you can barely think or breathe. it's only when he finally pulls away, that you realize the afternoon has fully evolved into the beginnings of nighttime. the sky above you is almost entirely dark, littered with stars.

somehow, you still don’t think the kiss was long enough.

billy smiles at you, brushing his hair away from his eyes. you can't help but smile back, feeling content and happy.

"i think i like you too much." he murmurs, his warm breath caressing your skin. you laugh softly, feeling the same way.

a hum of agreement, "me too." you whisper back, pulling him into a tight hug. you stay like that for a while, enjoying the warmth and comfort of each other's embrace.

as the night deepens, you and billy finally decide to make your way back to the truck. billy helps you out of the water, his touch lingering as you both reluctantly part from the tranquil lake. the air is filled with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, their symphony accompanying your footsteps as you follow the narrow trail back to the pickup truck.

the woods, now cloaked in darkness, take longer to exit. the moonlight filters through the dense canopy of leaves, casting shadows on the forest floor.

once back at the truck, you find yourself wrapped in a cozy blanket billy had thoughtfully brought along. the drive home is filled with a comfortable silence, the events of the evening settling into a cherished memory. the road is dimly lit by the truck's headlights, and the night sky is a canvas of stars above.

as you approach the farmhouse, the thrill of the night lingers between you and billy. he parks the truck, and the engine falls silent. the two of you sit in the quiet for a moment, savoring the experience.

"thank you for tonight, you were real sweet." you say, breaking the silence.

billy turns to you, a peaceful smile playing on his lips. "i should be thanking you, for goin’ out with me. so thank you, darling. i think you're real sweet too."

"i'm real glad we met." you add.

he reaches over, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining in a comfortable gesture. "me too," he replies, his gaze holding yours.

with a reluctant smile, you open the truck door, preparing to step out. billy, however, stops you with a gentle tug on your hand.

"before you go," he starts, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, "i was wonderin' if you'd like to do this again sometime. maybe i could take you down to the rodeo?"

the question catches you off guard, but the sincerity in his expression is undeniable. you feel a warmth spread through your chest, and you nod, "i'd like that, billy."

he grins, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his features. "good. it's a date then." you agree, leaning up and placing a peck on his pink lips before stepping out of the truck.

it's not until you're safely inside that he drives away into the night, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.

even as you slip into bed, the memories of the night play in your mind like a vivid dream. you drift into sleep with thoughts of the lake, the evening kisses, and the now waivered apprehension of the farmhand.

you've found yourself ensnared with billy bonney.

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soracities · 1 year

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what are your suggestions for starter poetry for people who dont have strong reading/analysis backgrounds

I've answered this a few times so I'm going to compile and expand them all into one post here.

I think if you haven't read much poetry before or aren't sure of your own tastes yet, then poetry anthologies are a great place to start: many of them will have a unifying theme so you can hone in based on a subject that interests you, or pick your way through something more general. I haven't read all of the ones below, but I have read most of them; the rest I came across in my own readings and added to my list either because I like the concept or am familiar with the editor(s) / their work:

Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times (ed. Nick Astley) & Being Alive: The Sequel to Staying Alive (there's two more books in this series, but I'm recommending these two just because it's where I started)

The Rattlebag (ed. Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes)

The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (ed. Ilya Kaminsky & Susan Harris)

The Essential Haiku, Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa (ed. Robert Hass)

A Book of Luminous Things (ed. Czesław Miłosz )

Now and Then: The Poet's Choice Columns by Robert Hass (this may be a good place to start if you're also looking for commentary on the poems themselves)

Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World(ed. Pádraig Ó'Tuama)

African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle and Song (ed. Kevin Young)

The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing (ed. Kevin Young)

Lifelines: Letters from Famous People about their Favourite Poems

The following lists are authors I love in one regard or another and is a small mix of different styles / time periods which I think are still fairly accessible regardless of what your reading background is! It's be no means exhaustice but hopefully it gives you even just a small glimpse of the range that's available so you can branch off and explore for yourself if any particular work speaks to you.

But in any case, for individual collections, I would try:

anything by Sara Teasdale

Devotions / Wild Geese / Felicity by Mary Oliver

Selected Poems and Prose by Christina Rossetti

Collected Poems by Langston Hughes

Where the Sidewalk Endsby Shel Silverstein

Morning Haiku by Sonia Sanchez

Revolutionary Letters, Diane di Prima

Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved by Gregory Orr

Rose: Poems by Li-Young Lee

A Red Cherry on a White-Tiled Floor / Barefoot Souls by Maram al-Masri

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

Tell Me: Poems / What is This Thing Called Love? by Kim Addonizio

The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins (Billy Collins is THE go-to for accessible / beginner poetry in my view so I think any of his collections would probably do)

Crush by Richard Siken

Rapture / The World's Wife by Carol Ann Duffy

The War Works Hard by Dunya Mikhail

Selected Poems by Walt Whitman

View with a Grain of Sand by Wislawa Szymborska

Collected Poems by Vasko Popa

Under Milkwood by Dylan Thomas (this is a play, but Thomas is a poet and the language & structure is definitely poetic to me)

Bright Dead Things: Poems by Ada Limón

Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire,

Nostalgia, My Enemy: Selected Poems by Saadi Youssef

As for individual poems:

“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

[Dear The Vatican] erasure poem by Pádraig Ó'Tuama // "The Pedagogy of Conflict"

"Good Bones" by Maggie Smith

"The Author Writes the First Draft of His Weddings Vows (An erasure of Virginia Woolf's suicide letter to her husband, Leonard)" by Hanif Abdurraqib

"I Can Tell You a Story" by Chuck Carlise

"The Sciences Sing a Lullabye" by Albert Goldbarth

"One Last Poem for Richard" by Sandra Cisneros

"We Lived Happily During the War" by Ilya Kaminsky

“I’m Explaining a Few Things”by Pablo Neruda

"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" //"Nothing Gold Can Stay"//"Out, Out--" by Robert Frost

"Tablets: I // II // III"by Dunya Mikhail

"What Were They Like?" by Denise Levertov

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden,

"The Patience of Ordinary Things" by Pat Schneider

“I, too” // "The Negro Speaks of Rivers” // "Harlem” // “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes

“The Mower” // "The Trees" // "High Windows" by Philip Larkin

“The Leash” // “Love Poem with Apologies for My Appearance” // "Downhearted" by Ada Limón

“The Flea” by John Donne

"The Last Rose of Summer" by Thomas Moore

"Beauty" // "Please don't" // "How it Adds Up" by Tony Hoagland

“My Friend Yeshi” by Alice Walker

"De Humanis Corporis Fabrica"byJohn Burnside

“What Do Women Want?” // “For Desire” // "Stolen Moments" // "The Numbers" by Kim Addonizio

“Hummingbird” // "For Tess" by Raymond Carver

"The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin

“Bleecker Street, Summer” by Derek Walcott

“Dirge Without Music” // "What Lips My Lips Have Kissed" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Digging” // “Mid-Term Break” // “The Rain Stick” // "Blackberry Picking" // "Twice Shy" by Seamus Heaney

“Dulce Et Decorum Est”by Wilfred Owen

“Notes from a Nonexistent Himalayan Expedition”by Wislawa Szymborska

"Hour" //"Medusa" byCarol Ann Duffy

“The More Loving One” // “Musée des Beaux Arts” by W.H. Auden

“Small Kindnesses” // "Feeding the Worms" by Danusha Laméris

"Down by the Salley Gardens” // “The Stolen Child” by W.B. Yeats

"The Thing Is" by Ellen Bass

"The Last Love Letter from an Entymologist" by Jared Singer

"[i like my body when it is with your]" by e.e. cummings

"Try to Praise the Mutilated World" by Adam Zagajewski

"The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje

"Last Night I Dreamed I Made Myself" by Paige Lewis

"A Dream Within a Dream" // "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe (highly recommend reading the last one out loud or listening to it recited)

"Ars Poetica?" // "Encounter" // "A Song on the End of the World"by Czeslaw Milosz

"Wandering Around an Albequerque Airport Terminal” // "Two Countries” // "Kindness” by Naoimi Shihab Nye

"Slow Dance” by Matthew Dickman

"The Archipelago of Kisses" // "The Quiet World" by Jeffrey McDaniel

"Mimesis" by Fady Joudah

"The Great Fires" // "The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart" // "Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert

"The Mermaid" // "Virtuosi" by Lisel Mueller

"Macrophobia (Fear of Waiting)" by Jamaal May

"Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong" by Ocean Vuong

"Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

I would also recommend spending some times with essays, interviews, or other non-fiction, creative or otherwise (especially by other poets) if you want to broaden and improve how you read poetry; they can help give you a wider idea of the landscape behind and beyond the actual poems themselves, or even just let you acquaint yourself with how particular writers see and describe things in the world around them. The following are some of my favourites:

Upstream: Essays by Mary Oliver

"Theory and Play of the Duende" by Federico García Lorca

"The White Bird" and "Some Notes on Song" by John Berger

In That Great River: A Notebook by Anna Kamienska

A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance by Hanif Abdurraqib

The Book of Delights by Ross Gay

"Of Strangeness That Wakes Us" and "Still Dancing: An Interview with Ilya Kaminsky" by Ilya Kaminsky

"The Sentence is a Lonely Place" by Garielle Lutz

Still Life with Oysters and Lemon by Mark Doty

Paris, When It's Naked by Etel Adnan

#ask #anonymous #beginner guides

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thelov3lybookworm · 20 days

Text

Journals

Summary: everyone is happy

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: heavyyyy angst, sad lil fic (literally what i named this before i came up with a title), mental health issues, depression, feeling unworthy of love, panic attack, self harm, self hate. thats all i can think of right now, but let me know if i need to add anything

A/n: based on this and this poetry by @gardenofrunar 🤭 you couldnt tell it was me could you pookie?

also, there is not really a bat boy our reader is supposed to be with, so im tagging this as all three of them. there will most probably not be a second part to this, but still, lemme know hat you all think

AND, im not trying to glorify what reader is going through in this fic. if you are going through something, please talk to someone. you are not alone, my loves ❣️

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

It was happening again.

The breathlessness was starting to creep up again on her.

And the worst part wasn't the fact that she felt like she was dying.

It was that she was alone. Again.

No one was coming. No one cared. No one would even realise she was gone until it was too late, and maybe that was a miracle.

Click.

The haze cleared slightly, and gasping for breath, Y/n stood, somehow making it to the stairs leading to her bedroom before her lungs constricted again.

She had no other option as she crumbled on the stairs, the hard wood digging into her sides and thighs.

She could not breathe.

She could not think.

She could not move.

She could not breathe.

A cruel laugh broke through her consciousness, the sound so familiar yet so foreign, Y/n could not help but sob.

You deserve this.

Azriel. It was him, no doubt. But the longer she sat there, other voices started joining in.

First Cassian. Then Mor, Rhysand. Amren.

Feyre, Nesta. Elain.

"Stop." She whispered, her hands shaking as she rose them to her ears, pressing as hard as she could. But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, the clearer the words became.

You deserve this.

You don't deserve us.

It's your own fault.

In an attempt to get away, to get some peace and quiet, she reached out, clutching the stair. The wood grains whispered against her palm, their sound lost to ears filled with taunts and laughter.

Still, she dug in her fingers, her nails screaming in protest, her heart yelling back in a horrific screech, beating loud enough to almost drown out her family.

Almost.

Pulling herself up, she reached out her hand, ignoring the pain as she did her best to haul her dysfunctional body up the hard terrain, trying to make it to her bed before she lost herself fully to the dark depths of her mind, losing all sense of her being.

Somehow, having no recollection of the climb, Y/n collapsed at the landing, her breathing erratic as she stared at the blurry paintings on the wall, gifted to her by Rhysand's mate.

Had they always been this blurry?

In the back of her mind, she realised that they were never blurry. There were just tears in her eyes, but she didn't think too much about that as she crawled forward, miraculously crossing the threshold to her room, the familiar smell of flowers Elain had gifted her last week pulling her out of her misery for a moment, enough to let her get up and stumble into the plush material of her bed before tears again erupted in her eyes.

They then came back, screaming in her ears about how much of a disappointment she was, how she deserved no happiness.

And she agreed with them.

But still, it hurt her heart to hear the people she cared for voice thoughts she only limited to the darkness of night, under the gentle presence of the moonlight.

You don't deserve happiness.

She knew the inevitable onslaught of her self hatred was about to break over her head, knew it was unavoidable and would probably have her moping for days.

Her mind started wandering, which in itself was alarming because as much as she wanted to stop thinking about her miserable life, she knew that any and all thoughts she had at these times would only work against her.

Rhys's tear stained cheeks, his bloodshot eyes and his quiet sobs as he clutched Y/n's hands between both of his, Y/n's soft cooing as she tried her best to soothe his wounds after his mother and sister's death.

As she held him after his return from under the mountain.

This was going to be a long night, she was sure.

Cassian's grumpy self refusing to eat after one of the Illyrians had again bullied him for not being good enough. Y/n's cheeks aching from how hard she was trying not to smile as she tried to convince the overgrown illyrian to eat something.

Azriel's shaky hands as she held onto him after a particularly bad nightmare that usually started keeping him up around the time his hands were burned, the anniversary o the time where an innocent little boy realised that the world was filled with cruelty.

Y/n being the first one to find out about Mor's liking in women and helping her sneak out to meet her lovers.

Y/n dragging gallons of fresh blood to Amren's apartment under the cover of the night when she knew the ancient being hadn't had the time to feast.

Her hands scrambled to find something to tether herself to, to remind her that this was not real and that it would pass. That her family did love her, and that they would never hurt her or want her to think this way of herself.

They would never hurt her the way she hurt herself.

They just wouldn't... would they?

Rhys's wide smile as he admired his mate while she spoke to a grinning Cassian, who in turn turned to Azriel to tease the blushing Illyrian. Mor, giggling over her glass of wine as she mumbled something to Elain, Nesta and Amren conversing in hushed tones next to the window, happiness shining on both their faces.

And Y/n watched on, huddled in her own little corner as she gulped down another glass of champagne, trying to focus on the burn in her throat as the liquor travelled down. Trying not to think of the way her breathing started coming in shorter pants, her lungs constricting in the too small rib cage that were set on killing her.

Trying to ignore the tang of copper in her mouth as she bit her own tongue, not wanting to speak and draw attention to herself, to ask for help because she was too unused to suffering in silence. Her family had always been there, and she had never had to go even a day without their constant nagging. She always had at least one of them guiding her through the worst of her days.

Trying not to think of how no one even glanced up as she exited the room, tears prickling her eyes, feeling like she was nothing but an intruder, watching from outside the warmth of the house, standing knee deep in the cold snow as she tried her best to keep warm by looking at the happy faces of her family, no matter how much she was freezing on the inside.

Her fingers curled around the lumpy material of her comforter, and she pushed forward, trying to ignore the tears that rolled down her warm cheeks and buried her head in the soft fabric.

And then let out the ear piercing scream she had been holding in, uncaring that she had let down the sound shield around her room.

She knew no one was around to hear.

She knew no one would come.

They were all too happy to worry.

Her stomach was grumbling, and she was glad it was because otherwise it would've been the cause for concern, considering she hadn't eaten in almost a day.

She was still so tired and wanted to do nothing but lay in bed all day and cry, but she needed to eat too.

And so here she was, chopping up some vegetables in a daze, not really paying attention despite wanting to focus on something that took her mind off of her thoughts.

It was not easy to stop thinking, so when suddenly the fog in her mind cleared, she glanced down.

The red of her blood was bright, and the longer she stared, the quicker the pain came, but it was only a tiny sting, nothing more than the bite of an ant in the shape of a knife.

She stared, and stared.

And then, she lifted her eyes, her gaze settling on her dagger, unprompted.

She smiled.

Writing was one of the parts of Y/n's responsibilities. Writing a letter to help the relations between the courts. A report for the high lord.

It was one of the things that broke her out of her own mind's torture, one of the things that made her feel like she wasn't entirely useless.

So here she was, just scribbling away senseless words in her journal, knowing she would hide it away before anyone saw it. Saw the blood stains.

For the first time in weeks, she was smiling, no tears to be found in her eyes as she lay on her stomach on the bed, her legs in the air behind her as she began doodling little flowers in the corner of the page, her inkpot next to her and her dagger in her other hand.

She went to dip in her feather pen in the ink, frowning a little as it created spots of ink on the crumpled paper, mixing with the dark red liquid that still dripped slowly from her fingers, little rivulets running down from her wrist.

As she continued, a tap on her mental walls had her pausing, and after a brief conversation with Rhys, she got up, closing her journal and beginning to clean the cuts on her wrist and around the journal and then donning a flowy, simple white gown.

It wasn't long before a knock sounded at her door, and she hurried to open it to find Cassian standing on her front porch, smiling.

"Hey Y/n, Rhys asked me to pick you up-"

Y/n nodded. "Yes I know, let me just grab my things and then we can go."

He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.

She ran up the stairs and to her bedroom, grabbing the little bag she had put all her pens and previous reports into, deciding to carry them with her just in case.

She hurried back out within a few moments, but she saw that Cassian had moved, standing near the gates. Which was suspicious, but not too alarming as she stepped onto the porch.

"Let's go."

Before she shut the door Y/n turned and glanced around the house for the last time. Why, she didn't know. But she couldn't shake the feeling in her gut that something was wrong.

And she had known to always trust her gut.

But she turned around, locking the door before leaving.

Not realising her journal was missing from the table.

"I really don't want to pressure you too much Y/n, so if you don't want to be a part of this research, I understand-"

"Rhys, this is no burden. I'm actually honoured you even considered me for this project."

His brows furrowed, his smile turning confused. "What are you talking about Y/n? You're one of the smartest people I know. Of course you are included-" he trailed off, his eyes filling with understanding. "How have you been Y/n?"

Y/n blinked, pretending not to understand what he meant by that. Of course Rhys knew she struggled with feeling worthy of her family, and of course he made that connection.

"I've been good, Rhys." Y/n mumbled, an easy grin on her face as if Rhys's concern was ridiculous.

"Have you had any recent episodes-"

"Guess what I found!"

He paused, both their heads turning to where Cassian's booming voice floated through the cracked door.

Y/n's whole body ran cold, and before she could even question the reaction of her body to something that wouldn't have concerned her before, she was stumbling out the door, following Cassian's voice to the sitting room, where everyone else was gathered.

Cassian was grinning as he explained to them how he had gone to pick Y/n's up from her house, and how he found-

Her secret diary.

Y/n's eyes widened, her legs refusing to move as her gaze locked on the book Cassian held in his hand.

"Oh, look, she's here too!" He turned to her, his expression carefree and inviting. "Never knew you had a diary Y/n. What will I find if I read through it? Your secret lover's name? His-"

"Cass." Y/n warned, finally getting herself to move forward as he danced back, his hands beginning to crack open the book.

