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eyesxxyou · 4 months

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❝ nude bodies ❞ (artist!hobie x trans ftm!reader)

｡ﾟ･ ¡ content. friends to lovers, a little bit of awkwardness, oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), reader has a t-dick, very sweet sex (bordering on love making), creampie, hobie gets a little sappy at the end. you've been long time best friends with hobie for years, both secretly pining after each other. you both think nothing will ever come of your feelings until hobie asks to draw you nude.

wc: 5k

The sun was hot on your face. The rough sound of pencil meeting paper tickled your ears. Hobie hummed a soft tune while his hand carved out the rough shapes of your face into paper. His eyes kept flicking from his sketchbook to you, his gaze lingering on your closed eyes before wandering a little lower to trace the shape of your honeydew lips.

He reached out, his hand tenderly caressing the side of your face to get you to turn your head to the slightest degree so that the sun hit your face at just the right angle to make you glow honey gold. He touched you like a masterpiece, one of the old greats, like you would crumble if pressed too hard. His thumb traced your lip and you shivered ever so slightly.

“Have ya ever though’ of letting me draw ya nude?” Hobie had a way of saying things. Careless or carefree, you chose because he doesn't have the energy to do it himself, too busy drawing or playing the guitar.

You open your eyes, a deep frown painting itself across your honeydew lips. “You want to draw me what?” You sat up on your arms and Hobie sat up with you on his knees, his hand on your chest to push you back down onto the smooth wood of his deck. “Nude. Was I no’ loud enough? Keep still, dove. ‘m no’ done.”

You sigh and relent, laying back in the sun with your head tilted towards him to catch the golden rays. Hobie settled back down beside you and began sketching again.

You won't say Hobie didn't rattle something within you. Nude was intimate, nude meant vulnerable, nude meant served on a platter with all your feelings splayed out so brazenly before him. You couldn't hide anything from him while naked, couldn't hide how every gentle touch of his warm fingertips made your heart leap and your groin ache with feelings you’re forced to call want. You couldn't hide from his wandering gaze powdered with the stark neutrality of someone who didn't care either way.

“Why would you want to draw me naked?” You try not to move too much while you talk, try not to make a big deal out of his request. Why would he want to draw your body? Your body didn't look like everyone else's, the crescent-shaped twin scars cupping your chest made sure of that. Not to mention all the changes gone on between your legs. You’re not the most ideal person in the world to draw nude according to every societal standard.

But Hobie wasn't one to care about a social standard. “Why wouldn' I? I draw ya all the time. Yer my lovely lil muse.” He touched his pencil behind his ear and set his sketchbook down closed beside him. He shifted himself, laid down right beside you with his head propped up on his hand, looking down on you as you lay below him.

Hobie reached out and pinched your cheek. “Jus’ think ‘bout i’. No pressure. I wan’cha to be comfortable with the idea.” He lied down completely beside you, just the two of you lying on the deck of his boat, shirtless, arms touching all the way from shoulder down to the backs of your hands. You could grab his hand if you wanted to. He could grab yours. Your finger twitches with the idea of it. But that's not what friends do.

“What would happen if I agreed?” You asked timidly. Hobie turned his head, eyes carefully tracing the lines of your side profile. “We’d wait a week before we did anythin’. Jus’ in case you became a chicken and wan’ed to back ou’.” He teased as he always did and that set you at ease as you turned your head to meet his gaze.

His deep-set eyes traced the contours of your face with dedication and admiration. If you hadn't known any better you might have said he did it lovingly. But he was an artist at the end of the day and your best friend. Any love he had beyond a platonic one was for what you do for his art. “You bring it to life.” He once said. He did not love you the way you loved him. You were sure of it.

“Lemme finish this piece then we can grab a bite, yeah?” Hobie sat up and placed his hand on your chest, patting you the way a friend pats another in the back. He doesn't let his touch linger even though every atom of your body begged and pleaded for him to just touch you, touch you anywhere, you didn't care where. Just let it stay there, let it linger a little longer, let it hold so you might know that he's real and he’s yours.

You consider it while he draws with your eyes closed and your hands resting on your belly, tracing imaginary lines and imagining it’s Hobie doing it with the tips of his nimble fingers. He wouldn't make it weird, wouldn't tease you about it for the rest of your lives, wouldn't embarrass you by telling others. That's not how he is. It would just be between the two of you, from one man to another.

Hobie sits beside you in silence, hoping he didn't ruin anything you two had, the soft progress you have made with each other years in the making. He’s been dropping hints for years now, the obvious ones only made in the last few months. Unnecessary lingering touches, brushing his hand against yours to give you the opportunity to grab on and stay that way. He holds your face so softly so fucks sake, leans in so close he might just kiss you but leaves it to you to make the final move. You never do. He called you his muse, told you his art is nothing without you and yet you still look at him with that blank, oblivious look in your eyes that makes him want to tell you straight up that he’s in love with you. You’d probably still tilt your head like a puppy, confused and unknowing.

His eyes lavish over your body, every piece of exposed skin being feasted upon by his greedy gaze. Your eyes are closed, you’d never know. He wants to trace his fingers along your scars, kiss them, kiss you, feel your skin on his and know you a little more than he already does.

“I’ll do it.” You concede. “You can’t show it to anyone though. I’d die of humiliation.”

“Never planned to, dove.” Hobie smiled. “It’ll just be between me ‘n you. It’s just anatomy practice.” Anatomy practice sounded good, sounded reasonable, sounded like he wasn't just trying to find any excuse to witness you naked. Did it make him sick, perverted, what he’d end up doing with that drawing as he did with nearly all his other drawings of you? Did it make him bad that he’d end up with his hand firmly wrapped around his cock, pleading for a single moment, a single chance? Did it make him wrong that he’d ruin the page with cum and would have to redraw it all over again?

You remind him, “I don't have regular anatomy.”

“I don't need regular, dove.” Hobie looks up from his sketchbook, flipping his pencil to erase a small imperfection in his work. “I just need you.”

Hobie gave you a week. An entire week to reconsider and yet you remained steadfast in your decision. It wouldn't be weird. Hobie has a way of making awkward situations completely comfortable with his light-heartedness. He never took anything seriously so why should you?