"Will I find your secret fantasies-"

He stopped dead in his tracks, all the emotions gone from his face as he stared at the page he had opened, his features hard. Y/n waited with bated breath, her head turning to gauge everyone's reaction.

Mor sat with Nyx in her lap, bouncing him as she glanced between Y/n and Cassian. Feyre and Azriel exchanged confused glances before Azriel stood, stalking towards Cass.

Panicked, Y/n jumped forward, but before her hand could wrap around her journal, he pulled away, face pale.

"What is this?"

"None of your business."

Azriel had stopped, his eyes wide as he stared at Y/n.

That's when Y/n realised he had smelled the blood she left on the pages.

Damn it.

Y/n stepped back towards the exit as she felt all the eyes on her, panic starting to dig its claws in her gut and begin its ascent up her throat as the shadows curled around Azriel's ear and his eyes went to her wrist, covered by the long sleeves of her dress.

Y/n turned to find Rhys standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with tears.

"Why?"

She glanced once at everyone, tears starting to fill her own eyes, her face flushing in embarrassment, mad that she had started crying over nothing, and pushed past Rhys, running towards the front door.

"Y/n!"

They will be mad.

You deserve it.

Y/n fled the river house, ignoring the concerned looks thrown her way by the people on the streets as she ran straight to her house.

They hate you.

The door slammed shut behind her as she leaned against it, gasping for breath as her lungs started contracting painfully, refusing to let her breathe.

The breathlessness was starting to creep up again on her.

It was happening again.

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

@cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1

@hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21

@mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @eve175 @starsinyourseyes

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @byyalady @lilah-asteria

@girlswithimagination @gardenofrunar @girlswithimagination @sunnyspycat

@artists-ally @riddlesb1tch @milswrites @berryzxx

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

@stqrgirlies-blog @tele86 @bakananya @xyzmeh

@st4r-girl-official @caraaaaugh @nacho-nat @allllium

@fandomarchiveilyd @nickishadow139

Cassian Taglist: @moonlwghts @samslittlespoon @nickishadow139

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pparadiselost · 7 months

Text

crying wolf.

werewolf michael kaiser x red riding hood fem reader clichés always hold a grain of truth to them. warning(s): nsfw, noncon, murder of an uninvolved character, breeding, knotting minors do not interact.

a big bad wolf lives in the woods near your village.

that much you know.

the wolf has been the talk of the town for years now, and no matter how many men set off to kill the wolf or how many traps had been set up to catch it once and for all, the sly beast always managed to escape the trickery of your town.

there came a point where you stopped caring about it. you had no reason to step into the woods, satisfied with your quiet life in town, and outside of the stray sheep being killed and eaten every few months, the wolf really didn’t do anything to disturb your quality of life. it must suck to be a sheep farmer while this was all going down, but you weren’t a sheep farmer, so you didn’t care.

“you ought to be more careful!” the old cheesemonger’s wife scolds you as she hands you a generous chunk of cheese. “you know, the huntsmen are saying that they’re going to form an escort group in about a week’s time. shouldn’t you wait until then to go visit your grandma?”

you shake your head. “mama said i should go as soon as possible. grandma hasn’t been feeling well for a while, and ever since the whole wolf scare, we haven’t been able to visit her frequently. i just want to make sure she has enough food, because she can’t really do much herself.”

the old wife clicks her tongue and waggles her finger. “i keep telling my husband here, they really ought to catch that wolf quickly. this is how these things always begin. a couple sheep here and there, and next thing you know, the wolf’s run off with a toddler. who’s to say it won’t develop an appetite for a pretty girl like you?”

“oh, please.” you snort slightly. “the only things with an appetite for women like me are the drunkard sleazebags that waste their money away in the taverns.”

“well, you can say that again,” she laughs. she winks as she tucks you an extra slice of sweet cheese into your basket, and she waves you off before you finish off your errands and head home.

the chilled autumn breeze nips at your skin, and you huddle under the red cape your mother’s lovingly sewn for you. it’s become your best friend when winter starts to draw close, and you’ve worn the garment for years. you’re sure you’ll wear it in due time when you’ll set out through the woods to your grandmother’s, where the bright crimson ought to serve as an identifying beacon of sorts for your ailing grandmother.

the sun threatens to set in the distance by the time you gather up all your supplies and head to the outskirts of the village, where your home is. you double check the contents of your basket at your front door, not wanting your mother to scold you for having forgotten anything.

a bottle of hearty wine? check. loaves of bread that won’t go bad soon? check. cheese, meats, and fruits? check.

“i’m home!” you called out, swinging your front door open. your mother jumps and places a hand over her heart, exhaling deeply when she notices it’s just you.

“you scared the wits out of me, dear!” she scolds, stirring intensely at the pot in front of her. “a knock before you come in wouldn’t hurt, you know!”

“says the person who leaves the front door unlocked.” you toss your boots off and hang your cloak up, and you set down the heavy basket on the already set dining table. you swing in to a seat at the table, stomach growling at the scent of fresh stew. “i got everything for grandma tomorrow. is there anything else you need me to bring to her?”

“do you think i should pack some jam for her? i have a few jars that mr. ah… what’s his name again- well, he gave me some because his sister had made too much, and i reckon that your grandmother wouldn’t have too many sweet things to eat while she’s sick,” your mother suggests. you shrug, and she wipes her hands down on her apron before grabbing at the pot’s handle. “stay put where you are, dear. hot pot coming through!”

“i don't think it'll hurt. might as well bring it over if i’m headed there in the first place,” you offered. your mother smiles at you fondly as you practically lunge for the pot, spoon in hand to scarf down a well-deserved meal.

“slow down, or you’ll get a tummy ache,” she reminds you. you swipe at your mouth with your sleeve, earning a wince from her, but she doesn’t say anything. the night quickly melts away into the everyday hum of dinner followed by a quick berry pie dessert.

you haven’t even thought of the wolf until your mother tells you to go fetch the rest of the laundry she forgot to get earlier in the day. you balance a laundry basket on your hip as you drag your feet outside, wishing you were snuggled up in your bed with a book instead. the cold wind bites at your exposed neck and face, and you scowl as you haphazardly yank at the clothes and socks hung up on the laundry line.

“stupid wind,” you grumble under your breath. you stuff some shirts into the laundry basket, but when you reach to grab at the last pair of socks on the line, the wind tussles it free from the clothing pin and the socks go flying off in the distance. you let out a yelp before running after it, watching the white socks flutter like a pair of doves before landing onto the dirt.

“stupid, stupid wind!” you doubly curse as you bend down, yanking your nightclothes up so that the hem won’t be stained by the dirt. you reach to grab the socks before something in the ground catches your eye, and you shift to take a closer look.

your eyes widen in horror.

pawprints. wolf pawprints.

you shudder and quickly stand up, racing back to the safety of your laundry line and basket. the cursed beast must have been wandering around the wilderness near your home. a shiver runs down your spine at the thought of some stinky mutt of a wolf sniffing at your laundry, and once you see that there are no more clothes left on the line, you march back home and shut the door firmly behind you.

you have nothing to fear. you’re no sheep and definitely not meal material for the big bad wolf. you don’t even bring up the pawprints to your mother once you’re inside, and you don’t even think of the wolf again when you go to bed, bracing yourself for the long journey to your grandmother’s cottage tomorrow.

…

“do you have everything?”

“yes, mama.”

“are your boots comfortable?”

“yes, mama.”

“will the cloak be enough to keep you warm?”

“yes, mama.”

you swear the entire day’s going to be over by the time your mother’s done fretting over you. she’s not only gone over the contents of your basket once, twice, thrice, four goddamn times, and she’s still convinced that somehow she magically forgot to add everything to it. she keeps fretting over you, pulling the cloak tighter around your throat and making sure the hood covers your head comfortably.

deep down, you know she means well, but she keeps fussing over you like you’re a newborn baby. you’re old enough to take care of yourself, old enough to know how the world runs, old enough to stand on your own two feet without having her circling you like some kind of anxious mama bear. which she is, you suppose.

she kisses your forehead gently, looking at you with the weathered affectionate eyes only a mother could ever muster up. “i know you’re sick of me worrying over you like this. i can’t help it—you’re my baby.”

“i’ll be back before you even know it, mama,” you joke back. “and if i’m not back by dinner, you can assume i’ll be at grandma’s for the night. either way, i’ll be back by tomorrow for sure.”

“i’ll be waiting for you,” your mother promises. she clasps your hands, rubbing her calloused palms over yours. she squeezes your fingers carefully, grinning at you despite her obvious nerves. “my baby’s all grown up! going through the woods by herself and everything… what am i going to do when you actually leave the nest?”

“oh, you’ll be fine.” you hoist the heavy basket up, flashing your mother a thumbs-up. “i’ll be on my way then. i shouldn’t dally around too much, or it’ll get late.”

“right, right. i guess i’ll bake something to pass the time while you’re gone. maybe making your favorite pie ought to incentivize you to come home faster!” she agrees with a hearty laugh. you’re just about to turn around and set off before your mother cries out a panicked “wait!”

you look over your shoulder. “huh? what is it, mama?”

“i know this is probably just me fretting,” she looks at you firmly, and she wrings her hands slightly, “but it’s better safe than sorry. make sure to never wander from the main road, okay? you’ve heard about the wolf that’s been terrorizing our village. i don’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

you’d snark back at her a bit normally, but the pure fear in your mother’s eyes makes you bite your tongue for once. “i’ll stay strictly on the path, mama. besides, the wolf’s never taken a human before. and i’m sure there’ll be huntsmen and all sorts of other people out and about at this time of day, so i’ll be okay.”

“i know,” she sighs. “it’s a mother’s instinct. i can’t help but fret over you constantly.”

she waves you off, and you’re on the path to your grandmother’s before you even know it. the weather today is perfect: brisk refreshing air, a few cotton-white clouds in the bright blue sky, and the mischievous twinkles of sunlight streaming through forest trees’ branches.

truth be told, you like these solo adventures more than anything else in the world. living a quiet life in your village has its perks, but when everyone knows everybody, you rarely get a chance to set out by yourself without the scrutiny of your entire town on your back. you hum a little song while you skip through the beaten path in the woods, savoring the solitude. it shouldn’t take you more than a few hours to make the round trip, save for a quick lunch break in the middle and maybe a snack for the road at your grandmother’s abode.

you couldn’t be happier right now. the basket swings from the crook of your arm as you stroll through the woods, admiring the wilderness. a pair of butterflies flutter every now and then, and you can make out the melodic warbles of birdsong. you wonder if it’s mating season for the creatures; the closest you ever got to romance were the fairy tales in your book (your mother’s old hand-me-downs, from when she lived in the port city before moving her to marry your now-absent father) or the occasional wedding that took place in your village (the last one was 7 years ago, when the wheat grinder’s daughter married the postman. you pressed the flowers from your corsage between the pages of a heavy dictionary).

either way, you wish your village had more to show a young woman like yourself. everyone seems happy living their rustic life, and while you were satisfied with the peace that your mother strove so hard to provide you with, you knew that the world had more to show you.

and you crave it. just as the horizon of the woods seems to stretch on forever and ever, you wonder if there’s something beyond it just waiting for you.

maybe there ought to be a great marble castle, blinding white in the distance, complete with a prince charming inside atop his great steed. or maybe big markets with all sorts of treasures from afar! sometimes when a stray merchant stumbles across your town, you’d eavesdrop on the stories they’d tell to the little kids (you always dreamed about tasting the delicious spices they bragged about. cinnamon, was it? oh, that sounded fabulous).

but instead, you’re stuck with this bumfuck, hillbilly country town. there aren’t even any good looking guys here, and you know it’ll take at least a decade to convince your mother to let you move out away from the safety of her arms. the height of gossip here is a stupid wolf running around the woods. your village is so boring that they can’t even find a human to gossip about.

sweat dots your brow once you’re a good way into your journey. parts of the woods clear out into patches of grass or the sporadic lake, and your stomach starts growling slightly. you debate pushing yourself a bit further before you decide otherwise—your mother had packed you a delicious lunch, and it wouldn’t hurt to give your feet a quick break while you wolfed it down.

you scan the nearby woods for a clearing you could sit at, and after a few more feet of walking, you’re greeted with what looks like a meadow of wildflowers in the distance. you keep your eye on the main path before plopping down on the side of the beaten track, leaning your back against a tall tree.

‘lunchtime, lunchtime,’ you excitedly think to yourself as you peel back the cover of your basket. in the corner, all wrapped up, is a pair of sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a whole apple that your mother has prepared for you. the bright noon sun above your head indicates to you that it's the perfect time for lunch, and you lick your lips as you unwrap the sandwiches.

you go to town on your food. you have to force yourself to slow down a bit so you won’t choke on your food, and you listen to the back-and-forth of bird calls as you savor the taste of tasty bread. the crisp tanginess of the apple is welcomed by your tongue after you finish your sandwiches, and you chew thoughtlessly.

crunch.

‘hm?’ you don’t even move when the sound of rustling comes from behind you. it’s probably a deer or something. the sound of rustling wasn’t uncommon this deep into the woods, and huntsmen often told stories about daring foxes or squirrels that would venture close to the tracks to fight over scraps that other travelers had dropped.

crunch.

you swallow down the final bite of your apple, inwardly wishing you had more. you dangle the core in between your fingers, and you wonder if you should toss it into the woods. yeah, that wouldn’t be too bad, right?

crunch.

the birds could pick at it for a bit, and then maybe the bugs could enjoy the sweet treat. what use would you have for an apple core? you stand up, dusting yourself off the best you can, and without looking too far into the woods, you rev up your arm and throwing the apple core as far as you can into the trees with as much force as you can muster-

-only to hit something square on with the apple core.

you blanche. what did you just hit? you weren’t looking too closely, and you had expected the apple core to unceremoniously fall somewhere on the ground and be forgotten. but instead, something of considerable size lurks in the woods, and you hold your breath as you haphazardly grab your basket and your cloak, getting ready to run for it.

“ow…,” a boyish voice whimpers.

huh??? you freeze in your place, confusion flickering through your brain as a shadowy figure rustles around the place you had tossed the apple. a voice? you hadn’t expected that. you were supposed to be the only person here.

did you accidentally hit a wandering huntsman on accident?

“w-who’s there?” you call out. “come out and show yourself!”

“i was trying to-,” the voice grumbles. you hear footsteps and the crunching of breaking branches and leaves, and you keep your distance from the voice. the figure shifts closer to you. “-before you hit me in the face with your leftovers.”

your breath stops just short in your throat when you see a young boy around your age step out into the light. you clearly look confused—you’ve never seen him before, and no one’s mentioned anything about a boy this deep into the woods.

“who are you?” you ask, your own voice hushed. “i’ve never seen you before.”

“i should be asking you that,” he huffs. he folds his hands over his chest, and he pouts. “i want to know about you first.”

“i live in the village.” you point the way you came, down the path. you make the wise decision to casually leave out your name and any other important information you can. “are you from there too?”

he shakes his head. “i live in the woods.”

the woods! you’d never heard of anyone living in the woods. it was pure wilderness, dangerous and scary, no less for someone who wasn’t even a veteran wilderness expert! for someone that lived in the woods, the boy looks surprisingly well groomed. his long blond hair pools over his shoulder and down his chest, and it looks clean and well maintained. his cheeks are rosy and pink, and his bright blue eyes stare you down with a kind of pride you’ve never seen before.

“that’s dangerous, you know,” you point out. “there’s a wolf that's been running around these parts lately. it’s not safe for you to be out here all alone.”

he raises an eyebrow. “a wolf, huh?”

“yeah! it’s been killing sheep in my village. everyone’s been talking about it,” you remark. “i’d take you back to my village if i could, but i can’t.”

“i’m not welcome there,” he coldly remarks. his eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s leering at you. “besides, i wouldn’t want to live in a stupid village anyway. i’m happier on my own. everyone else and their stupidity would make me mad.”

annoyance shoots through you, and you shrug. “suit yourself. i can’t force you to go if you don’t want to. but i’d rather not have blood on my hands.”

“blood on your hands, huh?” the blond boy steps closer to you. “where are you headed to?”

“why do you want to know?”

“because it’s not often that i see a girl wandering around this deep by herself. you said it yourself: it’s dangerous out here.”

you hold your ground as he steps closer, circling around you. he’s tall when he stands at full height, almost enough to rival some of the tallest men in your village. his body is toned, most likely from living in pure wilderness for however long he has, and despite the lighthearted banter between the two of you, something in your gut swirls with anxiety when he prowls around like a wild animal.

“i’m headed somewhere,” you answer vaguely. “i have some stuff i gotta deliver.”

“and it’s that way, isn’t it? opposite your village?” he approaches closer, and you whimper when he sniffs at your ear. “lemme guess… that old lady’s house on the other side?”

your stomach drops. the boy grins, his sharp canines on full display when he sees the awestruck look on your face.

“bingo! you smell like her,” he laughs easily. “that’s a long journey for a pretty girl like you.”

you pull your cloak closer to yourself, instinctively wanting to shield yourself from the strange boy. “that’s enough! i’m going to get going.”

“sure, sure.” he sends you off, still grinning like he’s won some grand prize. “be careful out there though, darling.”

he cocks his head, watching you as you start running away from him. the blond smirks to himself, your sweet scent still clinging to his nose as your silhouette flickers from his view and then disappears into the distance.

“a wolf, huh?” he murmurs. he sounds amused, still thinking about the flabbergasted expressions on your face. something inside of him stirs sinisterly.

he’s hungry, he decides.

and suddenly, sheep meat doesn’t sound as appetizing anymore.

…

horror weighs on your heart like a brick thrown into a pond. it ripples and quivers violently, forming merciless waves that spread out, swallowing up anything in its path and leaving things warped in its wake.

your grandmother’s house is trashed. the windows are smashed in, and the front door is broken. your heart hammers in a panic, and your mouth goes dry. your pupils shake as you stand a distance away from the house.

your mind is blank. what happened? robbers? wild animals? a murderer?

you know deep down in your heart that the correct thing to do is turn on your heel and run, run until you find someone else, run until another person could take care of the issue for you. but your feet stay glued to the ground, and your thoughts swirl over with terrifying ideas.

your grandmother is inside! she’s a weak, defenseless lady, practically confined to her bed because of her old age and her illness… there was virtually nothing she could do to defend herself if anyone attacked her.

what if you were already too late?

“g-grandma…!” you cry out. your basket bounces next to you as you run into the house, tears clouding over your vision. the house seems too big, like it’s swallowing you up without the safety of your grandmother. the inside of the cottage looks just like the outside. furniture overturned, big claw marks etched into the walls, and absolutely no sign of your beloved grandmother.

your blood turns cold at the claw marks.

was it the wolf?