Boarding his boat meant accepting wholly that you’d be naked in front of him and a part of you, while nervous, was comfortable with that. If you were to be naked in front of anyone in the entire world, you’d want it to be your best friend, the person you trust most in this world.

Hobie was waiting for you inside, guitar in lap while strumming some cords to a melody he was humming. You kicked your shoes off at the door and let it slam shut behind you as if it were sealing you in. You can't back out now. You had promised.

Hobie put his guitar down on it’s display rack and tossed the pick into a small box of picks he had sitting on a small table beside his bed. “Mr. Punctuality ova here. I wasn' expectin’ ya fo’ anotha hour.” He hopped down from the ledge he was sitting on, stumbling a bit but ultimately landing on his feet. He came over and tossed an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his body for a half-hearted hug.

“You told me to come at 1.”

“But when I say tha’ I really mean 2. You know ion run on other people's time.” He offered a cheeky little dimpled smile across those dark lips of his that you adored more than you could ever say. He rubbed your shoulder a little before patting it and letting you go. You wanted to run back to him, to tell him to embrace you once more but fully this time. You didn't want to embarrass yourself by doing so.

“Are ya sure ya do this?” He offered you one last chance to back out before the two of you started. “We can always stop if ya feel uncomfortable,” he assured you.

You nodded slowly, lips curling into a soft, self-assuring smile. “I’m okay. Let’s do this.” Your heart beat so hard in your chest you could feel it in your throat and hear it in your ears. You balled your hands into fists, thumbs in your palms, squeezing with anxiety. You trusted him, knew he would do nothing to make you feel uncomfortable.

“I’ll be back in a momen’, you can get on the bed when you’re ready.” Hobie went to leave to afford you some privacy. You appreciated his thoughtfulness and watched him go with a shaky breath. You wrung your hands, grasping the hem of your shirt to sooth yourself before you began.

You started with your shirt, pulling it over your head and folding it up neatly before placing it on the edge of Hobie’s bed. That was soon followed by your pants, then your underwear. You’re not used to being naked, especially not in Hobie’s boathouse. You felt vulnerable, your hands immediately went to cup your love and cover yourself without so much as a second thought.

You climbed up onto Hobie’s bed and covered yourself with his duvet, waiting for him to return so that you can get this over with. You tell yourself it’s for anatomy practice, that it’s nothing more than that. But there’s something oddly intimate about being wrapped up in his planets, lying in his bed with his deep, musky scent permeating your senses and soothing your raging nerves.

You lay there with your face pressed into his pillow awaiting Hobie’s return. Your fingers gripped his sheets, twisting and fingering the fabric anxiously as you watch the door crack open and Hobie’s head poke inside to ensure you’re properly prepared. He saw you curled up in his bed and smiled with a tender softness. “You ready?”

You nodded, nipping at your bottom lip. Hobie came shuffling in, closing the door behind himself gently. He rummaged about his flat, grabbing his sketchbook and a sharpened pencil before coming over to you in his bed.

Hobie climbed in with you, shuffling over to kneel beside your covered body. He set his sketchbook down and carefully reached out to grasp the edge of the blanket you had covered your modesty up with. “May I?” His eyes were soft looking upon you, they ask for permission too, ask for you to let your guard down for just a moment. They ask for you to trust him

You do. You trust him wholeheartedly. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you nod subtly and let go of the blanket. You let him peel it away from you but your hands return between your legs to keep yourself covered.

“Jus' relax f’me, dove.” His slender fingers grasped your wrists, carefully and gently pulling them away from your tender lips. You don't resist him, you let him take your hands in his and remove them from the spot where you find yourself feeling the most vulnerable. There's something about his touches that feels more intimate than before. Your nudity amplified every caress of his hand against your skin. You could feel it linger throughout your body.

Hobie gazed at you, his eyes scanning down the length of your trembling body, hitching at your chest and groin for just a lingering moment. You don’t hear the way he murmurs soft prayers under his breath, a plea for strength, for the worthiness to admire such a sacred body in its most bare state.

Starting the sketch was the hardest part. Hobie was used to touching you, holding your face, dragging a finger along the curve of your jaw, his fingertips kissing your eyelids, tracing the underside of your lips. He was a physical learner and with time, he knew your face like he knew his own palm, all the lines and shadows that made it up.

But he didn’t know your body. Not the way he wanted to.

You could see the frustration crossing his face as he turned his pencil and erased his work for the second time, “Is there anything I can do to help?” Your voice was timid and beautiful, ringing with an air of genuine concern. You hadn’t expected Hobie to ask to touch you.

“F’r visual purposes only. I don’ – know ya body yet. No’ like I know ya face.” His hands wrung against his lap, refraining from making himself too comfortable with your pretty body. He imagined your skin would be soft beneath his palms, supple as he dipped his graphite-covered fingers into your flesh. “You don’t have’ta.”

“You can.” You say almost too quickly. Did he catch the desperation in your voice? Did he catch the way you leaned in just a little further, the way you crossed your legs at the mere thought of his hands stroking down the length of your bare skin. Had you given yourself away? Had you shown all of your cards like an amateur?

You watched Hobie place his things down and come over to climb back onto the bed with you. You sat up and let out a startled little gasp. Hobie was suddenly closer than you had expected, sitting beside you with his hands on either side of your legs to prop himself up.

“Jus’ tell me when t’stop, yeah?”

He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help but to touch. Hobie started at your face, the familiarity of it offering you ease and comfort. His hand cupped your cheek. Brushing a soft thumb under your eyes, palm cupping along your jaw and his thumb moving up slightly to skim over your soft eyelid. The pads of his fingers move to your lips, tracing them left to right, right to left. His eyes flick between your lips and your coy gaze, too shy to fully meet his every time he looks at you.

His other hand skimmed at your waist. His fingertips touching at your chest, tracing your scars with such loving care. Hobie likes the way you shiver under his touch, likes the way your body rolls as he makes his way lower to your belly where your happy trail begins, leading lower and lower. He doesn’t go all the way though you so desperately wished he would.

His hand touches your thigh, the other trailing down your shoulder, to your elbow, to your hand where his fingers slip beneath yours. Before you know it, your fingers are laced with his. There was something so innocent about it, something so beautiful and soft. His hand on your thigh, tracing circles into your flesh felt just as innocent in the beginning. But his fingers were trailing .along your inner thigh, gripping the flesh there with something far darker that anything platonic.

It was hard not to melt into his touch, a touch so hot that it left your skin burning where he met it. Your chest burned with desire. Your gaze, a little more brazen now, showed as much. You swallowed thickly as you caught Hobie’s gaze and suddenly you were doing just the same as him, staring at that lip piercing that glinted under the dim lighting of his bedroom.

It was the same thought that crossed your minds.

“Can I kiss ya?”

“For your drawing, right?”

Hobie nodded slowly, leaning in with a subtle tilt of his head. His lips hovered slightly over yours, not exactly kissing you but not, not kissing you either. “Yeah…for the drawin’.” He whispered against your lips, taking them with his. He kissed you like he’s been waiting for this moment since he’s known you. Kissed you like he needed this, kiss you in a way that said “if you stop, I’ll die.”

He can't help the way his hands wander, touching you in places he'd never even dreamt of touching in the first place as his hands grow more greedy. His hands trail everywhere, feeling your skin grow warm under his touch as he commits every brush of skin against skin.

You could feel a heat pool between your legs, your pussy ached and your dick throbbed to attention with each inch gained by Hobie’s fingers closer to your wanton core. You spread your legs for him, silent permission for him to touch where he pleased and where you craved.

Hobie did not touch you there, not yet. His hand held your waist and his lips began to trace a trail down the side of your neck, placing sloppy, open mouth kisses on your exposed flesh leading down to your chest. He peppered kisses along the crescents of your scars, worshiping exactly where they cut into you and made you a little more of who you are.

His lips pressed kisses down your naval. His hand gripped yours tighter. “Lay back, luv.” His free hand pushed you back gently, coaching you to lie in the mess of pillows stained with his scent. Hobie held your smaller hand, pressing it into the mattress, his free hand still roaming and touching and studying your warm body.

How could he possibly go back to pencil and paper after this? His drawings could never satisfy him now that he’s gotten a taste of the real thing. His art was meaningless now, served no purpose now that your flesh was beneath his tongue, in his hands, gripping, touching, loving.

He’s come on your face a thousand times over in his mind, on his page. But he could not bear the idea of sullying your sacred body with such degeneracy. Hobie would only touch, only please. He would come last.

He settled himself between your legs, his hand parting them a little further until your pretty, wet lips parted with a nice, creamy sound. You turned your head away, embarrassed but Hobie found it quite lovely. You are hard and wet for him, your sweet, little cock firm behind the hood.

Hobie kissed your pelvis just above your t-dick, ending his journey to where you desired him the most. He glanced up at you and found your eyes cast away with what could only read as humiliation.

“C’mon, dove, look a’ me.” He kissed the tip of your dick and smiled as you shuddered with something of a pathetic moan. You willed yourself to look at him with timid eyes. Hobie kissed your tip again, his fingers pulling back your hood to give him more space to work. His tongue licked firm strokes between your soaked lips all the way up to your pretty cock which he licks then takes into his mouth.

He sucked on the engorged bundle of nerves, swollen and sensitive on his tongue. Hobie worships the way you cry a little, your back arching from the sheets, his tongue stroking lick after lick against the tip, each one sending jolts of pleasure throughout your heated body.

You placed one of your hands on the back of his head, not applying pressure but to give him a few encouraging scratches to his scalp. “Just like that, keep going.” Your body shows all its cards and you couldn't care in the slightest. Breathless moans and soft whimpers keep him going, keeps him sucking your pretty dick with his tongue occasionally lapping at your sweet little hole.

Hobie used his fingers to stroke between your pussy lips where you ached the most. It was easy to ease a finger in with how utterly soaked you were and with a few slow pumps, the second finger was not too far behind.

He took his time with you, unraveling you like a gift splayed out before him. He could rush, he could take what he needed but he wanted this to be slow, intimate. He needed to tell you just how much he worshiped his body of yours, how much he valued every piece of flesh you offered up to him. He needed to study you, inside and out.

Your hushed moans were beautiful and the whines the broke out between them were just the same. “My lil’ muse.” He hummed against your cock, kissing it and the flesh around it in an act of praise. His fingers worked in and out of you, curled in search of that gummy little ridge that would send you into orbit and make this all the better for you.

He knew he found it when you let out a nice, little, high-pitched moan and your whole body lept. Hobie chuckled softly, much to your dismay and rubbed you at your sweet spot right where you needed him.

“Why– fuck~ why are you always…so mean. L-laughing at me ‘n all.” You pant out, hips bucking against his soaked fingers, all your pretty, little parts rubbing against his knuckles.

“On the contrary, I think ‘m bein’ rather nice, don' you?” He kissed your belly, slowly making his way back up your body to find your lips again. “I only wanna be sweet wit’cha, luv.” His lips pecked yours once, twice, before he kissed you fully again. His fingers thrust into you, his thumb playing with your dick to keep you nice and stimulated. “You don't think ‘m bein’ sweet?”

You shook your head and he pressed his fingers into your sweet spot to make you gasp. “I-I think you’re the meanest person I know, Hobes.” You wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him in, your lips still stealing kisses from one another. “I think you’re mean peck ‘cause peck it’s your fingers inside me and not peck you.”

“I can change tha’. I can be so nice t’ya.”

You’re lucky he’s in his pajamas and not his entire getup. It’s easy to get him to pull himself out of his pants enough to reveal his length to you. He’s thick and long, nothing to make a passing statement at. He slips his fingers from your eager cunt and uses them to drag along the tip of his cock, spreading it down his length with a few sloppy strokes against his palm.

Hobie pulled you closer. You settled back against his pillows, whining a little when Hobie pulled his hand away from yours to brace himself against you. You toss your arms over his shoulders and around his neck. Your gaze is a bit more confident looking into his and Hobie kisses you softly.

You're dripping, trembling as he drags the tip of his thick cock between your soaked lips. He teased you, pressing the tip into your sopping entrance before pulling away. It coats him, your wetness, making it easier for him to slowly inch his way inside. He stretches you slowly and your nails sink into his back. You bury your face into his neck, muffling your moans.