“grandma, if you can hear me, say something…!” you whisper, too scared to raise your voice properly. “o-or move something! grandma, you’re in here, right?”

your body trembles uncontrollably. the only room remaining that isn’t within clear sight is your grandmother’s bedroom. your gut tells you to leave immediately. you don’t want to go in there, but you have to. who’s going to help your grandmother if not for you? what if by the time you ran away and brought other people, it was too late for her?

your steps echo throughout the ruined house like the toll of church bells, and you press your lips into a thin line. you reach out for the door, which, despite its dilapidated state, somehow managed to stay partially attached to the hinges. you push, forcing your head to quit spinning from your fear.

“we meet again, darling!”

your heart drops to the ground. blood paints what seems like every inch of the room, and you immediately stumble backwards, tripping over your own feet and landing like a sack of potatoes onto the ground.

‘move…!’ your brain screams at your body. ‘get up and move!’

but you can’t. the scene unfurling in front of your eyes makes your limbs feel like they were made of lead. you can’t bring yourself to do anything. you can’t crawl, can’t scream, can’t do anything except stare back up at the blood-drenched young man that looms above you with a wolfish smile.

he licks his lips. he looks exactly as he did in the woods. tall, with long blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. except this time, there’s a pair of pointed wolf ears that sprout from the top of his head and a bushy tail in between his legs. he’s splashed with crimson, and his mouth is smeared the deepest red.

“see, i knew this was where you were headed to,” he laughs. “are you looking for the old lady that was in here? sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but i think i was a step ahead of you.”

you can’t bring yourself to breathe.

“you- you’re the wolf…,” you choke out. the smug smirk never leaves the boy’s face as he leers down at you, and another wave of pure dread drops like a deadweight into your stomach when he nods.

“about time you pieced it together, stupid girl.” the boy clicks his tongue mockingly. “i always watched that stupid village of yours get their panties all in a twist trying to catch me. i mean, human or not, did you guys really think you’d catch anything with stupid traps like that?”

you raise your arms instinctively when he leans down. “please don’t kill me…! i won’t say anything- please don’t eat me!”

he pauses, and he takes a long inhale. you clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself from the crunch of your bones under his sharp teeth, and for the smell of your blood to fill the room. this is it. this is how you die. another victim to the weird werewolf that had terrorized your town for god-knows-how-long, gobbled up mercilessly in the same way the boy had devoured your poor, helpless grandmother.

he laughs again, and you shudder. you tentatively peel your eyes open, only to scream when you see yourself at eye-level with him.

“did you think i was going to eat you too? nah, i’m not gonna do that to you. i’ve had my fill with that bony old grandma of yours.” he grabs your wrist, and you yelp when pain shoots up your arm. he yanks you up to your feet, and you shakily lean against him when he drags you into the heart of the scene of the crime. you don’t want to look at all the blood splattered against your now-dead grandmother’s bedroom, and the boy flings you like a ragdoll onto her bed.

he looks so monstrous, towering over your cowering form. in every other way, he looks like a normal human, like any other boy you’d see frolicking in your hometown, but his animalistic features betray him. the gleam in his eyes mark him as unmistakably a ruthless predator, and your heart feels like it's going to give out.

“what are you going to do to me?” you eke out. “are you going to take me hostage?”

“hostage? for what? do i look like the kind of person to bargain with stupid humans?” he snorts, and when he shakes his head at your foolishness, his long hair tumbles over his broad shoulders. you look like a deer caught in headlights as he clambers onto the bed, and he presses a hand on either side of your face as he cages you in between his body and the mattress.

he’s smiling, but you can’t detect any trace of goodwill or kindness on his face. “do you really want to know what i’m going to do with you, my darling?”

you didn’t know how to respond. he leans down to your level, and you whimper when you can smell the stench of blood and death on his mouth. despite this, he presses his lips against the outline of your jaw, and you quiver underneath the boy as his tongue darts out to lick at your skin.

“i’m going to make you my mate.”

your head feels like it’s caving in.

“what-?” you flinch. “no- no, no- nonono- you can’t do that… i can’t- no, i can’t do that! i can’t be your mate…!”

he narrows his eyes, yet his lips never leave your face. he keeps kissing you greedily, and you push at him to no avail, unable to wrench his heavier, stronger body off of you. you start sobbing and crying out, yet the boy pays no attention to you as his mouth tastes your skin like a starved man.

“be good, or i’ll force you. you wouldn’t want that, would you? i don’t want to hurt a pretty thing like you,” he hisses. you sniffle and swallow back your oncoming sobs and you avert your eyes.

“i promise i’ll be gentle. besides, i’m way better looking than any of the men in your village,” he attempts to cheer you up. “c’mon. look at me. isn’t something like this more exciting than a drab country wedding? i’ll treat you like a princess. just love me, darling. does it matter if i’m a wolf or not?”

“you’re a wolf that kills! i don’t want to be with someone like you!”

he frowns, and his hands move to your cloak. your heart pounds painfully against your chest as his fingers twist at the material. your mother’s painstaking handiwork dissolves like sugar in water under his grip, and you know moving to defend yourself is futile. he quickly shreds your clothes as you cry quietly.

“you would do this too, if you were me.” his fingers trace over the bare skin of your collarbones and dip towards your breasts. his hands are sticky and warm against the chill of your body, and he cups your chest. it’s insane, how well your body fits into his big palms. he watches you with lust-stricken eyes, and his cock strains against his pants when he sees your tears wetting your pretty face and you laying there underneath him, not bothering to fight him off.

he knows. he knows you’re being obedient out of fear rather than true submission, but it’s good enough for him.

“i’m lonely,” he whispers. “you don’t know how it feels. having to kill to live. having to stay in the shadows. having to always yearn from afar because all of those stupid humans can’t see that i’m more similar to them than i am different.”

“t-that’s no reason to ruin my life…!” you protest. it’s a last ditch effort, but you shakily inhale anyway. “please… let me go. we can pretend like none of this happened. i promise i won’t tell anyone anything. i’ll give you my word. just… i can’t be a wolf’s wife- i can’t- i can’t do that-”

he shakes his head. “i want you. you talked to me in the forest. offered me help. treated me like a normal boy my age. i was too scared, so i hid my ears and tail, and you were none the wiser. that- that’s enough proof, isn’t it? that with enough time, you’d come to love me for who i am…”

you let out a strangled cry as a hand starts groping your tits, rough fingers brushing over your sensitive nipples. it feels foreign, having your boobs touched like this, but a dull heat thrums deep inside your stomach. the boy looks entranced as he stares down at your form. the way your plush chest molds and bends to his hands makes him desire you even more, even if he’s aware that you’re terrified to death of him.

“i can’t let you go. i can’t,” he doubles down. any of the remorse you had managed to wrench out of him disappears bit by bit, and he groans as he paws at your body greedily. “god, you’re just so pretty… i have to have you.”

you clench your thighs together. his lips meet yours, and you nearly vomit at the taste of iron on your mouth. he’s clumsy, but he kisses you so hungrily, eager to lap up any semblance of affection. you grip at the sheets as his hot tongue swipes at your closed lips, and you’re determined to deny him. he frowns into the kiss, and you feel a twinge of pride well up.

the wolf exhales angrily. the hand that’s been roaming your chest twists at your nipple harshly. you yelp at the pain, and the boy shoves his tongue into your mouth, moaning into the kiss. you start thrashing slightly. he doesn’t heed any mind to your discomfort, and if anything, he begins grinding his clothed hips against your thighs.

he can’t get enough of how you feel. your kisses are like honey to his mouth, and his body melts at the feeling of you against him. you know he’s going to leave bruises all over your tits from how hard he’s grabbing at them, but despite everything that’s overwhelming you, the heat that pounds against your core only builds.

you can’t breathe. you clench your eyes shut and try to bear it, try to work through the sparks of pleasure that cloud your mind from having your breasts molested, as the wolf kisses you how he wants you. your mouth tastes foul when he finally pulls away, and a string of saliva connects the two of you momentarily.

you glare up at him.

“i want to fuck you…,” his voice trails off. “i want to fuck you so bad. but i have to be gentle. i promised to treat you well…”

your pussy curls at the thought of taking the wolf’s dick. he bucks his clothed erection higher and higher up your legs, and he moans shamelessly into your mouth as he kisses you again. he slobbers all over your mouth like a feral dog, his tongue slithering into your throat like he’s fucking your mouth.

you don’t enjoy this. you don’t want this at all. yet you can’t ignore the throb that pulses at your core, the way your walls squeeze every now and then painfully against nothing. you’re not turned on by this—you’re not. you want to convince yourself of that so badly, but every time you realize the situation you’re put in, pinned down to a bed with a werewolf that wants to stuff every inch of his dirty cock into your cunt, arousal swirls inside your body.

his hands trickle down to your pants, and fear pricks sharply at your heart.

“i’ll be a good mate.” he peels the rest of your clothes off, mimicking the gentleness of a human lover the best he can. “i can be like a real human husband. no, i can be better. i know i can be better than any of those stupid boys in your village.”

you shudder when cold air rushes at your bare cunt. the slick that coats your slit is undeniable, and the boy’s pupils widen at the sight. he swallows, and you watch as his neck bobs. even by human standards, he’s handsome, and your body betrays your mind as he coaxes your thighs open.

“you want me too, don’t you?” he asks. he offers a weak smile. it’s almost sickening, how someone who mercilessly took everything from you can pretend to be a human in hopes that you’d grant him any pity. “i’ll make you feel good. i’ll be everything you want me to be.”

he lets go of your legs, and he grabs at his own clothes, shredding them apart. he groans when his cock springs free of his pants.

your heart drops into your stomach.

“i-i can’t take that-,” you choke out. “that’s too big! you’ll kill me- i’m not kidding…!”

he tilts his head to the side, and he shrugs. his cock is inhumanly huge, and if he were to put that inside your cunt, you swear that you’d be able to feel it in your throat. it’s long and thick and swollen up to an angry red. a few prominent veins run along his length, eager to stuff itself into your soft and vulnerable cunt. his balls hang heavy and big, undoubtedly filled with all the cum that he wants to fuck into you.

he grabs at your thighs again, and you squeal loudly in protest as he keeps you pinned in place.

“stay still-,” he grunts, “it’ll hurt less if you stop squirming like that! you’ll get used to it with time. it might hurt a little, but it’ll feel good with time… now shut up, and let me fuck you already-”

you grit your teeth and brace yourself as he starts rubbing his length against your lower lips. he moans softly, savoring the way your warm body feels against him. you can feel his cock twitch dangerously against your folds, and you whimper in a mix of pleasure, disgust, and fear whenever his cockhead catches at your sensitive clit.

he lines his cock up at your fluttering hole, and you stop breathing. your chest feels tight, and your head feels blown out. you prep yourself for the oncoming pain, but he pauses for a moment.

“give me your name.”

you blink. “huh?”

“if- if i’m going to take you to be my mate, i should know your name at least. before i do this,” he whispers sheepishly. your stomach twists with hatred. why should he care? he’s going to do all of these horrible things to you, so why is he even bothering to pretend to play the act of a caring lover?

“yours first,” you hiss. “if a wolf like you even has a name.”

“i do.” his response surprises you. “michael. it’s michael. i have a human name like you do. i heard that it means ‘he who is like god.’ now tell me yours.”

you lay there for a moment, dumbfounded. you didn’t expect a monster like him to have a label like that. and less so a name as blessed as “michael.”

you hang your head. “...(y/n).”

he hums, and you flinch when his cockhead threatens to break into your hole. “it’s a pretty name. a perfect name for a perfect mate.”

you bite the inside of your mouth and properly brace yourself. he pushes his hips in slowly, his gaze fixed on where his cock connects with your pussy. you weren’t sure exactly what you were expecting, but the pain comes faster than you thought. it burns and stretches, and you cry out, stiffening and lashing out, trying to get him off of you.

“hurts…! ‘t hurts-!!” you screech. you pound and claw at his shoulders, yelling and immediately bursting into another onslaught of tears. the tears are hot and heavy as they trickle down your face, and your legs shake uncontrollably. it genuinely feels like he’s splitting you into two, and the torturous pain makes your head flash white.

michael nearly falls on top of you. your cunt is disgustingly warm and inviting, and it stretches out and envelops him. it’s hot and wet and tight, and despite your constant protests, your pussy is heavenly around his cock. you’re so small, and he knows his wolf cock is about to break you. but god—he wants to break you. if breaking you feels this good, he’ll eagerly shatter you into a million pieces so that he has the depraved honor of being the one to destroy you and strip you of your humanity.

he clenches his jaw. he couldn’t lose his mind. not like this, not when his endgame was right there. “take it. i’m going to be your mate, so you better get used to taking my dick and get used to it fast.”

you hold back a strangled sob. your tears are freeflowing, and it’s hard to breathe. his cock feels like it’s pressing straight up against your womb, and he’s not even giving you the mercy of adjusting to his size slowly. his length invades every inch of your cunt, and his ridiculous girth has you stretched out thin. you know you can’t take this. he’s actively molding your tight hole into the shape of his cock, and if he keeps himself in here any longer, you might actually go insane.

your words slur sloppily. “you’ll kill me- you’ll fuck me to death-”

his breathing is strained just from the pleasure of putting it in, but he still manages to snort at you mockingly. “you won’t die. no one’s ever died from sex.”

you wish you had the spirit to shout back at him, to put up more of a fight. but that instinct has been long extinguished at this point, and you’re nothing more than a sniveling mess as you struggle to breathe through the tightness in your chest.

“c’mon, don’t be boring now.” he truly can’t get enough of the sight. the pretty girl from the village, face stained with tears, legs spread out all for him to fuck into her pretty cunt. to put it as frankly as he can, the boy doesn’t know what he wants to do first with you.

the sweeter part of him wants to kiss away your tears, to comfort you the best he can with a low voice and whisper his undying love to you, to convince you that a life as a wolf’s wife won’t be all that bad. you’ve caught his eye for a reason, and he wouldn’t want to have you snatch away whatever dregs of humanity the hybrid wolfboy was clinging desperately too. even if everyone else regarded him to be some kind of barbaric monster, deep down, even he has a soul that yearns painfully for love. for a romantic partner that could accept him as an equal and open their heart up to him.

but maybe this other part of him is what makes him a monster.

he loves seeing you reduced to this broken mess. he enjoys it, the primal fear that’s evident on every inch of your face. the way you’re nothing more than prey in his arms, with no other choice but to let him fuck your tight pussy out on his monstruous cock, to be the direct cause of all the pain and anguish you’re going through and to enjoy it like it’s the thrill of a fresh kill… it makes the wolfish streak inside of him go wild with delight, and he wants to keep you pinned down and helpless underneath him so he can soak up that bliss a little longer.

your stomach coils up on itself when you feel him slide his hips back slowly. the strangled noise that leaves your mouth is a mix between a pained shriek and a pleasured moan. he’s really too much for you to fit inside, and your strained walls cling to his cock. you’re barely hanging on for dear life just from him penetrating you. you can’t even imagine what it would be like once he would start actually thrusting and having sex with you.

“ahhh, you’re just too cute,” he teases you. “i never knew love could feel like this… it’s so good, isn’t it? no regular human dick could even come close to what i’ll make you feel, my little wife.”

you sob as he slowly bullies his cock back into you, once more making sure that you can properly feel the torturous stretch. the pain wobbles dangerously on edging you towards pleasure, and your vision blurs over slightly as the mounting heat in your gut tightens up. it’s gross, it’s inhuman that you’re getting off on having sex with a wolf, but your own self-restraint is being tested with the small cries you’re letting out.

“ah-,” you pathetically squeak out, “ahh…! michael- michael, please- i can’t do this!”

“yes, you can,” he promptly corrects you. his thrusts are shallow, granting you the rare mercy of sparing you from being speared in half on his entire length. “look at you… you’re starting to feel good, aren’t you? i can feel everything… that little cunt of yours won’t stop tightening up around me. you’re squeezing so much! it’s like your pussy knows better than you who you’re meant to be with.”

your mind shakes. it’s all you can do to keep yourself conscious. all the stimuli are too much: the anxiety, the pleasure, the adrenaline. your thoughts are being smoothed over, all logic coming to a screeching halt as the tightness welling up in your womb is all that your body can focus on. you hate how easily his name falls out of your mouth, how easily you find it to moan, and the wolfboy eagerly devours the attention you give him.

how angelic you must look to him right now! his mate, his precious mate, moaning out his name in pleasure, no matter how terrified they are of him! he moans softly too, and he can’t help but buck his hips deeper and harder into you. your voice and all your little noises are too adorable to him, and he just wants it all.

“you like it, don’t you? yeah, i know it’s starting to feel good. give in to me. you don’t have to do anything but let me have my way.” his breath is hot and heavy and tinged with the sharp tang of blood. you cringe when he kisses at your neck and cheeks again, but with how rapidly his hips are picking up at the rhythm, your thighs tremble dangerously. “i’ll make you cum again and again… oh, you’re just so lovely…”

your cunt sucks him in greedily. feeling his cock rub against your walls and prod dangerously at your cervix makes you grow blank, and your body keeps reacting more and more to what the wolfboy is doing to you. you wonder if this is what people mean when they say they’re being fucked stupid, and if it isn’t, whatever he’s doing to you is coming horribly close.

“fuck…! fuck- no- michael- michael, please-,” you whimper out. you two both know perfectly well that your cries are from how good it feels, but you still refuse to verbalize it properly. michael smiles into the curve of your throat, and he kisses your jugular with what you can only describe as a sickly kind of affection.

“what are you asking for, my love?” he chuckles endearingly. you sob, and your toes curl into the disheveled bed when his cock slides into you just right. your vision skews its axis slightly, and you let out a sharp exhale, mouth lolling open a little. he nips at your skin with his sharp teeth to snap you back to life. “tell me properly with those human words you’re so proud of. ‘please fuck me harder, michael! make love to your wife! give me more of your cock!’”

your cheeks burn with humiliation when he ridicules you, but deep down, you don’t know if you can wholeheartedly refute him. you do want more of him. you do want him to fuck you harder. your cunt purrs in delight every time he slides in and out of your slick hole, and his cock manages to ruthlessly hit all the right places.

it’s unfair. it’s unfair how everything’s stacked against you.

you must have ignored him for too long. michael frowns disapprovingly, and a low growl vibrates in his throat. he ducks his head and bites down on your shoulder, sharp teeth digging themselves into the curves of your soft flesh. you scream out in pain, your walls clamping down on him and another flurry of torturous pleasure shreds your stomach.