His hands caress your body, holding you tight as if he craved that same warmth from you as well. His hips pressed flush against yours, his cock buried deep within you. He lets you adjust while he familiarizes himself with your tight cavern. Your walls hug him, imprinting every vein, every groove of him. Soft and welcoming like you've been waiting to invite him in since forever.

You two stare at each other, the warmth of one’s breath breezing over the other's supple skin. "Move." You encourage, nudging your nose against his. His hands tightened on your waist as he pulled his hips back until only the tip remained inside before surging them forward. He liked being soft with you, liked touching you like you were one of his drawings, like you would smudge if he pressed too hard.

You didn't mind slow or careful. It made you feel all that more special, like you were worth taking up that time where he could be doing other things. He kept his strokes paced, gentle. The soft slapping of skin mingles with your moans that fill the room.

"Hobie~" You claw at his back, leaving your mark on him in bright red lines that cover his skin. His cock filled you to the brim, pressing every point of pleasure along the way to his tip kissing your cervix. Hobie’s size was nothing to laugh at. He touched places never before discovered, his hips rutting into yours in firm, paced strokes.

He pressed his against the side of your head. Your shampoo was nice, lavender and vanilla he supposed. Hobie made a mental note to write that down in his sketchbook with all his other notes about you.

Hobie smelled like subtle cologne and natural musk. It's comforting, not overwhelming or violently invading your nose. You kiss his neck, along his sharp jaw, and over his prominent Adams Apple. Your teeth nip softly over his supple flesh, easily able to leave hickeys on his skin, smooth as paper.

Your moans are like music to his ears. High-pitched and uneven. With each thrust, he's rewarded with such a beautiful sound. You chew on your bottom lip in attempt to contain them but he doesn't like it. "Uh-uh, I wanna hear you. Don't deny me such a beautiful sound." He reaches up and pulls your lip from your teeth with his own. A spark.

Hobie took your hand with his much larger one and laced your fingers with his like before. He pinned your hand to the bed, rubbing off graphite onto your skin, his mark on you, his love on you. “Am I nice enough now?”

You nod, “so nice~”. You sighed out, pulling him in and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “So good.” You murmured against his skin, sucking on that piece of flesh to calm yourself. His strokes were deep, solid, unquestionable in his dedication to his craft.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, then your lips, a innocent little kiss that belies the way he’s fucking you right now, his pelvis rubbing your dick with every roll of his hips.

His hand touches the side of your face, skimming it, holding it, worshiping it as if he were drawing. Your eyes fluttered softly, your lips parted to let out a shaky breath and your eyes admire him the way he admires you, like an artist looking at its masterpiece.

Hobie’s hand trails down the length of your body and reaches between your bodies to touch your dick. He strokes it between his fingers, smirking at the way you cry into the bend of his neck and take the time to bite. You sink your teeth into smooth muscle, tongue lavishing over smoother skin. You’ll undoubtedly lean your mark and he wouldn't have it any other way.

You were so sweet too, so sweet to tell him before you came in short, fast pants. You begged in soft “please”s for him to keep going. “Jus’ like that.” Your legs hooked over his slender hips to keep him in close.

Your mind went hazy with the rush of your climax, your body tensed and rolled with the waves of it. That pretty pussy of your clamped down around Hobie’s full cock, stroking him in beautiful subtly pulses that coaxed him towards his own orgasm.

“Ya wan’ me to cum wit’cha, pretty boy?”

You nod and whine, nails sinking into the back of his neck. Your legs tuck in and pull his hips closer and oh those silky walls of your milked him so nice and thoroughly he couldn't help but to cum.

Hobie didn't mean to cum inside, didn't mean to sully your body with his spunk. He didn't want to ruin you, ruin the temple of your body but God, he couldn't help it and you weren't letting him move.

And oh, he didn't mean to get so sappy, didn't mean to lift your intertwined hands and kiss the back of yours as he came deep inside, hot cum rushing to fill you to the brim. He sighed with pleasure and contentment and looked you in the eyes. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, luv. My lil’ muse.”

He rolled over with you still holding on to him, slipping from his little sanctuary between your legs with a wet pop. He readjusted himself, made himself decent before kissing you on the head.

God, what would this mean for your friendship? Would this become a regular thing? Did this make you something more. You were too afraid to say anything in fear of ruining the quiet serenity of the moment.

“You got what you need for your drawing?” You ask innocently, as if he did all of this for some damn drawing. Hobie scoffed against your scalp and pulled away to look at you. “Yeah, but ‘m no’ in the mood to draw anymore. Jus’ lemme hold’ja, yeah, dove?”

You could let him do that.

#across the spiderverse #atsv #spiderman atsv #spiderman #hobie brown #spider punk #hobie brown fic #hobie fanfic #atsv hobie #astv hobie smut #hobie smut #hobie x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown smut #spider punk x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x transmasc!reader #hobie brown x ftm!reader

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prolix-yuy · 6 months

Text

Crawling Back to You

Pairing: Incubus!Dieter Bravo x Virgin F!Reader

Summary: Have you no idea that you're in deep?

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, religious corruption kink, bastardizing prayers, brief drug use, mentions of alcohol consumption, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, breaking a hymen, descriptions of blood, biting and drawing blood, pheromone incubus anatomy, size difference/kink like whoa, monster transformation, monster fucking, PiV sex, wildly unrealistic sex, kind of dubious consent in the way that she has no idea what she's getting into so Dieter checks in A LOT, consent is sexy and monsters especially should ask for it, Reader has no idea what she's doing when it comes to summoning an incubus.

Notes: Like most things Dieter's involved in, it takes twice as long but you reap the most rewards. A little late for Halloween, but spooky season is 24/7 and I needed to put this out into the world as soon as possible. Very special gold star mutual thanks due to @ezrasbirdie who gave me the prompt for this story and then talked me through some of the ideas she had. Religious corruption kink is super new for me, not being raised in a formal religion, but it was incredibly interesting to explore in this way. Apologies for the sacrilege, friends, it's all in the pursuit of sexyness.

A big disclaimer! This is not a blueprint for losing your virginity! This is some wildly unrealistic sex, especially for someone who has never experienced PiV intercourse before! Please be safe and careful with your bodies. While we thirst over these scenarios and would love to take monster cocks, always practice safe and fun sex with partners who care about your comfort.