“p-please fuck me harder, michael…!” you’re fully crying. your words don’t sound like your own, and you certainly don’t feel like yourself. the tears and snot smeared all over your face makes you feel like some lowlife, and you hate the way he forces you to beg for him. “make love to me… give me- give me more of your cock!”

“see?” he licks his lips, and he grins devilishly as you as he pulls away from your now-marked shoulder. “that wasn’t so bad, was it? nothing wrong with you for wanting more from your husband. i’ll gladly indulge my darling.”

a shaky scream pounds at your chest, and blinding hot pleasure overwhelms your head as he picks up his pace. your moans reach a high-pitched squeal as he fucks himself into you, his cock rapidly pulling in and out of your pulsing hole. it’s not like you make it particularly easy for him either; your disgustingly tight pussy walls cling to him and almost refuse to let him go.

does your body love his dick that much? does your cunt want to savor the feeling of him stretching it out that badly? those thoughts make kaiser swell with pride as he reaches a fast rhythm. despite how sloppily and quickly he’s ramming his whole length into you to make sure you feel every single bit of his dick, he still makes sure that each thrust has his heavy cockhead drilling right at your womb.

he prods at your deepest parts, shamelessly making sure that your womb knows it’s time to be bred. it’s time for him to fill you up with his cum, to fuck a baby into you, to force every part of your body to be tainted with him. from inside and out, from outside to in, kaiser wants to selfishly claim every part of you. that’s what good husbands do to their wives, don’t they? that’s what your folk—the human folk—did, right?

the tightness that gnaws at your core refuses to relent. your arousal runs rampant through your veins, and it feels like your guts are tying themselves into a knot. you don’t know how else to describe the heat that mounts in your core and inside your head. your body and conscience are at odds with each other. your brain rejects michael, your mouth begs for him to hold you and fuck you harder, and your hole sucks him in like it doesn’t want to let go.

“that’s my pretty wife. you have such a fucking slutty body- begging for your husband feels good, yeah? i know, i know, darling,” he drinks up your tears, his hot tongue lapping languidly at your face. you choke back another sob, and he moves to steal a kiss. his tongue invades your mouth, and your eyes gloss over. you’re overwhelmed with his presence. it smells like him, tastes like him, feels like him. you’re crying out and mewling in pleasure into his mouth, and he literally eats up every single one of your lewd noises.

his balls slap against your ass, desperate to empty themselves into you. his cock twitches and throbs inside you, making you shudder in delight. it’s a sick kind of lovemaking, if you could even call it that. your own slick dribbles down between your legs, and the lubrication only makes it easier for michael to greedily shove his cock into your fluttering cunt.

“can’t take anymore- michael, ‘m gonna lose my mind-!” you breathe out. you hate to admit it. you don’t want to tell him how stupidly close you are. you blame how monstrously huge his cock is; how else would he be destroying your body in such an inhuman way? your vision is unstable, blurring even more around your teary edges, and the heat that licks inside of you is unbearable.

michael knows it. he can feel it. the way the velvety lining of your cunt coaxes his cock right up to your cervix, the way it keeps squeezing him and writhing around his sensitive inches, the way your own voice seems to hike higher and higher. your legs tremble underneath him, and michael is thrilled to know just how far he’s successfully broken you. the shame and embarrassment that’s scribbled all over your face makes him almost uncontrollably giddy.

“are you gonna cum, darling? did my cock make you feel that good?” he laughs mockingly. his words are like thorns against your ears, yet with how roughly he’s pounding into your pussy, having mounted you like the uncivilized animal he was, you couldn’t deny it. he’s a predator through and through, and with you trapped in his reach like prey, you know all too well that he’ll be moving in for the kill soon.

the insatiable tightness inside you teeters on the brink. you’re barely holding on, each breath growing more strained than the last. michael doesn’t let up his pace, continuing to rut into you. each snap of his hips has you close, so close, so fucking close—you don’t want him to stop. you clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself to hurtle headfirst into the crash, to topple finally past the point of no return where you would irrevocably become the wolf’s.

“i’m cumming…! ah- michael- cumming- cumming…!”

heat rips through your body in half. you throw your head back, the foreign feeling consuming you whole as if you had been thrown directly into fire. your cunt clamps down on the boy’s cock, and it feels like he’s about to split you into two. your vision completely blurs, and the world rushes around your senses. it’s too much yet not enough at the same time, and you rake your nails down the wolf’s bare back with such a fervor that you must have shredded up his skin and drawn blood.

you shake and squirm and thrash underneath him, but no matter how much you writhe against his body, michael won’t let his grip on you go. he relentlessly fucks you through your orgasm, leaving you a sobbing mess as your juices squirt out of your abused hole and drip down onto the shaky bed. his cock pounds harder and harder, and he groans out as he feels your slick and pulsing walls flutter and clench around him.

“hah- that’s what i thought-,” he chuckles. you can’t breathe. you can’t think. the incessant throbbing in your stomach is still there, but it’s morphed from arousal into something a little more painful. he’s overstimulating your already overrun cunt. “your husband’s dick is that good, isn’t it? don’t worry; i’ll fuck you like this as much as you want… i’ll get you to cum over and over again.”

you dumbly shake your head. your head is foggy, and the throes of your climax don’t want to let you go. “n-o… can’t take any more- no more- don’t want any more…!”

“you’re going to take it, like the good wife you are. you don’t get a choice in this. i’m your husband,” he snarls. you shudder, whimpering in weak protest as he continues using you. it hurts, and it burns, and the coil that refuses to let up in your stomach makes you feel sick. how much longer could this monster last? it feels like he’s been having sex and using your body forever, but even after ripping an earth-shattering orgasm from you, he still hasn’t cum yet.

“it hurts- i can’t do it…!” you smack at his chest again, but you know he won’t let you go. your tears sparkle cruelly on your cheeks, and michael sighs lovingly as he laps at your face. he swings back and forth constantly between treating you like you were a mere bug to cherishing you. was this some kind of karmic revenge from the universe for thinking so lowly of your own village? the home that seemed so far away now?

“take it- take it- fuck- let me make you my proper wife…” fear floods your body when you can feel his cock twitch dangerously deep inside you, your bruised cervix contracting and sucking him in. his balls tighten and continue to slap against your ass, but with how quickly and frantic his movements are, he’s going to cum. “fill you up with my pups… we’ll be such a happy family together-”

your eyes shoot open. cold reality splashes over you as if slapping you back to your senses, even in the midst of being manhandled. “no! no, no…! don’t! please, please, michael- that’s the one thing you can’t do! don’t cum inside- i don’t want to get pregnant with your babies!”

he grits his teeth, and he presses his entire body weight on top of you, determined to keep you physically where you are. he’s determined to make sure you can’t escape from his grasp, as if you’d be able to go anywhere with how disheveled and haunted you are. it’s a good look for you, second only to the loving glances he knows you’d never spare him.

“shut up, shut up…! this is your job, this is what you’re supposed to do! this is what lovers do!” he thrusts once, twice, and when he brings his hips down one final time, your fate is sealed. his own cry dies out, buried deep inside his throat as he cums deep and hard into you. your breath lodges into your neck, leaving you with nothing but bitter defeat and the taste of uncertainty all over your mouth.

his cum spurts everywhere, and it floods your womb. it burns and goes everywhere, painting your insides a pretty shade of ivory white, and you can feel every drop of it flowing into you. it’s poison, it’s heavy, and it’s awful, yet your cunt has no choice but to take every little bit of it. you bite down on the inside of your cheek as it starts to eke out, and you force yourself to endure it. you have no choice but to; this is what survival is for you now. this is the only answer you have now.

you don’t know how you’re going to live with this. you try to console yourself by telling yourself that you had gotten over the worst, but you know that you haven’t. you never will.

“nnghg…!” a stray cry slips from your mouth when something tight and way too big for you to take invades your strained hole. a sharp pain invades and spearheads through you, and your entire body stiffens as his large knot shoves its way into your plush and stretched out pussy. his cum overwhelms your body, stretching out every inch of your battered womb. your stomach bulges just slightly, feeling stuffed to the very brim.

michael nearly collapses on top of you, keeping you folded in half and in a perfect, vulnerable breeding position. his eyes are blown open wide and glossed over in a kind of drunken stupor, yet he refuses to let you go in any capacity. it’s not like you have the physical means to anyway; you’re already so weak from having him force himself onto you, and the pain of being bred and knotted is taking everything in you to not pass out right there and then.

he reaches towards your face, cupping your tear-stained and broken expression with his large palm. you don’t know if the feeling that stirs in your gut is simply the aftershocks of sex or pity towards yourself, but seeing michael look down at you with such a triumphant yet lovestricken gaze isn’t doing your any favors. you know you have no choice but to get pregnant with his children, to watch in horror as your body turns into nothing but a host for these parasites he’s determined to fuck into you over and over, not a single squeeze of semen going to waste with the knot he’s plugged you up with.

“we’ll be perfect together,” he whispers. his words are almost like a mantra he’s brainwashing you with. you wonder who needs it more, the manipulator or the one being manipulated. everything feels like a punishment to you. just where did you go wrong? were you too ambitious for your own good? too hopeful? too willing to jump at the first opportunity for escape that came your way, not caring to see if any part of the rosy details were traps?

or maybe the worst part was that you might have done nothing wrong at all. maybe this was all a twisted machination of the universe. maybe just like what michael believed, you were destined to fall into the wolf’s grasp one way or another, to disappear from the face of society and the world as you knew it, to have him drag you off into the darkness and to become the broken but beautiful wolf’s bride that he must have dreamt of forever.

“i love you.” he kisses you, and you don’t have the strength nor the courage to say those blasted words back to him. it’s not like you could say them back sincerely either. instead you avert his gaze, turning your face towards the red scraps of your cloak that lay on the ground as if they were miniature corpses of their own, left over from a long lost war.

you hope your mother can forgive you when she realizes you won't ever come back home.

KINKTOBER 2023—le cinquième jour, le dernier jour.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk smut #michael kaiser #x reader #my writing

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lot-of-nothing · 2 months

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Entwined (Ch. 4)

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Reconciliation and growth? Melissa realizes she still has a lot she needs to work through.

Warnings: Sexual themes and internalized homophobia

Author's Note: A little worldbuilding around R's relationship with Melissa. Thank you soooo much to @alexusonfire for betaing this <3

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

The bartender placed a drink on the bar before you, earning them a furrowed brow and questioning glance. They gave a toothy grin in response and pointed down the bar to your left, “It's from the redhead.”

Your stomach sank at the prospect, and the bartender noticed how your features drooped. With a sympathetic glance, they let you be with your thoughts.

Melissa. It had to be her.

You stared down at the wood grain of the bar, debating if you even wanted to open the wounds that were barely healed as it was. Even a glance felt like too much for you now. You weren’t ready for this after everything ended so terribly. But it didn’t seem like Melissa was giving you much of a choice as her plump hand crept from your shoulder blade to your shoulder, “Long time no see.”

You knew her voice well, so when her tone lacked her typical confidence, your eyes flicked up to her face with concern. Her flaming hair was tucked behind her right ear and she was gazing at you softly as her thumb began rubbing soft circles against your clothed shoulder. “Can I sit?”

Your eyes scanned her body as you considered her question, noting the casual outfit of jeans, a pink long sleeve shirt, and her usual jumble of necklaces. Any emotions that her presence stirred in you were pushed down with your apathetic tone and shrug as you swivel your head to face forward once more, “I don’t own the place. Sit where you want.”

Melissa took a nervous seat next to you. She wasn’t about to back down just because you seemed angry with her. She had thought long and hard about everything that had happened between you and was ready to reconcile. Mel chewed at the inside of her lip as she let some time pass between the two of you. Her eyes were watching you intently in the mirror hung behind the shelves of liquor across the bar, and her nails nervously tapped on her glass of brown liquor as she thought about what she should say.

The redhead coughed and then turned her head slightly towards you as she spoke, “Ahem, how’s Ms. Sunshine?”

“We broke up.” Your response was automatic, and while you tried to sound just as cold as you did when you let her sit, you couldn’t hide your disappointment when you were reminded of that night once more.

“How’s-” Melissa started, but you cut her off.

“We don’t have to do small talk.”

Mel allowed silence to fall between you both again. From the corner of your eye, you watched her fidget with her phone as she pretended to be comfortable with the silence between you both. You knew she was searching for a different topic of conversation to you talking - the effort being a refreshing change to your interactions in the past.

Another few minutes passed before her voice rang out again - twinged with hope that reminiscing could get you to talk to her, “Remember senior prom? When Frankie Amici ditched me for Kristin Marie?”

At first you considered only nodding, but then you caught a glimpse of Melissa’s half smile in the mirror as she stared into her lap and thought about that night. You decided to play along, but you refused to smile or offer any indication you enjoyed the conversation, “We sat out on Reading Railroad Bridge with a pack of menthols from your uncle.”

“A train came and we had to jump into the river.” Mel’s nose scrunched up at the thought of being in the Schuylkill River. She remembered scrubbing her skin raw afterwards to get the remnants of the polluted river off of her.

The memory of you both jumping off that bridge, hand-in-hand and screaming as you plummeted into the freezing water, brought a smile to your face. You made so many bad decisions together in your teens that it was surprising neither of you ever hurt yourselves. You glanced at Melissa, smirking a bit as you reminded her of the aftermath, “We warmed up in my car.”

Melissa straddled you in the passenger seat of the Pontiac Oldsmobile you borrowed from your cousin. You slowly unzipped her baby pink prom dress while she kissed your neck. She was grinning when she pulled away and peeled the dress from her body - Mel always loved the way your eyes lit up when she revealed herself to you. Her hand caught you by the back of the neck and guided you to her breasts, “Why don’t you help me warm up?”

With your hands pressing into her back, you dove towards her breasts - rolling her nipples between your teeth and leaving darkened marks across her chest. Your hands sunk under the soaked fabric of her dress, revealing more of Melissa’s chilled skin to you. She pulled away again, leaning back against the dashboard to watch you with her intense green eyes. You wished you could say you met her gaze but you were too busy staring at her torso.

Melissa’s mouth went dry at how you eyed her. In your reminiscing, you had begun watching the redhead just as you did that night - hungry eyes flicking between her cleavage and her lips. She hummed in agreement as her heart skipped a beat, “Mhmm..”

Finally you stopped ogling her and met her gaze, “You looked so pretty in that pink dress.”

And with that statement, you made Melissa Schemmenti blush. The heat on her cheeks only grew as you propped your head in your hand and stared intently at her, raising your brows as you waited expectantly for her to carry on the conversation. While she had broken you down a bit into being willing to speak to her, it was up to Mel to carry the brunt of your discussion, and carry it she did.

You went back and forth for half an hour, sharing silly memories from your time spent together. The conversation took a change in tone when Melissa stared at her hands and asked, “You remember when Nona died? The night after?”

“That night you came over at 2am. I let you in and you crawled into my bed.” You knew how painful it was for her to bring it up - it always had been since she passed. With a tentative pace, you reached out and covered her hand with your own, giving her a light squeeze before lifting your hand to her face to tuck her red locks behind her ear. Your gentle actions caused her gaze to lift to your face.

Melissa’s eyes watered, but the tears were swiftly blinked away with a huff before she spoke, “I remember your hand on my face. Even while you slept, you seemed to know when I was cryin’ ‘cause your thumb would rub my cheek.”

After Melissa had crawled into your bed, you followed suit, drawing her to your chest. She rested her forehead against your sternum and she was using your bicep as a pillow. You could feel her tears falling from her cheek onto your skin which made tears threaten to fall from your own eyes.

“She loved you so much, pretty girl...” You whisper, drawing your hand to her cheek and rubbing soft circles into her cheekbone. She didn’t even protest as you pressed your lips against the top of her head. While sleep would overtake Mel and you periodically, you would always rouse with the feeling of tears against your skin. When you woke, you would gently rub her cheek until she would settle back down and fall asleep.

You offered a soft smile, “You were over a lot that week before the funeral... stress cooking. I don’t think my fridge has ever been that full since.”

The redhead let out a puff of air instead of a laugh, “Yeah…”

—

An hour later you had moved from the bar into a small booth where Melissa was pressed into your side. Mel’s behavior was a bit different than what you had come to know - it made you wonder what had changed within the past few months. You knew Mel wasn’t a regular of this bar so she might have been feeling comfortable in the anonymity and inebriation.

You lean in close, grinning wide when Melissa didn’t move away which only left a few centimeters between you both. You teased her quietly, reaching an unseen hand out to rest on her back, “Aren’t you nervous people might think you are flirting with me?”

“Who said I was flirtin’?” She lifted her nose into the air and smirked while her foot stroked your calf under the table. This was the flirtatious attitude you loved from Melissa.

“Maybe it’s how your shirt keeps getting pulled lower… Or maybe it’s how you keep getting closer... and closer.” Your finger teased at the edge of her now exposed bra and your lips lingered closer to hers with every word. In all of your years of knowing Melissa, you had never experienced a situation where it felt like you were on a date with her. Your chemistry was undeniable and you wondered if she felt it too.

“Maybe this is just how I talk to people.” Her lips brushed against yours before you were the one to pull away.

You leaned back in your seat, staring at her with a cocked head. While it was challenging to do so, you had to remind yourself that you couldn’t make this so easy for her. “Oh, yeah?”

She hummed, eying you as if she could eat you alive, “Mhmm.”

“Melissa?” A voice rang out from behind Mel causing you to sit a bit higher in order to see where the source of disturbance to your flirtation.

The redhead’s head whipped around as she obviously recognized who had interrupted. Tragically, she shifted away from you entirely to look at the young man face to face. Her cheeks were aflame as a scowl formed on her lips, “Jacob?”

Jacob lit up at the sight of Melissa’s face and from your outside perspective, he seemed to be well intentioned, yet potentially exasperating. He began speaking at a mile a minute, gesturing with his hands and occasionally peering around Mel to smile at you, “I didn't know you came to Good Dog! I thought you said you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this?”

“Well I- What are you doing here? You had a date.” Melissa was obviously flustered and you only made matters worse as you leaned forward unsuspectingly and placed a hidden hand on the small of her back, lifting her shirt slightly to rub her bare skin. Your act made her sit up a bit straighter which made you grin.

“They said donating to NPR was the equivalent of funding the Trump campaign. I knew it wouldn’t work out from there.” Jacob waved off his own failed date and leaned against the table with his eyes focused on you. He had a bragidose air about himself as he explained his own relationship with Melissa - a relationship that obviously brought him a great deal of pride. “Who is this? I’m Jacob Hill. I work with Melissa at Abbott, and we are roommates.”

“Roommates? Incredible.” You respond, eyes wide with a faux excitement that was more meant to tease Melissa as you had no clue she was living with someone.

“Jacob. This is Y/N. We went to high school together.” Melissa introduced you and shifted back in her seat a couple inches to hide your hand on her from the young man. In the past, your relationship with Melissa was hyper-private so you found this experience entertaining. It felt sadistic that you were incredibly satisfied with watching Mel squirm in her seat with discomfort, but felt like a form of payback for years of her keeping you a secret.

Jacob didn’t seem to notice Melissa’s odd behavior and leaned over the table with a more hushed tone. His eyes were bright and enthusiastic as he questioned you, “Did Melissa ever do embarrassing things in school? She refuses to tell me anything that might lead me to know her age.”

You leaned in close to Jacob, whispering loud enough for Melissa to hear, “Voluminous hair. Bigger and higher than you can dream of. Lots of hairspray.”

Jacob was grinning wildly when Mel took him by the arm and guided him away from your little booth. It made you grin wickedly when you saw her having to readjust her shirt.

With a bit of increased proximity from Melissa, you were finally allowed a bit of clarity. You couldn’t believe what you were doing. Four months ago you had told her to leave, anticipating you would never have to see or speak to her again, and now you were wrapped around her finger once more. You needed to set boundaries for yourself and Melissa so as to not get your hopes up - after all, maybe a more structured ‘friends with benefits’ could work... right?

Melissa spoke quietly enough to keep you from hearing her scolding tone. All the while, Jacob hardly seemed fazed by how she growled when speaking to him, “Jacob, you never answered my question. What are ya’ doin’ here?”

Jacob fished his phone from his pocket and swiped it open to show her the app he used to figure out where she was. The redhead’s anger slowly simmered as she realized he was more well intentioned than her initial thoughts, “I saw your location was here on Find My iPhone. I was coming from up the street and just wanted to check in. Am I… interrupting something?”

“No! No. No. No.” Mel was defensive, folding her arms over her chest and glancing back at you with furrowed brows, “We are just catching up.”

“Okay.” His tone made it seem as though he didn’t quite believe the redhead, and to make matters worse for himself, he was smirking a little bit while he glanced back and forth between Mel and you.

Melissa’s tone alone was the equivalent to her baseball bat (Edith Houghton) in hand, “What’s with the little smirk?”

“Nothing.” Jacob’s coyness had Melissa ready to tear him in two, “What did you say your relationship was again?”

“What relationship? We are… friends. Just friends. From high school.” Melissa poked a finger in Jacob’s chest, snarling to get her point across - a fruitless pursuit.

“I remember when I caught up with this one friend from high school. We ended up messing around in his car afterwards.” Jacob’s newfound friendship with Melissa had him feeling much braver than he was a year ago. He teased the redhead with a wide grin and then waved to you before he made his exit. “It was nice meeting you! See you at home, roomie.”

—

After exiting the bar, you had found yourselves in the backseat of your car for a quick makeout session. On the way out of the front doors, Melissa had pulled you into the darkness of the nearby alley, pushed you against the wall, and kissed any remaining thoughts from your head. The only thought you were able to form after she took your hand and tugged you back towards your car was: God, I missed her.

You knew you should have made things harder for her. You shouldn’t have been able to be won back by a couple rounds of drinks and exchanging memories, but there was always something about this woman that felt so much like home that you couldn’t stay away. By the time she opened the door to the backseat and told you to get comfortable, you told yourself there would be other times to resolve the lingering issues between Mel and you.

“I think he knows.” Mel leaned back in your lap, resting her back against the driver's seat. She was breathing heavily from the nonstop kissing and most of her lipstick was now smeared across your mouth.

You knew she was panicked about her interaction with Jacob back at the bar, but your mind was a little preoccupied with the sight of Melissa’s bare chest. “Knows what?”

You leaned forward and attached your mouth to Melissa’s neck while your hands began working to unbutton her jeans. The redhead wove a hand into your hair to keep you against her as she continued her stressing, “He knows about us.”

“Who?” It wasn’t intentional, but you were entirely absentminded as your hands drifted back up and were now filled by Mel’s breasts.

Melissa huffed at your inability to follow her train of thought, “Jacob!”

“Mel…” You whined, pouting against her neck. After all of these months lamenting over your relationship while simultaneously yearning for Melissa, all you wanted after hours of emotional bonding was to act on the lust you had for her.

The redhead began rocking against your lap with her arms wound around your neck to continue her venting, “Gays have that, you know? Gay-dar or whatever.”

You couldn’t help but smile at Melissa’s phrasing as you dragged your tongue up her neck. She tasted citrusy yet floral from her orange blossom perfume, “Mhmm…”

“What if… God… What if he knows?”

“Knows what, Mel?” You finally pulled back, lifting Melissa’s chin to bring her gaze up so she was looking at you. Even with your efforts, she still averted her gaze.

“Knows I’m… I’m...” Melissa danced around the words, entirely overwhelmed with the prospect of admitting something she wasn’t quite ready to.

“Oh, pretty girl…” Your hands took the redhead’s face and held it close while you kissed her forehead and tucked her hair behind her ears. Mel was still pouting a little when you ducked your head down to catch her dejected gaze, “Why don’t you go home and talk to him?”

She whined and pouted with a pseudo-glare as her own way of arguing with you, “But we were-”

“Mel. I think we both know this will happen again sometime soon.” You pressed another kiss to her forehead and wrangled her into a hug. She struggled against your arms for a moment before relaxing into the embrace, allowing you to hold her for a few seconds.

When you pulled away, you began collecting her articles of clothing - presenting her with her bra and shirt for her to redress. Your adoring gaze and gentility made the redhead blush as this type of attention wasn’t exactly like anything she had experienced before with her boyfriends and husband, but it was a common feeling for her when you were together.

Not only did you open the door and help her out of the car (all while sitting down), you offered to walk her to her car. She couldn’t believe how she didn’t quite notice your adoration before. You had always tried your best to take care of the fiercely independent woman, but perhaps your gender had always made your care nonthreatening when compared to care from men.

She bumped her shoulder into you as you strolled down the darkened sidewalk towards her car. Her words were genuine albeit pained, “I’m really sorry… about always doin’ this to ya’.”

You could hardly believe you were receiving an apology from the redhead, so you couldn’t help but tease her in response - bumping her shoulder with your own, “Are you really?”

Melissa stopped in her tracks, staring up at you with an intensity you were not prepared for, “I am. You have always been good to me… I’m just- I’m figuring things out. You never deserved any of this.”

“Mel, it’s okay.” You felt discomfort in the vulnerability with Mel. All you had ever wanted was an apology and now that you had it, you didn’t know what to do with it.

She answered plainly as she continued walking to her car, “It’s not.”

You trailed after her towards her car, somewhat reeling as you thought about her apology. What did she mean when she said she was figuring things out? Did you have a chance with her? Maybe this is the result of you putting your foot down with her. Maybe she realized what was on the line and her desire for you outweighs whatever fear she has of being gay.

Your swirling thoughts bring forth a surge of confidence in you as you stand outside Melissa’s driver side door. Leaning your forearms on the open window of Mel’s car, you lean inside a bit - entirely unable to hide your giddy grin, “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

Melissa floundered for a moment. A goodbye kiss felt so much like a relationship, and after she had broken up with Gary, she told herself she wasn’t interested in anything like yet. But then again after everything happened between you, she didn’t want to hurt you by placing you back into the not-so-friend-zone once more. Finally, she nodded silently, leaning forward timidly in search of your lips.

As your lips made contact, you stretched out a hand to grasp her face. She hummed at the intensity of the kiss as she never expected it when you exuded this quiet dominance. You held her in place and licked at her bottom lip. You deepened the kiss and then pulled away slowly, leaving her stuck in place for a moment - completely dumbfounded. It was all so much at once and she was hardly expecting it.

“See ya’ around, Schemmenti.”

Just like that Melissa was back in your life, and this time you were filled with a bit of hope for your relationship. You didn’t want to put too much stock in it, but something felt a little different this time.

Jacob perched himself on the couch in the living room, staring intently at the front door as he waited for Melissa. The second she walked in the front door, he leaned back in his chair (just as he had practiced in his head) and flourishing his hands as he spoke, “Caught. Red. Handed.”

Mel dropped her bag by the front door as she locked it, rolling her eyes at Jacob’s dramatism, “What are you talkin’ about, kid?”

“You and a certain ‘friend’ sharing a little kiss in the parking lot.” He leaned forward in his seat, absolutely exhilarated with witnessing Melissa act so queerly. “Well, it was maybe more than a little.”

Jacob’s support was ignored as Mel saw a more glaring issue - he had been following her. Often she would scold Jacob, but now she was yelling, causing the young teacher to cower where he sat, “YOU WERE HANGIN’ AROUND WATCHIN’ ME?!”

While his tone was meek, he tried to maintain his positive attitude, “I had a feeling. I knew it! You’re bisexual!”

“No. I am not gay. I like men and that’s it!” Melissa shouted, waiting to finish tearing Jacob a new one before she would storm up the stairs and ignore the world for the rest of the evening. He attempted to interject, but she shut it down immediately and gestured fiercely with her hands to really get her point across, “Shut it. I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about this, and don’t you dare think about telling anyone at school about this!”

Link to Chapter 5

Taglist: @esposadejoyhuerta, @unicorniusfallapatorius, @sapphicxrat, @earpivore

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #toxic relationship

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heavencanbeaprisontoo · 2 months

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Strip Me to My Bones

Slowburn!Tommy x autistic!fem!reader

Chapter One: The Mentalist of Minster

Prologue

Summary: You came to Birmingham for liberation, for freedom. To live. It was never your intention to attract the interest of a man with a red right hand. Yet you have, and for two years after meeting his cold gaze you were allowed to enjoy that freedom. But that cage may soon be closing on you again.

Warnings: Blackmail, period-typical sexism, contextual use of g-slur, Canon-typical violence, author is autistic, spoilers for series one possibly, slow burn. WC: 4.3k words

Like a Bengal tiger in the London Zoo. She doesn’t belong there, walking behind iron bars as the pads of her paws crease loose straw peppered on top of cold concrete. Onlookers gawk at a creature who has no way of hiding from their judgment. The handlers feed her, yes, but she is never fully satisfied.

For as long as you can remember, you have felt like a beast in a small cage. There are faded treads along the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. All caused by the pacing of the beast your family put into itchy dresses and floppy bows. You would tear at the vestiges of girlhood with vigor, but they would only grow tighter. Verbal language came late to you, a fact that your mother would hide by calling you “shy.” When the beast did speak, they were still not pleased, for she said precisely what she thought. You had a keen eye all your life, and to study your fellow man was what your mother had told you that you must do. Watch and observe those around you, so that you may one day learn how a lady must act. Unfortunately, you cared little for replicating what you saw. It was far more interesting to observe, analyze, and report. Which got you into trouble. Truthfulness and rudeness were twin siblings that you could not tell apart. Silence was forced back upon you.

The little things you did as a child that most adults found endearing became rude and unsightly. Rocking oneself back and forth was sweet for a child and unsettling for a teenager. You must stop that. Tracing the wood grain of your desk at school seemed creative until it wasn’t. You must stop that. Flapping your hands as you listen to your father’s records charmed many before you grew to about twelve. You must stop that. A caged beast can only pace, and so you did. You paced, and paced, and paced, and paced—

As you grew into adolescence, the cage stayed the same. Brother was allowed to journey off for his business and leisure. Sister attended school far from home. You remained caged, for, like all odd creatures, it was for your own good. It did not matter how curious or clever you were. The world was too wild for you now, so said your parents. Father was seldom home, and when he was, you were never certain which version of him would greet you. There was the gentle Mr. Hargreaves, who would talk with you about patterns in history and compliment your keen insight. Then there was Father. The one who berated you for your awkwardness and kept to his study with a bottle of scotch that seemed to fill itself every other day. He was brilliant, your father. A man of meager means used his ability to identify patterns to predict the market and make a fortune through investing. He was intelligent, successful, charismatic, and deeply troubled. He fought forever with himself until one day he lost the fight.

You were in your early twenties when your father died. Unwed and still living in the family home, this was the greatest change you faced in your entire life. His death was hard to accept for many. Tears were still falling as his last will and testament were read before the family. All his fortune was to be split in four. A portion to your mother, brother, sister, and you. The amount was read. It was a lot. Enough money that your cage now has a door. One with a handle on the inside.

For the first time in years, you stood perfectly still as you had your thoughts on it all. If you were to leave this cage, it would be for good.

When you announced to your family that you intended to use your piece of inheritance to buy a flat, your mother was horrified. It took you six months to find a flat in a city that you found agreeable. For all six of those months, your mother tried and tried to talk you out of it. She reminded you of how overwhelming change could be for you, how you knew no one outside of the family, and how you had never known such loneliness. She cried over how you would be living like a widow in a world that would see you as a harlot for being young, unwed, and without a male figure. You answered with a smile, “I have never cared for the thoughts of onlookers, and I will not begin that habit today.”

That was the last time you had seen your mother. Three, no, five years ago. Now you were the resident of Flat B10, Minster Drive, at the heart of Small Heath. All under her maiden name, just to add that healthy bit of distance between you and the Hargreaves name.

You were quite content buying necessities (bread, milk, butter, and Belgian chocolates) and had no need to work the first year of your independence due to your inherited fortune. On days with fair weather, you would walk about Birmingham for hours. Journeying to museums, libraries, gardens, and occasionally the Cut. During one of your long walks along the canal, you encountered a weeping woman. Feeling compelled to comfort her, you went to her and inquired as to why she was upset. Over the course of an hour, you learned much about her life and gave her some thoughts on her various struggles. Despite your lack of worldly experience, something in the way you spoke moved her. She thanked you with wide eyes and both hands gripping yours tightly. You went on with your day.

The following week, she found you as you walked to your favorite reading spot. She had a friend with her who also needed your advice. So, you gave it. The two women put money into your hands. Oddly, they wouldn’t take it back when you tried to return it. This happened again three days later. To avoid being interrupted on your walks, you gave them your address and times of the day when you would not be occupied. Sure enough, the two women came to your home for your advice. Only this time, they were referring to you as though your observations were metaphysical or supernatural in nature. They referred a young man to you after this, an ex-soldier with a fractured mind. He left your home convinced that you had seen the innards of his soul. You merely asked him questions and made valid inferences. This mattered not to him or your rapidly growing list of interested customers. Thus began your strange occupation as a “mentalist.” Such a strange thing, you thought, to be sought out and paid to do that which polite society shunned you for. Observe, analyze, and report. Summon details from your mental filing cabinet to illuminate that which is not obvious to those around you.

It took some adjusting, but within a year, the random visitors became routine. Your earnings were unneeded, but not without their use. And your clients seemed so in need of an unjudging ear. It felt as if you were engaging in some sort of public service. So, you carried on. They started to call you The Mentalist on Minster.

On a rainy morning in late 1919, with your popularity on the rise, a man came to your door.

He stood tall in a long gray coat. Sharp gray suit underneath with a pinstripe shirt and a thick, white collar. The cap on his head combined with the collar told you straight away that he was one of those men the old lady next door complained about. Search the files behind your eyes, Peaky Blinder. It occurred to you quickly that there may be a problem. You thought it best to be direct. “Can I help you?”

His eyes move left, then right, taking in the surroundings. You knew that meant he didn’t want to be seen here. Interesting. He stared back at you with the bluest eyes you had ever seen, and he answered your question as lightly as possible. “You see the future, I hear.”

His face was somewhat tanned on the cheeks. Where would a gangster get a tan in Small Heath? The Cut. They get supplies from there, you once heard. Supplies for what mattered little to you.

“I see people, for a price. Not the future. Nobody can do that. It’s rather early, so I hope you’ve got money in that big coat.” You step aside to let him in. Slowly, he entered your home. The stranger had full lips and high cheekbones, almost womanly in his beauty. Your mind raced to identify who he was and why he was there. The women in town talked about a family of pretty gypsies; they are the ones running the gang. The name, the name... Search the files...

“I normally have tea prepared, but you don’t drink tea anyway, so I won’t bother with the kettle this time.” You took a seat on your favorite sofa and tried to look relaxed. You heard that the criminal sort would take advantage of those who seemed rattled and disorganized. Maybe you should have changed out of your robe. That was hardly on your mind; you were still trying to find the bloody name.

The stranger threaded his fingers together on his lap. “They say you can see inside of people; tell them things about them that even they don’t know.” His voice was low, but not deep. Smooth. Cold. There was an accusation in the way he spoke to you. A challenge. It was odd that he would come to you for services he himself didn’t seem to believe in.

You played glib, “My, that’s a lovely review of my services! I should put that on a sign outside my doorway.” His face doesn’t give away humor or irritation. The name comes to you. “Though I would rather know why you came to see me, Mr. Shelby, You are Mr. Shelby, yes?”

“That I am,” he seemed amused, “and I am not entirely sure why I came to see you either.”

He told you most of what you needed to know without saying a word. People in great stress and desperation tend to do that. What you heard from his eyes irritated you. This Mr. Shelby was trying to use you as a coin flip. Tip the scales in a direction so it will be easier for him to make a decision. As politely as you could, you told him to make his choice and move on. He seemed satisfied. You got your payment. He left.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. You found out his first name was Thomas, and that he went on to overthrow the track king of Birmingham, Billy Kimber. The Shelby family’s infamy grew rapidly in the following months. Not that it mattered to you, as you have a steady flow of clients now. You were never sure if it had to do with Mr. Shelby’s visit. Years passed, and a week after 1921 was hailed in, there was a knocking at your door.

You open it while holding your cup of tea in your right hand. When you saw his face, you sighed. You had a feeling your cup would go cold.

He stares at you as he had two years ago. Focused. Incredulous. Still waters. His face isn’t kissed by the sun anymore. Colder. He looks colder.

“You came back,” you say, taking a sip of tea, “and in a better suit, Mr. Thomas Shelby.”

Meeting your statement of the obvious with one of his own, he says, “And you’re dressed this time.” He gestured to your white blouse and mulberry skirt. “Might I come in?”

Just as you did the first time, you step aside and let the devil into your home. His head swivels around as he lurks through your home. Past the walls of shadowboxes, the bookshelves of ancient histories, and your various taxidermized creatures.

You take him right back to your sitting room. He starts to lower himself as you remember something and fish out a small stack of cards from your skirt pocket. “Ah, Mr. Shelby. Here.” Carefully, you hand him one plain business card with your new moniker, ‘The Mentalist on Minster,’ and your phone number. Mr. Shelby takes it and turns it over in his hand with a hum. “Moving forward, you’ll need to call ahead. I’m quite busy these days, and I simply can’t take any walk-ins. You’re fine for today, however.”

He pockets it, chuckling to himself. Upon sitting down on the client’s sofa, his mood seems to darken. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The things that change and the things that stay the same?"