A second disclaimer that in this fic, the Reader defines losing her virginity as experiencing penetrative sex and breaking her unbroken hymen. Virginity does not look the same for every person, and each individual's circumstances may be very different. Virginity is also a social construct that has some gross stigmas around it, which we'll be briefly addressing. I've also kept the reader's age unspecified (18+ of course) but that she has gone to college, so whatever age you may be reading this, your own sexual journey moves at your pace and if/when you define that you've passed this milestone, that's the right time for you.

Cross-posted on AO3

The lines chalked into your hardwood floors glow with a sudden and panic-inducing heat, smoldering as a phantom breeze whips around your kneeling body. The lights in your apartment flicker and dim as a sooty haze hangs around your ankles. Springing to your feet, you frantically search for something to smear the careful symbols to nonsense while a crackle of electricity raises all of the hair on the back of your arms and neck.

It’s much too late to go back now.

Something pulls in the center of your chest as the room expands and contracts like a great beast breathing. You try to stand strong but the tremble in your frame chatters your teeth. Suddenly the room plunges into darkness, and a crack echoes in your ears before the light swells back to full strength. Bracing yourself for what may be in the circle you foolishly copied, you peel open your eyes.

Then, your mouth falls open, because never in your wildest dreams did you expect Dieter Bravo, famous actor, to be sitting in the middle of your half-assed summoning circle.

“What the fuck?”

He looks just as bewildered as you do, cross-legged on the floor and pulling his lips from a turquoise bong cradled in his lap. He’s wearing sunglasses - did you spirit him here from halfway around the world? - and an open silk bathrobe patterned with roaring tigers. The waterfall of folds bundle in his lap, and for a mouth-drying moment you wonder if he’s got anything on beneath. Then he shifts, billowing a cloud of skunky smoke at your ceiling and placing the bong at arms length.

Well, he is wearing socks at least, pulled halfway up his legs and under Crocs. You don’t know whether to laugh or choke on your tongue.

“What the fuck to you too,” he grumbles, creakily getting to his feet and dusting little frills of ash from his shoulders. It’s now easy to see he’s sporting tiny black boxer briefs, and your eyes fight to land anywhere but there. They finally find the book, opened to the page you scoffed over until your finished glass of wine goaded you on.

“This can’t be happening,” you finally squeak out, shifting on the balls of your feet as you spin and press your fingers into your cheeks.

“Sure is,” Dieter says, one hand on his hip and looking at you with naked curiosity. He’s swept back the robe on one side, showing off the shapely curve of his thigh, the soft definition of his stomach, how large his hands…

“I didn’t…I couldn’t have…you…go back,” you stammer, heart and head pounding. Does this mean you’re a witch? Did you honestly summon something with a book you rented from the library? Nothing makes sense with this man staring at you - practically leering - as you contemplate whether you’re having a dusty-old-book-based hallucination.

“Breathe, baby,” Dieter purrs, hands making soothing motions in the air between you. Taking in a big breath and letting it out explosively, you follow Dieter’s motions to sit down with him. The floor is hard and unforgiving on your bottom, but you criss-cross-applesauce with him as he leans back on his hands.

“Normally when I show up, people aren’t all that surprised,” he says, and his voice is raspy and sonorous in the room. You swallow hard, finding comfort in twisting the hem of your pajama shirt in your palms.

“Well, it’s pretty damn surprising to have THE Dieter Bravo in my living room,” you say, a momentary swell of pride when you realize your sarcasm hasn’t flown the coop with your sanity. Dieter chuckles, tilting his head onto one shoulder.

“Who were you expecting?”

“Honestly, no one. Nothing,” you lie. Half-lie. You were hoping for something pretty specific.

“Very cute, but let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on here. I know exactly what you were hoping would pop up in this pretty little circle of yours.”

Your eyes wander to his inner thigh, then snap to a symbol on the floor.

“I thought…” You sigh, ducking your head. “I thought I was summoning some sort of…sexy demon. At least that’s what the book said.”

“An incubus,” Dieter offers, and you nod.

“But clearly something went wrong, because you’re here, somehow.” You scrub a hand over your face. “No idea how I messed up this bad. I didn’t even know you could mess up this badly.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Dieter says in a carefree voice. “Mess up, that is.” You arch an eyebrow at him.

“But I got…you.”

Dieter leans forward, elbows on his knees as he cocks his head with a knowing smile. In the dim light of your apartment his eyes seem even darker than before.

“Exactly what you asked for. At your service.” He tips his head, tongue slipping from between his plush lips to swipe along his full lower one. A sudden patter of arousal grips your hips, and he half closes his eyes and breathes deep.

“That can’t…you’re Dieter Bravo.”

“Yes.”

“You’re an…incubus.”

“Also yes.”

The next question blurts out of your mouth too quickly to stop.

“Why?”

His laugh is just as quick and breaks some of the tension digging into your spine. The warmth of it wraps your head in cotton, smiling along.

“Oh, starlet, I should be pissed as hell to be pulled away from that fantastic party I was about to ruin, but this is turning out to be much more fun.” Your cheeks warm at the affectionate name. “How many people do you think summon incubi these days? A demon’s gotta get by.” He’s sliding closer to the edge of the circle but not moving past it. A small voice in the back of your mind notes that he might not be able to.

“So…acting,” you say, not without a little smirk. He seems to like that, smile stretching wider and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“What, should I be slinging burgers?” he asks with another snort of laughter. “C’mon, don’t tell me it doesn’t make sense. Beautiful people, sex appeal galore, fast living and high octane relationships? I haven’t been hungry in ages.”

Your hands still in your lap, studying your fingers as you let the silence linger. Dieter allows it for a time before his voice pulls you back.

“But you summoned, and I came. You must have a reason.”

Now that the silly half-buzzed fantasy is mere feet from you, saying it aloud is daunting.

“You’ll…you won’t get it.”

His eyebrows lift in slow surprise.

“Try me.”

You're turned on more than you’ve ever experienced in your life, and Dieter’s nostrils flare as his jaw ticks.