You don’t sit, not right away. His deep blue eyes find you standing in the doorway. “Is that a comment on my decorating or an opening for this second unscheduled visit?" Thomas puts his eyes back on your vine-covered window. They're thicker now, the vines. Some might call it growth. Others might call it a sign of decay. You wonder in which category you could place this man in your home.

Mr. Shelby takes out a cigarette, lighting it. He doesn't ask permission. Mr. Shelby puts his cigarette on his lips, but he only holds it there. You can see his eyes flick at you briefly. All his motions are smooth and slow, even the small ones. “How did all this start? This business of yours.”

This conversation is irritating you, and it's only just begun. What sort of person arrives unannounced at someone's home just to waste their time? You cross your arms and say, “People tell me things; I listen, and then they give me money.”

He takes a drag. Exhales. “They pay you to tell you things.”

Leaning against the doorway separating your sitting room from the dining room, you sigh, “I’m a very good listener, Mr. Shelby. So good, in fact, that people tell me things without even speaking.”

“Quite the ear you must have.” He's back to looking out the vine-covered window.

You slip into the room and sit across from him with barely a thought to the cup in your hand. Tea might've dripped on your skirt, but it was worth it to finally see him move faster than a molasses drip to meet your eyes. “There are other ways to listen, of course. The way people move, speak, and shift in their seats It says more than anyone is willing to say.”

His lips purse as he nods thoughtfully. It didn’t seem terribly genuine, though. He clicks his tongue and asks, “Would you need to be in front of someone to ‘listen,’ to them?”

“Not always, but it can be difficult unless I can see the way they move. And to hear too much about someone can make it difficult because then my reading is tainted by the opinions of whoever informed me of the person. Bias is a powerful thing, you know.” You wait for him to respond. He just sits there, looking out your window. Unimpressed. “I am becoming irritated, Mr. Shelby. If you cannot explain your purpose in coming to my door, I will ask you to walk back out of it.”

Mr. Shelby doesn’t move; he doesn’t even blink. You set down your cup on the table that separates you and say, “It’s a woman. Again. A woman and your family, most likely. It certainly can’t be the law because you’ve come to me at a sensible hour. It can’t be money because, my God, you drove here. The only thing a man like you cannot control is love and family. When you lose your grasp on either one, you’re helpless. It’s too soft for you. It’s all the things you try to lock up so you can think clearly with bloodied fingers. Stop me if this starts to feel like a biography, Mr. Shelby.”

His eye stays on you, and his lips are parted around that blasted cigarette like a lover. Eyebrows raised just barely. The lion has been interrupted as he takes his drink at the watering hole. A beast recognizes one of its own kind, even in this place of concrete and smoke. You answer his question before he asks it: “I told you, people tell me things without even speaking.”

Finally, he says, “There’s a woman on my mind, and there she stays. No matter what I do,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Slow and deep.

“A bit pathetic to have the same problem twice you paused.“ Don’t repeat that; most of my repeat clients have repeat problems. Which shouldn’t bother me, as I do love to study patterns, but it is indeed pathetic. The woman isn’t dead, is she?”

A twitch at the corner of his lips hints at humor. You couldn't know that for Thomas Shelby, that was as close to a smile as many had gotten in several months. He exhales smoke from his nose; it curls around his head in a loose halo. “As far as I know, she is alive and well."

“Did she leave on her own, or did you shoo her away to try to be kind?”

A short, humorless chuckle escapes his lips. Either at being called ‘kind,’ or at your bluntness. It is hard to say. The halo dissipates in his loss of composure: “She was smart. She left.”

He seems to avoid meeting your gaze. It's not entirely unwelcome. Sometimes, when people look at you for too long, it feels like something is being asked of you that you cannot give. “It must be hard for you to be so arrogant and self-loathing all at once,” you state with sincerity.

He looked at you and gave you a nod of affirmation. "Whiskey helps."

"It clearly doesn't."

"It's a joke."

"It isn't funny,” you say, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, “and it still isn’t everything. The first time you were here, you weren’t sure why you were here. This time is different. I knew it when I saw you. This was planned; you are here for a reason. Why don’t you just say it so that I don’t have to say it for you?”

The light that slips from between the vines lights his eyes. It’s a strange thing that a man so pretty would have a life like his. If you were truly a reader of minds and lives, maybe you could make better sense of him. Right now, you’re trying to play the game the way you think he might. Bluffing, just a little. Truthfully, you aren’t sure if there’s a real reason for his being here outside of interpersonal woes.

“Normally, I’m not fond of your type. Posh, educated, clean girl with soft hands that have never known labor... living among the working class by choice,” he leans back in his seat. The conversation has changed somehow. His posture has shifted slightly, head titled to the side as he stares down at your hunched-over body. You remain still, remain silent, and wait. He continues, “But I would like to hire you.”

“Hire me?” you scoff. “What would you need of someone like me? Surely you have people to gather information if that’s what you so desire.”

Mr. Shelby’s lips pull back in a self-satisfied smirk. “Finding papers and connecting them to people is a simpler task than one might think. Now, reading people—that’s an art. And I will be in need of an artist in the foreseeable future.”

A chortle leaves you before you say, “This has been fun, Mr. Shelby, but I think it’s time you left. I have no desire in being commissioned to be a consultant for an active criminal. Throw whatever numbers you like at me, but as you know, I’m posh. Money doesn’t concern me terribly.”

His next words are complimentary, but devastating “Yes, you’ve made a legitimate business for yourself, Miss Hargreaves. You must be proud.”

Heart into the stomach, plummeting. He had not been the first to correctly assume you were from the upper class. Anyone could guess you weren’t from Birmingham based only on your accent, but certainly not your name. “Hargreaves? Why did you call me Hargreaves?”

He only stares, silence fills the room and it’s not helping you at all. Your mind is racing. How could he know that name? How many people know who you are? All the money you have hidden away?

You scoff and move to stand. Before you can order him to explain his intelligence, he says, “Trying to distance yourself from your conman father, are we?”

You could’ve struck him for that. But you don’t. Body tight, you spit “Did my words sting you so badly that you had to come back here to hurt me with lies?” No point in denying relation.

The slow blink he gives you is not at all encouraging for your case. He seems so bloody pleased with himself. You could swear he was smiling as he said, “I couldn’t help but want to learn more about you. And after some digging, I met someone who recognized you by description alone. They had so much to say about you, and so much more to say about Mr. Bertram Hargreaves.”

Leaning forward, you grip your knees to keep from grabbing this man by the throat. Father was never an entirely kind man, but he was brilliant. He made his fortune honestly. Brutally.

Light from the midday sun beams through the vines of your window, painting you both in slithering shadows. Chest rising and falling deeply, you say “That person spoke lies wrapped in truths to keep your attention, Mr. Shelby. I am indeed Mr. Bertram Hargreaves’ daughter, but he is no con-artist. I merely concealed my name for privacy. My father’s hands were clean in death.”

The sofa he sits upon groans softly as Thomas moves forward, slipping out of his casual posture and imitating your own “My source provided evidence. Would you like to see a piece of it?”

A piece of it? “Show me,” you bark.

Sighing, he shifts to the side and produces a thin folder from his inner coat pocket. The emblem on the side has your blood running cold immediately. He places it on the table between you and opens it. There, right in front of you, is a folder baring the Hargreaves family emblem with three pages of… payment records. With your father’s signature at the bottom. You’re able to read that an organization called Western Investment Liaisons was being paid hundreds—no, thousands of pounds by a variety of individuals and organizations. Before you could examine it closer, Thomas closed the folded and pulled it back.

Wildly, you reach for it, “Let me see that! If you mean to accuse my father, I—"

“Miss Hargreaves,” his hand takes your wrist to stop you. Fingers slide just beneath the sleeve of your blouse. The touch of his fingertips is rough on your bare flesh. Mr. Shelby’s skin feels cool. Cool, not warm. You force your gaze down to where your hands meet. The sound if him moving closer makes you hold your breath. The space you crafted between yourself, and your clients has never felt so thin. You can feel the smoke of his exhale ghosting your hairline as his right hand reaches down. The lit end of his cigarette catches your eye. “I understand this is distressing. If this were ever to get out, I imagine your family would suffer under the harsh scrutiny of the upper class. They already looked down upon you and your family, the Hargreaves might as well be new money in their eyes. They’re all waiting for an excuse to discount all that your father did to put your family where they are now.”

“You are a starved, godless creature,” comes from between gritted teeth.

He carries on, as if he hadn’t heard you, “I know money doesn’t drive you. So, I think proper payment is this: in exchange of your cooperation, Things like this can just… go away.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you croak, “And what of the person who told you these things?”

The angry red tip of his cigarette hangs over your cup. He flecks the ashes of his cigarette into the tea. Gray ashes land on top of the murky water, collecting into small piles of soot before like a sinking to the bottom. You close your eyes as he says into your ear, “With time and money, people can go away too.”

Your head shoots up and you blurt out “Mr. Shelby! That’s— that isn’t what I meant, I just…”

With one last puff of his cigarette, Mr. Shelby drops it into your cup, “Do we have an agreement? Your services, on call, and in exchange the family reputation remains intact?”

All you can do is nod, dumbly. He rises from his seat and regards you with one last smirk: “And please, call me Tommy. We know so much about each other now; it’s only right to forgo the formalities, eh?”

Driven only by societal convention, you walk him to the door and usher him out. My mind was racing with all that had just transpired. Tommy holds up your business card and says, “Expect a phone call by next weekend. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

You close your door and push your back against it, fighting to control your breathing. Shaking hands start to flap as the urge to pace rises. Such a strange thing happened. So strange. You cannot force away the feeling that you’ve been caged yet again.

----

Taglist:

@eclectic-trash @weaponizedvirtue @girlwith-thepearlearring @perseny

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #thomas shelby x you #thomas shelby x y/n #Thomas Shelby x autistic!reader #enemies to friends to lovers

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hellhue · 2 years

Text

𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 ⋆ steve harrington x reader

wc: 4.1k

summary: after getting split from your friends, you and enemy Steve encounter new plant life in the upside down. wonder what it could be?

tags: frenemies to fwb to ??, sex pollen upside down smut with no plot, unprotected sex, rough sex, squirting, brief throatfucking, no aftercare

tw: sex pollen, dubcon

minors dni 18+ below cut

All you could hear was the thick flap of leathery wings beating around you, and the thump of your sneakers hitting concrete as you tried outrunning the colony of demobats that had found you and your friends.

Your lungs ached for air as you ran, one hand held above your face for protection while the other was gripped tightly in Steve’s as he pulled you behind him, trying to find the closest point of shelter in the short time you both had.

During the midst of the chase, Eddie, Nancy, and Robin got separated from you. Since then, you and Steve clutched to one another tightly to prevent further losses, thick worry creeping into the dark pits of your minds, partially for your own safety, but mostly for your friends.

“There!” you heard Steve shout, and then felt a heavy tug on your hand as Steve flung you inside in front of him before slamming the door behind him. He rested his back against the heavy door, spreading his arms to serve as a barricade while the demobats bashed against the wooden frame, over and over and over.

You tripped over your feet as you flew inside, and landed on the wooden floors of the entryway, narrowly missing the cluster of tendrils spread across the hardwood. Both of you heaved as you tried to catch your breath, taking a moment to let the hammering of your hearts settle.

“Did you have to throw me on the ground?” you complained through deep gasps, glowering at the wood grain below you as you propped yourself up with your knees and hands. The skin stung where you impacted.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “a ‘thank you for saving us’ would’ve worked” he grumbled sarcastically, ear pressed against the door as he listened to the creatures, taking a moment to cool the burn in his throat.

You scoffed at him, dusting yourself off as you hauled your body from the dirty floor. Now that you had a moment to glance around, you noticed the room was filled with thick black vines curling around the deserted entry way, and twisting up and across the walls. Neither of you attempted to move from your spots, eyes meeting one another’s, panic starting to brim as you noticed your surroundings. This isn’t any better.

“Suffocation by tentacles or snack pack for the demobats?” Steve offered, trying to lighten the mood as tension creeped through your necks.

You’d never tell him, but you appreciated it. As much as you could, when it came to Steve.

“You take both and I’ll take the opportunity to get out of here.” you smiled sweetly at him. Steve would serve as a worthy distraction.

“Jeez, forgot who I was with,” he groaned. He moved on, starting to tiptoed from the door, trying to make his way further into the strange house, “you would make me the sacrificial lamb. I grabbed the wrong person.” he mumbled the last part, pausing his advancement to examine you, eyes filled with regret while weighing his mishaps.

Your face dropped, not because of what Steve said, but because of the brief mention of the others. That same worried feeling starting to gnaw at your edges again, “do you think they’re okay?” you asked, teasing tone now replaced with an unusual gentleness, one Steve very rarely heard.

The sourness in his face morphed into something softer, sweeter, you couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. He just nodded, letting his eyes drop from your face before continuing his expansion into the house.

“They slipped inside the Powell’s a little ways up,” he spoke over his shoulder as you followed closely behind him through the narrow hallway, copying his exact footsteps to prevent accidentally alerting the creepy Upside Down hive mind, before he stopped abruptly before the first closed door.

Somehow you ended face first into his back with a sharp inhale of surprise.

“Steve!”

Your arms wrapped around the front of his torso tightly as you held him flush against your front, hoping to stop him from bumping into the door in front of him from your impact.

His body was hardened, stiff as it pressed into your soft, pliable one. You both stood motionless, seemingly unaffected from the crash, as far as the vines go, anyways.

“Watch where you’re going,” he gritted between his teeth, pinching between his brows harshly as you held onto him.

“Don’t just stop like that!” you retorted, face muffled against the denim of his vest. How could he be blaming you?

“Just..don’t move.” he gave up, knowing an argument would not help the current predicament.

Mine, hers, mine, hers.

He noted the alternating pattern of your feet against each other, noticing how both sets were a centimeter off from skimming the surrounding vines.

With one hand, he reinforced the hold you had around him, hoping to keep you steady so your feet didn’t slide as he leaned forward to the door, reaching his other hand around the doorknob and pushing in.

The door opened slowly with an eerie creek, the silver glow of the street lights spilling through the window into the dark room. It was mostly clear, no thick vines invading the space of the bedroom.

Steve let out a breath of relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“This looks safe. We can wait the bats out then meet up with the rest of them.”

As much as Steve frustrated you, you were a little glad you were with him. Despite hating him all throughout high school, he was smart with this stuff, and good under pressure. With him by your side, you knew you’d all make it out of here okay. It brought a small peace to your mind.

Entering the room only proved your point further, as there was no ichor, or thick black tendrils invading the space. The only residue of The Upside Down tainting it were the usual dark particles, as well as some thinner vines, adorned with dainty black flowers, growing across the walls. They were pretty, and seemed easy enough to avoid.

You and Steve rotated around the room, taking in the posters on the wall, toying with the scattered knickknacks and mixtapes spread across the strange room. Whoever’s it was, they seemed to be around your and Steve’s age. You couldn’t help but wonder if you knew them.

But keepsakes could only keep your attention for so long before the silence turned awkward, and boredom overtook you. Maybe waiting alone with Steve really is as bad as it sounds. You sighed audibly, moving onto the strange flowers decorating the wall.

As you got closer, the petals flickered, as if they could sense you. They threatened to push out, as if about to blossom.

“Wh- don’t touch those.” Steve chastised you like a child, pointing accusingly as you got closer to the blooms.

“No kids and I’m somehow still the babysitter.” he whined to himself, “I would’ve had better chances with Dustin.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes at him, “oh poor Stevie.” you feigned with false empathy before turning your back to him, attention back to the flowers. You brought a pinky finger up, and as if it could feel your aura, the petals fluttered and pulsed around the proximity. You were slow with your movements, being careful to not touch any of the petals, until suddenly, a large hand clasped your shoulder.

The unexpected contact startled you, causing your pinky to accidentally nudge the specimen. Shit.

Suddenly a puff of black particles blasted from the pistil, a dark ooze following behind it, dripping down the now opened blossoms of the flower.

You coughed, and coughed, and coughed as the fine particles invaded your eyes, nostrils, and throat with a thick burn. Steve pulled you back from the spill in a hurry, unsure what to do.

“What the fuck, Steve!” you shrieked, eyes clasped closed, tears spilling from the sides as you rubbed furiously at them, further smearing the black pounce across your face.

“What a safe fucking room!” you added in frustration, panic coating your voice as the sting spread.

“Don’t blame me! I was trying to get you away from it!” The panic in his voice matches yours as he wrapped one hand around the back of your neck, pulling you in front of him. He brought the ends of his vest up with his other hand, using the rough material to wipe the black dust off your face. He was gentle, tracing it softly over the creases of your nose and the bottom of your lips.

Soft cries left your lips as Steve wiped it clean, the denim agitating the burn more.

“Almost done..” he whispered encouragingly, his thumb moving in a comforting circle at the front of your neck. As the granular spray spread further into the room, he could start to feel the burn as well, his eyes beginning to water. He cleared his throat, “there.”

You both sat there, unmoving and in pain. Until finally, the burning started to subside to a dull pulse. You peaked one eye open at Steve, who was already looking at you, “I think that helped.” you admitted before opening your other eye, “thanks..”

“Sure.”

He took a step back, dropping his hand from your neck.

And immediately, the burn returned. Only this time it was at your neck, where Steve had just let go.

You instinctively reached for Steve, sucking in the air between your teeth, holding onto the ends of his vest as you tried not to cry out for the growing sting, “fuck, was it on your hands?” you winced up at him as he wrapped his fingers around both your wrists as you held the fabric, shaking his head.

“No, no, they’re clean. Look!” he brought his hands up, still clasping your wrists as he showed you his hands, free from any charcoal.

Just as fast as it returned, the pain subsided again. You took another deep breath in relief before shaking your head, “it’s gone.” you confirmed, before you both let go of one another.

And again, the burn returned. This time hotter as it crawled around your wrists, matching where Steve’s fingers were just wrapped.

He could also feel it, the pain starting at the tips of his fingers as it outstretched into his palms.

“What the..” he muttered, staring down at his hands.

You reached out for him again, one hand on each side of his neck, your fingers cooling the growing heat of his skin.

Gone.

It clicked.

“Steve, it’s when we touch…” you whispered towards him.

A part of you felt morose, normally the thought of touching any part of Steve disgusted you, but there was this small nagging at the back of your mind, one you didn’t want to think about, but it continued to bully its way through.

Thoughts about his solid back pressing into your front at the door, thoughts of the way his thumb caressed the front of your neck so softly as he wiped your face clean, thoughts of how you wanted to touch him, wanted to run your hands down the bare of his chest, like it was an instinct.

The images caused a bolt of excitement in your throat, and it traveled lower down your chest into your belly, until finally it shocked right at your core, and you let out a soft gasp.

“y’okay?” Steve huffed, drawing your attention from your thoughts to the man in front of you. Your fingertips could feel him gulp as it traveled down his neck, his skin warming as if he had a fever.