“I was having a drink. A couple,” you correct, the dregs of the bottle giving you away. “And I was just hating the way I was feeling about everything going on and I looked at this book and it seemed like a funny thing, to try and summon a demon…”

“Incubus, get it right,” Dieter purrs, and the air thickens.

“I didn’t think it would work,” you protest, hands coming up to cradle your temples.

“But you hoped, enough to do all this work on the one day of the year when magic is easiest to grasp,” he teases, tilting his head to the side to catch your eye. It’s definitely not helping the situation that he’s Dieter Bravo, solid C-list star who’d captured your attention in more than one of his movies. Thoughts of his dark eyes and full lips drew your hands down your body on more than one occasion before…

Dieter growls low and frustrated. “Let’s cut to the chase, starlet. You’re laying out a buffet and I can’t even have a taste.” You blink owlishly at him before he smirks, licking an incisor. “I can smell how much you want me.”

Shock slams your mouth shut, face burning. Your traitorous body has failed you again.

“You called and I answered. I’m still in your circle, so you could send me away, but I doubt you know how to do that.”

He’s right. You’ve trapped him here. With little old you.

“Or, you could tell me what you really wanted when you spent all this time writing all these little symbols so carefully.” Dieter’s fingers dance along the chalk lines, smile turning cheekier. Steeling yourself, you let the truth out into open air.

“I called you because…I’ve never had anyone before.”

Dieter’s face remains cooly neutral, but you can see his nostrils flare briefly.

“You’ve never…”

You shrug, self-deprecating smile cutting through the awkwardness.

“I’ve done some things, by myself, but never…I’ve never had sex with anyone in the…classical way.” The words are starched and wooden but hit a chord with Dieter. He repositions to sit back on his knees, hands splayed on his bare thighs. The smooth expanse of his chest begs to be touched.

“I thought I smelled something special here, and I was oh so right,” he rasps, nipping at his lower lip while he drags his eyes over your body. “Human virginity is a social construct, but inexperience in pleasure? Being allowed to revel in your body discovering all the ways it can feel? That is a rare treat.”

You don’t expect the sudden rush of emotions at Dieter’s eagerness. Years of people either finding you broken or fetishizing your “purity” had given you an even larger complex than you thought.

“It’s not…fucked up that I’m doing this?” you ask.

“What sounds better to you, letting some Chad fumble through trying to pleasure you when his dick can barely handle your sweet cunt, or allowing someone with centuries of experience give you everything you ever desired?”

Your aforementioned cunt knows which one she wants.

“May I ask why you’ve waited until now?” he says, interrupting your railroading thoughts. Shyness and shame clouds your eyes.

“My parents were very religious. Lots of ‘thou shalt nots’ and ‘obey thys’. But I wanted to be a good daughter. So badly.” Dieter’s eyes are darkening as you speak, fingers pressing divots into his thighs. “So I did everything they said. Followed all the rules. And I grew up their perfect little girl. Never got caught sneaking out with a boy, never drank or smoked or anything.”

“How…boring,” Dieter comments. It stings between your shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much all I heard when I went to college. That I was boring for not liking weed. A buzzkill because I was nervous about breaking rules. And sex…”

Here you swallow, your lower lip trembling before you bite it back.

“I thought I was doing everything right. Everyone told me I was doing everything right. And then I get into the real world and nobody wants…” Looking up you catch a softer expression on Dieter’s face, true understanding blunting the lust.

“How have these fumbling fools tried to pleasure you?” he asks, and maybe the wine is still thrumming in your veins (it’s not), but your tongue is looser than it’s ever been.

“Grinding mostly. I think they’ve…cum…but I don’t. Not like when I do it myself.”

Dieter snarls softly. “Fuckers,” he rumbles, an oncoming thunderclap crackled with electricity.

“Every time I feel like I’m damaged goods,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I thought maybe this would…fix me.”

The lights in the room dip low as Dieter chuckles. Darkness seems drawn to him, settling around his shoulders like a fine stole.

“Betrayed by the God you worshiped so faithfully,” he muses, rolling his shoulders and licking his lips. “Don’t worry, starlet, I’ll take care of you tonight.”

“Can I…do anything for you?” you ask. Dieter’s smile softens, tutting quietly.

“Believe me, you’ll be perfect,” he praises, the heat in your cheeks even more unbearable. “Like I said, I’m rarely hungry anymore, but your arousal will be delicious. I’ll gorge myself on your peaks and leave you sated…and ruined for any after me.”

That should be a warning. It only makes your want greater.

“Okay,” you breathe out. Dieter’s smile widening again. Are his teeth…sharper?

“Now we can fuck to our heart’s content in this summoning circle here,” Dieter says, tapping his finger in the air. Motes of copper light and sparks rain down from an invisible barrier. “I’ve had more challenging obstacles. But if you would like me at my best, break the circle starlet.”

Standing back up, you retrieve a cloth from your kitchen table. When you return Dieter is standing in the center, prowling ever so slightly in his tiny prison. You move to wipe the line connecting the circle when…

“Are other celebrities incubi?” you ask, kneeling in front of him with open curiosity on your face. Dieter’s predatory smile quickly shuffles to confused and incredulous.

“I mean, maybe, I don’t keep close tabs.”

“Tom Hiddleston could totally be one. Or Robert Downey Jr. Heck, maybe Marvel just employs incubi to keep their revenue going…” Leaning down, you move to wipe the mark.

“Strange little starlet,” Dieter chuckles, and a warm breeze tickles the back of your neck. With one swipe the circle is broken.

“Hannah Waddingham would totally be…” you start to say, nerves tumbling words from your lips, but thankfully Dieter’s stop them.

He moves so quickly for a moment you’re sure he’s going to devour you, tear you limb from limb for imprisoning him. Instead he crashes your mouths together, hand firm on the back of your neck as his broad shoulders press you on your back. His hips slot between your thighs so smoothly you’re arching into them before you can think straight. Once your head is carefully lowered to the floor his hands find your wrists and press them above your head, maneuvering your thighs to wrap you around his waist. The dizzying feat of agility pales in comparison to his kiss.