Your eyes melted into his as you met his gaze. It was different, you were used to his usual golden brown eyes that always held a bite of distaste whenever they met yours, but this time they looked darker, almost hungry. And hot.

He looked like you felt, and that caused another pang to ignite, shocking with enough force you had to bite your lip.

“Steve,” your voice was a whisper, “I don’t feel right.”

His eyes never left your lips, watching as the plush skin moved against one another. He could feel your soft breath brush against his skin, he could smell the soft mint from your toothpaste, almost as if his senses were stronger. He closed his eyes in relief, the slightest touch from you cooling his searing skin. He’d turn to ash without you.

“Sit?” he offered, voice husky as he reached to grab your hips, intentions to move you to the bed.

You nodded, but neither of you moved.

You wanted to, but it’s as if your body was being piloted by something other than yourself as your feet stayed planted in their place.

Steve opened his eyes at the lack of movement from either of you, meeting eyes through thick lashes.

A beat of nothingness.

And then you were both pulling one another into each other, crashing your lips against his, or his against yours, neither sure which one took the plunge first.

There was no sweetness, or hesitance in the kiss as your lips moved sloppily against his, your tastes intertwining between spit and shared breaths. You wanted more, wanted to taste and feel the rawness of him.

His hands wandered over the expanse of your back, moving up towards your neck before they slid down to your bum, giving a harsh squeeze to the fat of each cheek, spreading them as much as he could through the fabric.

There was relief that accompanied the touching, and the kissing. All pain turned into something more pleasurable, something that warmed the core of your stomachs, but it wasn’t enough.

“I want you, Steve, please.” you begged as you felt his rough touch, grinding your front against his.

His hands held your ass tight as he pushed you back towards the bed, “yeah, okay, fine.” he breathed, head empty of thoughts, unsure why he was giving in so easily. All he knew was he wanted you too, and now.

His lips moved up and down your neck, leaving kisses and bruises as he suckled from the underside of your ear to the point of your shoulder

You felt the sturdiness of the mattress behind your knees, so you fell back, arms around Steve as you brought him with you.

In the back of your mind, you knew this was wrong, but the thoughts were buried as you felt Steve’s hardened cock thrust against your clothed core.

“I’m sorry.” he moaned against you, dry humping into you like a dog in heat, “I can’t stop myself.” he gritted, already breathing heavily as he felt up and down your body.

The friction was tantalizing, you already felt an orgasm budding from the heightened senses, from the burning of every single nerve.

“I don’t want you to.” you admitted, helping him out by grinding yourself into his shoves.

Your fingers were unsteady with anticipation, fumbling with the button of your jeans between Steve’s body before finally it came undone. As soon as the small button was free, Steve grabbed the tops of your jeans and panties, pulling them both off in one sweep.

A soft gasp left you at the force, and the sensation of the cool air hitting the hot wetness seeping from your heat. It felt heightened, the heat of his breath against you, the softest graze of his fingers, everything burning the tips of your nerves.

Steve dropped to his knees as soon you were bare, eyes set on the sweet cunt in front of him. He gripped your calf, smelling your skin as he dragged his face up the smooth skin before resting his nose at the crease between your thigh and mound.

He drew a shameless sniff, trying to inhale as much of you as he could. He could smell the sweet hints of your favorite lotion mixed with the fresh remnants of your shower gel, and underneath it all was a soft, sweet, savory smell, that was naturally you.

That smell caused an insatiable hunger to brew inside him, his cock hardening more as it pressed up against the side of the bed, “god that smell,” he growled, leaving opened mouthed kisses to the area, relishing the salty taste of your skin.

You sat in anticipation, thigh muscles tightening as you waited, whimpering for relief to your core, but Steve was taking too long, busy admiring the dribble starting to seep from your tight hole.

As if your body was acting on your own, your hips bucked up, grazing your folds across the side of his face. You couldn’t even bring yourself to feel embarrassment with the trail of wetness your cunt left on him, too desperate for friction.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He turned his head, shoving his face into your pussy, lapping the juices from your hole before dragging his tongue further into your folds, trying to taste every crevice before circling your bud.

The silence of the room was filled with your whimpers and moans as he tasted you, holding your legs apart as you squirmed from his nose brushing against your clit as the warm muscle moved inside you, shoving in and out of your hole.

The thought of Steve Harrington tongue fucking you sent you over the edge, your heightened senses sending a shuddering orgasm through your body. You could feel it move down your shoulders into your cunt as Steve drank the nectar spilling from you.

“Look at you..” he chided, “sweet girl cumming from the mouth she hates so much.”

The pain in his cock was unbearable. Hearing your moans and pants as he went down on you enlarging him more and more. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“I need to be inside you baby,” he grunted as he pulled you to the end of the bed, your ass nearly hanging off the end, “I can’t wait any longer.” he leaned

his body against yours, pressing opened mouthed kisses to your neck, asking permission with his kisses.

Knowing he needed you made the burn more intense, you needed him too.

You nudge his face with yours, making him look you in your eyes, “take whatever you want Steve.” you stared at him between your lashes as you snaked your arms down to the top of his jeans, helping him unbutton his pants before he slid them to his ankles.

And he did. He pumped his cock once, twice, thumbing the weeping fluid from his tip before lining up with your hole. Without any warning, he shoved his thick girth into you, sheathing himself fully inside your warm hole.

It stung in the best way possible, you couldn’t help but moan out loud from the stretch of your hole.

He only paused for a moment before dropping his elbows by the sides of your face, leaning his weight against them as he pumped long thrusts into you, grunting as his cock slid in and out of your warm pussy.

You felt so full, and the warmth of his grunts tickling the inside of your ears only heightened the building feeling of your second orgasm.

“I’m gonna cum.” you whined, gripping below his bum as you tried to push him deeper inside you. You wanted to feel him in your stomach.

“Not yet,” he breathed, his strength out matching yours as he pulled his dick from you, “I want to play with your pretty little hole a little longer.”

You clenched around nothing as he climbed ontop the bed on his knees, straddling your body. You missed the feeling of being filled, whining at the loss.

He shushed you and grabbed the back of your neck, holding your head up before using the head of his cock to drag down your bottom lip, “be a good girl and open up for me.”

The praise from Steve had you keening, something that has never happened before. You opened your mouth happily, tongue out, wanting to show him how good you could be for him.

“I like you like this.” he continued, before shoving his cock deep into your throat.

You gagged at the intrusion, not expecting your mouth to be so filled so fast. He was big.

You tried to breathe through it, gagging harder as he thrusted in once, twice, a third time. Your eyes watered, snot leaking from your nose, spit spilling from the sides of your mouth.

“Messy girl.” he chided through a moan, continuing to bully his cock down your throat with harsh thrusts, no mercy as he bruised your larynx.

Your pussy watered at the abuse, enjoying the way he used you for his own pleasure, not caring if it was too much for you.

After a moment of bruising thrusts, he slid his cock from your mouth, giving you a short moment to catch your breath before he shoved his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, pressing his fingers against your tongue, making it impossible to swallow any of the dribble spilling from the sides of your mouth.

He used your jaw as a grip as he slid back off the bed, lining himself up again before he thrusted into you, in, out, in, out. They were heavy, harsh, thrusts, your lungs barely getting a breath as he slammed his cock inside of you. He was like an animal, feral for the feeling of your spongey insides clenching around his thick cock.

It was overwhelming, the feeling of him gagging you with his fingers while he slammed into your little cunt.

Another wave hit you, so strong not even Steve could stop your orgasm from forming this time. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as a spray of wetness spurted around Steve’s cock, he continued to bully his dick into you through the orgasm, splashing the squirt everywhere.

“Dirty girl, squirting on my cock,” he was breathless, you splashing around his shaft, soaking his curly brown pubes sent him over the edge. His thrusts became erratic as he jackhammered into you, hitting his release.

You could feel the spurts of warm cum inside of you, and as he coated your insides, there was an instant relief from the life threatening arousal brought from the strange flower, his cum cooling down all the misery and the burning desires as he slid his softening cock in and out of you slowly, the mixed cum squelching around it.

He sat inside you for a second, then two, as you both settled down, your heads finally clearing, finally feeling like you were in control again. He slid his softening cock from you, both of you hissing at the loss of contact and overstimulation.

There was another beat of nothingness as you both breathed heavily, laying side by side, trying to catch your breath for the second time this night.

With the overpowering arousal gone, and both of you feeling relieved from whatever ailed you previously, it turned awkward fast.

You knew Steve hated you, but never in a million years did you think he’d fuck you like he hated you.

You sat up abruptly as clarity overtook you, thighs twitching from the abuse in between your legs.

“We can’t speak of this ever again.”

Steve sat up next to you, both of your half clothed bodies pressed side by side. Awkward.

“Ever.” he agreed.

As you both got up, there was a sound from the entryway, like a door opening a closing,

before a voice called your names.

Robin.

Your eyes widened, both of you half haphazardly throwing your clothes back on, avoiding eye contact, trying to hide yourself from the other as you got dressed, as if all decency wasn’t thrown from the window when he was pumping his cum inside of you.

After a quick pat of your hair, and a half-assed attempt to clean your running mascara, you both made your out

The two of you looked terrible and disheveled, but you were attacked by demobats. Surely, they wouldn’t know. They couldn’t know.

All the incriminating evidence was hidden, your wetness on his cock hidden on the inside of his boxers, smearing against the fabric, while his leaking cum was held safely against your folds by your stained panties.

Keepsakes.

Steve cleared his throat, glancing at the rest of the party as you finally met up, “all clear?”

Nancy nodded, “yeah, for uh, a while. We came looking for you two.”

She was hesitant in the way she spoke, glancing at Eddie and Robin besides her with an unsure look after taking in your appearances.

“We should probably go then, I’ve had enough of the upside down today.” you piped up, shoving your way through the welcome party and out the door.

Steve followed behind, trying to keep a respectful distance to not look suspicious.

There was a brief moment as the trio watched you two make your way down the driveway, an uncertainty settling between them.

Eddie glanced over at the two girls, “So they totally fucked, right?”

Nancy pursed her lips, furrowing her eyebrows, while Robin bared her teeth with a nod, “Totally.”

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington smut #steve harrington dubcon #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things smut #stranger things sex pollen #tw dubcon #𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔥𝔲𝔢 𓄅 writes

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oceantornadoo · 2 months

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protective ex-husband!simon, implied violence/break-in *gender neutral version*

“i know! and that’s when i told her-“ you paused, your hand halfway to the keys at the bottom of your backpack. your apartment door was open, a menacing sliver of darkness awaiting you. “hey, i’m going to have to call you back.” you ended the call with your friend, slowly backing away from your door. shit. you knew you locked the door when you left for work, and no one else had a copy of your key. a creeping sensation came over you, like someone was watching from within. slowly, you retreated, taking the elevator down to your apartment’s lobby as the anxiety crawled through your body. you wracked your brain, wondering if you should call the police. wondering if they would even believe you. there was only one call to make.

“come on, pick up.” you tapped your foot impatiently as your ex husband took forever to answer the phone. it was all you could do to not think about your home being violated, about a potential stalker or date gone wrong.

“‘ello?”

“si- simon, it’s me.”

“i know, love. that’s why i picked up.” you let out a quiet sob of relief at his voice, the bottle on your emotions starting to leak.

“what’s wrong?” his voice changed, immediately hearing your silent tears. he could always read you too well. “i don’t want to bother you but” you hiccupped. shit. “but my apartment door was open and i’m pretty sure i closed it, i usually do. i don’t know if im being silly but now im in the lobby and im just scared, simon.” there was a fumbling sound, the echoes of simon zipping up his jacket and pulling on his shoes.

“go to that cafe across the street, dove. go get yourself one of those overpriced hot chocolates. i’ll be there in 15.”

9 minutes later, your shaking hands were tapping random patterns on the cafe table, unable to raise your drink to your mouth without spilling it. your eyes were locked onto the wood grain, counting lines to distract yourself.

suddenly, a gloved hand covered yours. you looked up and there he was, your ghost in all his glory. you forgot everything for a second, forgot the past arguments and the strained silences, and flung yourself into his arms. you breathed in his comforting scent of pinewood that masked his cigarettes, a cologne you got him four years ago for christmas. your face was wet, and as he pulled you back to check you for injuries, his thumb brushed a stray tear away from your face. you didn’t even realize you were crying.

“‘s okay, baby. i’m here now. give me your keys.” you fumbled for your keys, backpack strap sliding off your shoulder as your hands shook too much to keep it balanced. simon caught it gracefully, finding your keys in the same pocket you always kept them. “stay here. i’ll be back.” you nodded instinctively. only when you saw his figure retreat to your apartment building, clothed in all black like a figure of death, you realized you hadn’t told him your new apartment number.

twenty minutes passed. simon’s presence had worked like medicine as your heart rate has now dropped back down to normal, your hands stable enough to finish your drink. any other person would be worried for simon’s safety, but you knew the only person you should be concerned for was your intruder.

“you’re stayin’ with me tonight.” he was back, looking exactly the same. he wasn’t even winded. “thank you simon, but don’t be ridiculous. i can get a hotel. you live so far from my work anyways.” he approached you, crowding into your space as he leaned over you, even with a cafe table in between. “consider it payment then.” he tilted your chin up with his left hand as he hid his other one, covered with blood, in his pocket. “one way or another, you’re in my bed tonight, dove.” you gulped at that. “and i’ve got riley in the car. you wouldn’t abandon him, would you?” of course he had gotten your cat when he checked out your apartment. riley hated men, but never simon. cheeky bastard.

“you win.”

fast forward a couple of hours and you were getting ready for bed at simon’s, belly full from the meal he had made you. riley made himself at home on the living room couch, of course. “he’s in my spot.” you gestured to your cat on the couch. “wha’ d’ya mean?” your husband simon was now in sweats and sweats only, clean from the shower he had after you both got home back to his place. you pretended not to see him methodically wash blood out of his fingernails, reasoning quite easily with yourself that it was for a good cause.

“my couch for tonight.” simon moved toward you and you avoided his eyes, trying not to stare at how beautiful he still was. muscular but thick, torso adorned with scars you used to trace on sunday mornings when you both stayed in bed until the afternoon. he gripped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. “told’ya you were in my bed tonight, dovie.” you swallowed and he watched your throat move, memories of you swallowing something else countless times rising to the surface.

“don’t be silly, simon. that would cross a line.”

“what line?” his arms were crossed now, drawing your attention to an unfamiliar tattoo right above his heart. a small dove.

“we’re not together anymore, simon.”

“you’re still mine.”

silence. he was always like this, pushing you until you broke. he was unwilling to compromise, even on the smallest of issues. usually you’d fight him, spit fire until you lost your voice. tonight though, you were reminded of how he was the only person you were able to call, the only one committing dark sins without asking, all for your safety. instead, you threw your hands up and walked into his bedroom, mechanically stripping as you put on one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. you felt his eyes on you, burning a hole through the fabric. you were tired, so tired of this push and pull.

“what.” you whipped around, all venom. his eyes were impossibly soft, holding yours with a peaceful caress. “you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you.” your fire went out at that. “you’re just trying to get me naked.” you mumbled, looking down as you fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. you watched as his body came into view, pressing your forehead against his bare skin.

“could see you in a thousand layers and you’d still be the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen, dove.” ever so slowly, your hands crept up his body to grab his shoulders and neck. he picked you up with ease, turning the lights off and tucking you both in bed. “when did you get the tattoo?” you asked in the dark.

“3 months and 12 days ago.” what would have been your 3rd year of marriage, your anniversary. you lowered your head and gave him a kiss right where the tattoo was. “can we talk about it in the morning?” you snuggled into him, that familiar scent calming you once again. “always, dove.” he kissed your forehead, smiling in the dark.

—

someone requested gender neutral so i hope i did you justice! i consider dove, love, lovie, and baby to be gn so i didn’t change them if you were wondering

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod 141 #simon riley smut #fluff #ghost call of duty #tornadothoughts #gender neutral reader #simon riley x gn reader

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persevereforahappyending · 1 month

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Maybe in Another Life |6|

Pairing: Clarisse La Rue x Hunter of Artemis!Reader

Summary: You are a Hunter of Artemis, but you start to question what you truly want when you meet Clarisse and get to know her.

Warnings: Major Titans Curse SPOILERS

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 | ch. 6 | ch. 7 | ch. 8 | ch. 9 | ch. 10

You silently moved through the training course, slashing your sword when you heard a training dummy swing out from one of the trees. The grains of sand stung your face, the only proof you needed that you hit your target. A spring mechanism sounded, making you whip around and slash your sword down, slashing the training dummy across the chest. Sand continued to pour out of the dummy as you moved one foot at a time, using your ears to pick up any more attacks. One final dummy dropped down from the tree, without hesitating you slashed your sword, slashed it again on the other side, and then stabbed it through the chest as your final move.

When you ripped off your blindfold you saw training dummies hanging limply from trees, sand continuing to pour out of some of them. The first dummy that came flying at you was laid on the ground, a gash in its side, you had nearly cut the dummy in half, it was held together by only a few strings of fabric on one side. The next dummy that sprang up was still tied to the wood plank and spring fixture, a giant gash across its chest, just like you figured. The final dummy that had swung down from the top of the trees only had the top half still connected to the rope, the bottom half was shredded apart on the ground. The two lashes you did across the chest didn’t quite do it it seemed, but the final stab is what finally separated the bottom from the top.

Camp Half-Blood had a section of the woods set aside specifically for training. The best training was sparring or hands on, fighting others. This was the next best thing in camp though, the Hephaestus kids set up all the gadgets and fixtures, flinging out targets or sparring dummies for someone to train with. You entered the area, but never knew what would be thrown at you, the targets could pop out from trees, drop down from the sky, or even pop up from the ground. There are times when you could be walking through the area with nothing popping up for a few minutes, then all of a sudden target after target could pop up. The training area was meant to give campers an idea of what it would be like in the field because in the field you never knew what was coming next.

It had only been a few days since Clarisse almost kissed you, since you almost kissed her. You had been avoiding her ever since, you had been avoiding everyone actually. You still slept in the cabin, but you found yourself stumbling through the door when all your sisters were already asleep and then waking up hours before they did. You would only really acknowledge them when they directly talked to you, when they asked if you wanted to spar you would find an excuse and brush them off.

You couldn’t believe you had almost kissed Clarisse, that you had wanted to kiss her. You had never felt that kind of desire in all your years on earth. You kept replaying every interaction you had with her from the moment you first met her when you returned Silena’s camp necklace to the moment the two of you almost kissed. You decided you had been attracted to Clarisse the moment you met her, you thought it had just been your competitive nature at first, that’s what it usually was. When you met someone who was a challenge you’d compete against them, beat them, then it would be over. Not with Clarisse though, you had beaten her a few times, but you kept coming back to her.