Dieter commands your mouth to submit, tongue hot and lewd between your lips. You’re afraid you’ll choke on your own but he strokes delicate paths into the lush depths that keep you barely breathing. His lips are plush and yielding, pulling away to drag against the corner of your mouth or teasing the edge of your lips. And his teeth. You’d had boys clack against you, or press them harshly against your lips. Dieter knows exactly when to scrape them against your tongue, how much pressure to put with your lower lip trapped, the anticipation of them sliding against your skin before he dives in again.

“What a soft, pretty thing you are,” he rasps, and there’s a deep grinding quality to his voice now. Like stones moving slowly past one another, it vibrates straight to your clit as he inhales deeply behind your ear.

“Dieter…” you manage, his face lifting from his ecstasy to study your own. His eyes are somehow losing the edge of white, expanding into inky blackness. He lazily laps at his lower lip, and when you lean up to kiss his chin he snarls and presses deep into your apex.

“I’m sorry, starlet, I forgot you’ve been waiting to break promises,” he teases, sliding a hand down to knead at your ass. As quickly as you were laid out you’re suddenly in the air, legs wrapped around Dieter’s waist as he carries you out of your living room. His strength has you feeling light as a feather, barely a nuisance as he searches out a place for his plans.

“The bedroom.” You motion to a half-opened door and Dieter’s knowing smile precludes entering.

“Eager, aren’t we? What if I wanted to lay you out for everyone to see?”

The image of your body laid bare, covered in moonlight and monstrous hands, flutters your eyes as the bedroom door shuts behind you.

“No, tonight you will remain in my confessional,” he says, kneeling down on the bed and letting you fall back into the mess of pillows and sheets.

“You’re very fond of religious metaphor,” you rib, rubbing your thighs together as Dieter sheds the robe and his Crocs, a brief moment of clarity bubbling a giggle up your throat. Dieter’s motions slow as he regards you again, kneeling between your legs.

“Maybe I am rather fond of…corruption,” he husks, the word lighting on your skin like sparks. “Maybe I like seeing you forsake all for me.”

If he asked, you just might. The high of his attention is so great.

“But in this moment, what I mean is we will speak no lies in this room.” His hands trail down your thighs, and now your body remembers it has no experience from here. You shake, heart pounding as Dieter crawls up your body with only brief brushes to guide his way. “My promise is that you will know pleasure as great as I can offer. And you will tell me everything you think, and feel.”

He hovers over your body, broad enough to block the paltry light through your window.

“Would you like to be pleasured?”

“Yes, Dieter, please.”

His smile is wicked, and the scrape of his fingernails up your ribcage arches your back. In a fluid slide of his fingers your shirt is over your head and tossed into darkness, leaving you bare-chested under him. He hums with appreciation as his face descends, curved nose dragging along your tender skin. Time hangs in the balance as you tense for what may come, but Dieter only traces dizzying paths with the tip of his nose and the fullness of his lips. Up one side of your ribs, placing kisses at intervals, then along the underside of your breast. His hot breath warms skin, nipples hardening sharp and sensitive at the scratch of his facial hair. Then down the center of your stomach, a long and cyclical detour around your bellybutton. Stomach trembling, he hushes you as his fingers slide under your waistband and bunch your sleep shorts and underwear in his hands.

Another fluid drag and you’re nude, still swimming in endorphins at Dieter’s skilled touch. It’s only when hot palms wrap around your knees and begin easing them apart do you balk. Instinctively you clamp your legs together, heat flooding your face. Dieter tuts, smoothing his hands up and down your jittery thighs.

“What are you afraid of, starlet?” he asks, ghosting his fingers over the apex of your sex. Just the brush against your mound steals your voice, that same hot shame and anxiety pulling you in on yourself. When you don’t answer, Dieter commands more firmly, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Dragging your eyes from the ceiling back to him doesn’t help. He’s all mischievous eyes and knowing smiles, pressing a kiss to both of your knees as he rests his chin on them.

“I can make it easier for you,” he says, fingers finding a soft crease in your hip and stroking along it. “Give you something for the nerves, for any pain. I’ll only let you feel good here with me.”

You take two more grounding breaths and ease the pressure on your knees.

“”Sorry, I’m just…no one’s ever…” you say, but before you can explain your woeful inexperience he’s wedging his way between your legs and holding your thighs open in his firm tight grip.

“I’m the first to taste this forbidden fruit?” he asks, and you clench involuntarily. He waits as you gather yourself enough to nod. A deep, dark chuckle falls from his lips. “Starlet, you have no idea what you’re in for tonight.”

The question claws up your throat but no sooner has he glanced at your pussy he’s diving in to press his tongue deep and sweeping through your folds. The velvet slither arches your back off the bed, a strangled cry earning a satisfied hum between your legs.

“Holy shit, Dieter, oh my god,” you rasp as he flicks his tongue in fast swipes over your clit. It’s foreign and taboo, so much wetter and softer than your fingers and you can barely stop your hips from bucking into his mouth. One hand presses you down to the bed, his chin tilting up to catch your eye. Slick shines his mouth, and your pussy throbs when you realize his eyes are the shiny black of nightmares and creatures used to the dark.

“No god here, sweetheart. Only me. Only take my name in vain,” he growls, and the rush of blood in your ears speeds up when you realize the hand pressed on your abdomen spans the width of your hips. Black-tipped claws indent the flesh, prickling your skin just shy of pain. Dipping low again, Dieter swirls at your entrance and prods in, nose pressed tight to the button of your pleasure. The supple stretch is unfamiliar, pulling at a primal need to let him fill you. It tightens your thighs and shudders you against him as he forces you down again, the bite of claws a sharper warning. His jaw doesn’t stop, plunging and delving into you as deep as he can manage.

“Dieter, it’s never…oh fuck, it’s never felt this good before, please…please, I can’t stand it,” you beg, a rush of slick coating his tongue. Now a true snarl seeds your cunt, and in the charcoal dark his silhouette thickens, shoulders broadening under your knees. He pushes you further up the bed, pulling even greater cries from your chest. Dragging his tongue from your sopping hole, he sucks greedily on your clit, hands wrapped around your waist to lift you half off the bed. Suspended and flowing with arousal, your hands unclench from the sheets and circle his wrists. The skin is hot under your palms, and they dig deeper in at your scrabbling touch. It’s not enough, so with a boldness you pull from a dizzying depth you bury your fingers in his curls.