You weren’t sure how you could ever face Artemis again. You didn’t technically break any of her rules, you didn’t technically break your vow, but you almost had. There was a part of you that had wanted to break the vow in the moment, if you hadn’t, you never would have leaned in. The only reason you stopped it from happening was because you realized what you were about to do, and Zoe and Artemis’s disappointed faces appeared in your head. Phoebe already knew something was up, there was no way Zoe and Artemis wouldn’t figure it out.

Artemis liked you; you were one of her best, besides Zoe you had been at her side the longest. You were always devoted to Artemis, following her every order without question. You hoped that would buy you some forgiveness, Artemis didn’t tend to be forgiving to those who betrayed her. Though you didn’t technically betray her, it was a grey area, you almost had, you had wanted to, to you that was enough reason for Artemis to punish you. She’d probably turn you into an animal like the others and spend another thousand years hunting you down.

“You’re avoiding Clarisse,” someone said, popping out of the woods as you made your way back to camp.

“What the…” you said, whipping around to see Silena. “I’m not avoiding anyone,” you mumbled, continuing your walk back to camp.

You heard Silena let out a groan, you could picture the eyeroll she was certainly giving you. “Yes, you are. Why? You guys were fine after I left you guys to hang out with Charlie.” You glanced back, seeing a light blush decorating Silena’s cheeks as her eyes shifted to look at the ground.

“Clarisse didn’t tell you?” you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Clarisse and Silena were best friends, Silena was the daughter of Aphrodite, you figured if Clarisse would talk to anyone about what happened, what almost happened, between the two of you, it would be with Silena.

“No!” Silena let out a dramatic sigh. She seemed to be over her daydreaming over Beckendorf. “I asked and she just brushed me off, saying nothing was going on.” Silena stopped in her tracks, you looked back again, seeing her stare at you with wide eyes, making you instantly turn and continue walking. “Like you just said. Which means something is going on. Something happened after I left the two of you at the bonfire,” she rambled, seeming to be talking more to herself than you. “What happened?” she asked, appearing right by your side. You looked at her and back to where she had been standing, wondering when she had gotten so fast.

“Nothing happened!” you said defensively, you knew you responded to quickly. You swallowed, looking away from Silena. “Nothing happened,” you said calmer than before.

Silena narrowed her eyes. She looked you up and down making you fidget, still refusing to look at her. You stared down monsters without blinking, you talked back to gods, but you couldn’t meet the eyes of a daughter of Aphrodite. “Something almost happened,” she said.

You finally glanced at Silena. You didn’t answer her verbally, you just dropped your eyes to the floor, hoping that would be enough. You flinched when you felt an arm rest on your shoulder, your eyes followed the arm from your shoulder to Silena. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

You nodded, staring into Silena’s kind eyes. She was no longer pushing and trying to dig up information on her friend. You knew she had the best intentions, as a daughter of Aphrodite she probably sensed something between you and Clarisse that would explain all the weird looks she kept giving you two. She seemed to understand how much of a struggle this was for you, whether she understood the gravity of a Hunter falling for someone or something you didn’t know, she at least understood you didn’t want to talk about it and despite not knowing what actually happened she seemed to accept that you needed time to process it. She gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze before leaving you with your thoughts.

The rest of the day you walked around camp, attempting to train. Every weapon you picked up didn’t last long, your mind was to consumed with Clarisse to focus on your movements. You only stopped by the dining pavilion to grab a snack at dinner time, not even sparing the Ares table a glance. You could feel Clarisse’s eyes on you as you grabbed your apple, and you caught Silena’s eye as you walked out of the pavilion towards the woods. You needed to clear your head and you knew just the spot to go to.

Despite only being there once you followed the path to the spot by the creek, Clarisse’s spot, as if you walked it all the time. It seemed counterproductive to go to Clarisse’s favorite spot when you were trying to get your mind off of Clarisse but it’s the only place you fully felt at peace. All the times you’d visited camp, over all the years, the closest you got to peace was in the cabin, but it wasn’t true peace, being at Clarisse’s spot brought you true peace though, it felt like being out in the woods with your sisters and goddess.

You sat on the rock, watching the rushing water of the creek under the moonlight. You looked at the moon, you usually never felt closer to your goddess than under the moon but now it felt like she was watching over your shoulder, as if she knew what you were thinking. You didn’t even know what you were thinking, you took an oath, you pledged your life, your loyalty, to Artemis a long time ago, you had no intention of breaking that. Your feelings for Clarisse, if one could even call them that, were new, it was just a crush, a crush didn’t mean anything, you weren’t about to break your vow and betray Artemis over a crush.

You jumped when you heard a twig snap, you whipped around to see Clarisse coming out of the woods. She was frozen, looking down at the foot that had stepped on the twig before looking up at you. You could see her mouth partly open as if she were going to say something, but no words came out.

You stared at her for a moment, she looked quite pretty under the moonlight. You hated yourself for thinking that, you needed to get back to Artemis, once you left camp and were back on the hunt, you wouldn’t be consumed with thoughts of Clarisse, your feelings would die. You got up, intending to make your way back to camp and avoid Clarisse until it was time to leave.

“Wait,” Clarisse said as soon as you started moving.

Despite the desire to avoid her, to do everything in your power to kill your developing feelings, you stopped.

You watched Clarisse, waiting to see what she wanted, you truly didn’t know where her head was at during this whole situation. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. You tilted your head, that was definitely not something you were expecting.

“I never should have…” she let out a shaky breath. “You’re a Hunter,” her voice wavered just barely. “I know better. So, I’m sorry for what almost happened at the bonfire. I never meant to pressure you or anything.”

You looked down at the ground, unable to continue looking Clarisse in the eye. “You didn’t pressure me,” you finally mumbled out.

“Oh,” Clarisse breathed out.

“But I am a Hunter,” you said confidently. “And I am loyal to my goddess.” Clarisse nodded, you could tell she wanted to look away, but she refused and continued to hold your eye contact. “I will not betray my oath.”

“I understand,” Clarisse’s voice sounded raspy. She quickly cleared her throat. “If friendship is all that you can give then I would be honored.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle for the first time since the bonfire, shaking your head at Clarisse’s words. “Friends,” you nodded.

You knew you felt more that friendship for the daughter of Ares but that is all you’d ever allow the two of you to be. You wouldn’t betray Artemis that way, you wouldn’t do that to your sisters. It was for the best for everyone if the two of you were only friends. Allowing something more to develop would only end in tragedy for you and heartbreak for her.

“Silena will be disappointed,” you joked, you couldn’t help but try and break the tension. Ever since you met Clarisse things had felt effortless, the two of you just clicked in your own way but after the bonfire, despite avoiding each other, you only felt on edge, like you lost the thing the two of you had.

Clarisse let out a groan. “Did she talk to you?” she sighed, giving one of her classic eyerolls.

You chuckled. “Jumped me right after my training session.”

Clarisse crossed her arms, grumbling something you couldn’t decipher. “It’s got to be nice knowing she cares so much,” you said.

“More like annoying,” Clarisse snarked.

You just laughed at Clarisse as you made your way off the rocks, nodding at her to follow. The two of you walked back to camp in a comfortable silence. When the two of you finally emerged from the woods the camp was quiet, there was no campfire that night and it seemed like most of the campers had turned in for the night. Nothing had to be said as the two of you started walking towards the cabins and you decided not to comment on how Clarisse seemed to be taking the long way around to her cabin, meaning you’d pass the Artemis cabin first.

“Wow,” Clarisse whispered. You stopped in your tracks when Clarisse was no longer beside you, you turned around with a furrowed brow as you saw her staring up at the sky. “I’ve never seen the stars so bright.”

You looked up, seeing that the stars were in fact brighter than they usually were. You scrunched your brow, you had been all over the world, you slept under the open sky countless times for centuries and you had never seen the stars so bright. “I know I don’t know constellations,” Clarisse started. “But is that-”

Your breath caught in your throat. Clarisse must have heard you because she stopped mid-sentence and was looking at you with concern. You couldn’t pay her any mind though, you were to focused on the stars, specifically the new constellation that seemed to be in the sky. Your heart dropped; the constellation looked like a girl with a bow running across the sky. You took your eyes off the sky, they were now filled with unshed tears, you weren’t looking at Clarisse though, you were looking past her. Clarisse turned around when she realized you weren’t looking at her. Behind her stood Artemis safe and sound in all her glory, but with a sadness you knew all too well on her face.

Without another word you moved past Clarisse, making your way to your goddess’s side. She offered you a sad smile when you got in front of her. “Zoe,” you rasped out, but it hadn’t been a question, you both knew that.

Artemis gave a small nod. You squeezed your eyes shut, dropping your head to the ground, you refused to let the tears fall. You felt the warm hand of your goddess rest on your shoulder. “I must go to Olympus,” Artemis spoke softly. “I apologize for leaving you with this.” You nodded, a sniffle escaping your nose.

“I need you to gather the others,” she said, her tone unchanging, but you were listening more intently, she was giving you your next orders. “I know it’s not enough time but take the night to grieve.” You nodded; you were going to have to tell the others. “Be ready to leave by daybreak, Thalia will greet you.” You sucked in a breath at Thalia’s name, you knew what that meant, it had to be done though.

“Yes, my goddess,” you whispered. You lifted your head, looking Artemis in the eye, giving her a final nod. You continued to watch on confidently as Artemis disappeared in a bright white light.

After she was gone you let out a shaky breath, your tears slowly left your eyes as you collapsed to your knees. You felt Clarisse’s presence behind you, you appreciated that she didn’t try to comfort you. You continued to release your tears for your fallen sister, for Zoe. After a few minutes you took a couple deep breaths, composing yourself as you pulled yourself back to your feet, prepared to inform the other Hunters of your fallen leader.

Taglist: @cxcilla @touchmyfracturedomens @luclue @manu-007s-world

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x you #clarisse x reader #percy jackson #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #maybe in another life

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applcrumbl · 6 months

Text

I see the way you look at her.

Pairings: Peeta Mellark X Reader Warnings: Y/N uses she/her pronouns, talk of cheating, talk of murder and death. Author’s Note: Y/N is kind of a dick in this but that’s so slay purr for her

Summary: Peeta returns to District 12 after the 74th Annual Hunger Games to a girlfriend who wants nothing to do with him.

The air in District 12 was thick with tension as the Reaping day unfolded, casting a shadow over the usually quiet town. The nervous energy in the square was palpable, each child from from age 12 to 18 lined up as though they were being put to death by firing squad. In a strange way, they were. Dressed in their finest garments, the kind that they would be proud to have on television, yet praying that their names were never called.

Y/N’s name was in the bowl 20 times this year. 15 as tesserae, for the grain and oil her family so dearly needed to survive, and the rest for the age she’d turned earlier that year. There were boys with twice as many in the other bowl. Her neighbour, Gale, at 18 years old, had his name in 42.

Yet, with only 5 slips of paper, Peeta Mellark was called. His eyes bore into hers as tears threatened to fall. She watched him hug Effie Trinket, clad in her Capitol Extravagance. Katniss Everdeen, the girl she’d played with since youth, stood with him.

Truthfully, she’d moved on from the shock that her lover was going to die quite quickly. He certainly was more likeable than the rest of the tributes, But there was not enough money in the entirety of District 12 to provide the sponsorships he would need to stay alive. Peeta was strong in build, but would never be able to hurt someone, let alone to the point of murder.

She sat with a group of girls in the square, watching Caesar Flickerman on the large screen.

"Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember.” Peeta says, “But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping."

Furrowed brow, she listened intently to his words. Who else would he be talking about, if not his own girlfriend? If not herself.

“She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta.

Alice Walker, one of the girls who sat with Y/N, turns to look. “Thought you an’ him were going steady?”

“We are.” She replies—confusion as to why he was talking about her as though she were someone else.

She turns back to face the screen. Eyes trained on Peeta, looking the same as ever - only cleaner and in nicer clothes. He still wore the silver ring she’d bargained for at the market. His 15th birthday gift - She had put her name in the reaping another time to afford it.

“So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?"

“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning...won’t help in my case," says Peeta.

“Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified.

"Because...because...she came here with me.”

From the moment of Peeta’s admission, she secretly hoped that he’d die in the games. As much as she wanted him to come back alive so that she could kill him herself, she also wanted nothing more than to see him suffer.

Everything she’d done for him. Everything she’d been put through for him. All for him to be in love with Katniss Everdeen. She stopped watching the games after that.

That didn’t mean she didn’t hear all about District 12’s star-crossed lovers and how they won the Hunger Games by means of their love. She stayed far away from the train station, and its once-dull platform, now adorned with makeshift decorations crafted from whatever materials the citizens could salvage. She stayed far away from his family’s bakery, and his shiny new home in Victor’s Village. She stayed far away from any place where the boy could find her. But, that did not mean that he did not try.

Katniss once spoke to her in the woods, explaining that it was all a rouse for the Capitol. Y/N only believed it because Gale had told her the same thing before. Katniss pleaded with her to speak to Peeta and allow him to explain. If not for her own sake, then for his. “I can’t even look at him Y/N. But he shouldn’t be alone right now”

She wondered how a victor of The Hunger Games could be so desperate for company.

It took a lot of her pride to walk to Victor’s Village that night. The air was crisp, and the stars overhead seemed to bear witness to the storm of emotions raging within her. Unable to quell the turmoil in her heart, she found herself standing outside Peeta’s home.

It was the first time that she’d seen him. A glimpse through the front window into the warmly lit kitchen. He was baking again, decorating a cake, much like he would have been before the games. Except now, he was thinner, his eyes more sunken, hands shaking as they pressed fruit into icing.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the door. Knocking gently, the sound echoed through the quiet night.

"Y/N," Peeta said, his voice soft with a hint of regret. "I didn't expect you."

She met his gaze, searching for answers. "We should talk."

He nodded, stepping aside to let her in. The air inside was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, a familiar comfort that felt oddly out of place given the current circumstances.

They settled in the living room. The fire roared, illuminating the large room in an orange glow. The walls of the ground floor were taller than the height of her entire house. And one of the multiple sofa suites was bigger than the bed her brother slept on. There was more luxury in a singular room than in any 5 buildings in the seam.

She sat, conscious of the room she was taking up. It felt like she would be whipped for even being near. Peeta sat more comfortably, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. The girl took a deep breath, ”How are you?”

“Where have you been?” Peeta interrupts, “I’ve been looking for you since I returned.”

“Can you blame me?”

Peeta hesitates a moment. “No.” He admits, hands wringing together, “It was for show, Y/N. For the cameras and the Capitol.”

A curt nod. Her expression remained stoic as she processed Peeta's words. The room felt heavy with unspoken tension, the crackling fire doing little to dispel the cold atmosphere that had settled between them.

"For show," she repeated, her voice flat. "So, all of it—the love, the sacrifice, the pain—it was all just a performance?"

Peeta looked pained, his eyes desperately searching for understanding in hers. "Yes, entirely. Katniss and I, we played along to survive. It was the only way."

“It was not the only way.”

“I never wanted it to be like this.”

“You could’ve fought. You could have-”

“I couldn’t kill her. And I couldn’t watch her die.” Peeta interrupts.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “But you could lead the careers right to her.” She deadpans, “And you did do that, by the way”

His shoulders slumped, guilt written across his face. "I never wanted it to be like this. I wanted us both to make it out alive. But they wanted a love story, and we had to give it to them."

“You don't get it, Peeta. You don't get what it's like to watch the person you love be in love with someone else, pretend or not.” Y/N shook her head, her anger simmering beneath the surface. "It was so embarrassing to hear about your 'epic love story' broadcast to the entire nation. Have people question me every single day about what happened between us.”

Peeta scoffs, standing up from his seat and pacing to the far corner of the living room. His hand rubbing his face, he forces out a laugh at her words.

“You had some uncomfortable questions forced your way, Y/N” He starts, “I was reaped for The Hunger Games. They are not the same.”

The room falls silent, save for the roar of the fire and the gentle hum of the lights.

“I did what I did, not to stay alive.”Peeta admits, “I couldn’t care less if I died in there, My family wouldn’t either-”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. But that’s not my point.” He breathes, “I needed to stay alive so that I could come back to you.”

Y/N remained seated, her eyes fixed on Peeta as he spoke. He turned to face her, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I needed to survive, not for the Capitol, not for the cameras, but for us. I wanted to come back to District 12, to you.”

She couldn't deny the sincerity in his voice, but the wounds ran deep. Having spent the latter half of the last 5 months hating his guts, she couldn’t forgive him easily. Hearing that he’d done it for her only made her feelings more scrambled.

"Love is more than a performance, Peeta. It's more than a show for the Capitol.”

He took a step closer, his expression filled with regret. "I thought we had a better chance of making it out together than I ever would have alone.”

“But now you’re in it for life. After your victory tour, do you seriously just expect that you’ll be able to just ‘break up’? People who have suffered together like the pair of you have, don’t just call it quits.”

“We’ll figure it out, I just need time.”

Y/N leans back in her chair, eyes still trained on the broken boy before her. She tears them away to try and stop the tears that threaten to fall. “I saw the way you looked at her.” She admits. “I understand that you went through a lot together, but- But, you never looked at me like that.”

Peeta's eyes, full of remorse, met hers. He reached out, as if to touch her hand, but hesitated, fingers hovering in the air.

"I never meant to hurt you," he whispered, his voice filled with regret. "But in that arena, survival seemed like the only option. It was never about choosing her over you."

He lowered his hand. "I know I messed up. I can't change the past, but I want to make things right, Y/N. I want a chance to prove that I can be the person you need."

She shook her head, a mixture of frustration and sadness in her eyes. “I think you need time to figure it out by yourself, Peeta”

"Give me time," he pleaded. "But give me time to figure it out with you.”

The room hung heavy with silence, the fire that danced in the hearth was slowly dying. It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes, as Y/N distanced herself from him, each footstep on the plush carpet seemed to amplify the quiet.

“I should go,” she says.

“Please don’t.” He begs.

Y/N hesitated, her hand resting on the doorknob. She wanted to turn around, to look into Peeta's eyes and find a glimmer of the person she had once loved. Yet, the fear of more disappointment held her back.

"I need time, Peeta," she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, “We both need time. Alone.”

Peeta remained silent, watching her silhouette against the doorway, his expression a portrait of heartache. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap, but he didn’t.

“If you love someone, let them go.” He whispers, allowing her to open the door and walk down the snow-covered stairs. The hinges closed with a soft thud, and Peeta was left alone.

#applcrumbl #writing #the hunger games #peeta mellark #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark imagine #peeta mellark fanfic #peeta mellark angst #angst #peeta mellark smut

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