At first touch they’re soft. Long enough to wind around your fingers. You give a gentle tug and swear you feel a shudder around you. But as you bury them deeper another sensation tickles your palm. Something unyielding and curved, smooth like bone. Two protrusions fit in the webbing of your thumb and forefinger, short enough that the blunt tip brushes your knuckles. Horns, you think. A demon is eating me out and he has horns. And where you might have tried to wake yourself from a nightmare at this thought, instead you wrap your fingers around them and tug.

Like lightning something changes in Dieter. His lips tear from you with a roar that fills the room, your mind, spreading like forest fire and drying your mouth out. You hold on as he drops you back to the bed, the sound still ripping from his throat. Then there’s pain, supernova-like in intensity and scorching through arousal and fear. Your eyes snap down to Dieter’s mouth, but it’s no longer defiling your pussy. It’s clamped hard on your inner thigh, air puffing sharply through his nose. The pain radiates, and you realize he’s bit you. Not an overzealous love bite, you can feel the puncture of incisors and pump of blood into his mouth, the same pattern as your racing heart. Your hands release his horns, pushing you up as your mouth drops open in horror.

“Dieter,” you gasp, but with his horns released the pressure abates. His eyes open slowly, catching your terrified face. The curve of his brow morphs from surprise to apology to determination. Then a thumb presses firmly to your clit and circles it, washing pain away with pleasure teetering right on the edge. His fangs remain in your thigh as you stare at him, incredulity on your face but pleasure rocking your hips. He adds pressure to the bite again, speeding up his fingers as your brain struggles to differentiate one from the other.

Then, just as your spine begins tingling and your fingers go numb, one slick finger penetrates your cunt, smooth and deep, barely noticeable compared to the symphony of sensations. Like a reward, Dieter gives you the final stroke that crashes your orgasm over him, slamming you back to the bed as pain and pleasure and shame and exhilaration floods your brain. You barely register Dieter’s jaw releasing, fingers working you through your orgasm as the slow laps of his tongue lull you back to your body. Every muscle quivers, attempts to sit up failing twice before you manage to come up to your elbows.

Between your legs Dieter is pressing devotions to the spot he bit, open-mouthed kisses with peeks of tongue soothing the injury. His finger is still inside, a lazy caress of your walls foreign but not unpleasant. Finally he lifts up to his knees and turns his attention back to your face.

“I’m sorry, starlet, you got me a little too riled up there. I’ve fixed it, but you might be sore tomorrow.” A bloom of teeth circle your inner thigh, but no blood oozes out. You felt the pop, felt him inside you, and somehow he’s taken it back. “Can’t have you injured because of me, not very professional.”

“I hope it stays,” you pant, fingertips tracing the dark marks. The tenderness arcs down your spine.

“Fuck, you’re made for sin, starlet,” Dieter purrs, and now your attention can turn back to him. Grounding yourself with a healthy, “oh fuck,” is the only way you can fathom what he’s become.

He towers over you even kneeling, broad body only more tantalizing as he’s grown in stature. The well-known triangle tattoos you’d seen in paparazzi photos are joined by swirling patterns up and down his arms, concentric rings and text you can’t read patterning his skin. Where only wild curls were before now jut two smooth horns, curved away from his face and looking suspiciously similar to a goat’s. His skin almost steams in the room, wisps of smoke or condensation haloing his silhouette like an ominous aura.

Then his hand flexes again and you realize how full you are with just one finger inside, even observing how thick and wicked they’ve become.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and there’s only a hint of teasing now as he works his finger inside.

“It’s…okay,” you gasp, staring at the place where you’re connected. His thumb ghosts over your clit again, but so soon after your high it’s over sensitive, making you hiss and tremble.

“Shhh, starlet, just relax. Thought it would be better to take advantage of the pain.” With a final stroke that lights up your nerves he slips out, holding his fingers up for you to see. They’re wet with your arousal and a little blood, a lot less than you thought. “Now that’s out of the way, we can take our time giving you the best fuck of your life.” With a knowing smile, he pops his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean.

“Fuck, you really are…an incubus,” you say, acquainting yourself with the dull ache of your loss. There isn’t much fanfare, no swelling of emotion. If anything, breaking your hymen is probably the least memorable part of your night. Dieter’s smile falters briefly, and in a dizzying turn of events he shrinks back, closing in on himself. Ducking his head, you might think he was embarrassed, or shy. It looks stranger than the horns on him.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Touching the horns got me a little too worked up. Let me open you up on my fingers for a little while longer, that’ll give me enough time to…change back.” His smile is sheepish now, hands roaming your thighs and stomach. Instead of the skin-crawling terror you thought that would instill, you’re practically preening under his touch.

“Is this you? This form?” you ask, and you let your boldness move to your hands. You stroke your fingertips over his, investigating the smoothness of his claws, how the joints of his fingers are more pronounced than yours. He scoffs an uncomfortable laugh.

“Uh yeah, mostly. But you’ll have a lot more fun bragging that you lost your virginity to THE Dieter Bravo,” he redirects, shaking his head like he’s annoyed he’s not that man yet.

In your brief and paltry handful of intimate moments, you never considered yourself bold. You’d let men touch you until your discomfort was too much, or your embarrassment pulled to the forefront. You never asked for the touches you enjoyed, or sought out the pleasures you dreamed of. But now, with a creature that’s endearingly vulnerable before you, your voice is finally strong enough to be heard.

“I’d like you to stay this way,” you say. Sitting up further, you skim your hands up his arms to cup his face. Your touch snarls his lip briefly before he settles.

“You can’t handle that, starlet. I’ve kept my human form reasonable, but you will not be able to take my cock,” Dieter husks. Tugging your wrist down to his waist, you palm him through fabric barely able to contain him. Thick and long in your hand, he drops his head and thrusts against you and gets bigger.

“Ruin me, then,” you whisper, filthy and naive into his ear. “I’ve waited all this time, saved myself for no one but you. Make me take no lover but you. Make me pray to you for ecstasy.” Leaning in to the metaphor rewards you. With a dangerous rumble he pushes you flat on your back, one hand wrapped around your throat.

“You want this, starlet? All of it?” he grits out, sickening cracks and pops echoing in the room. His hips force yours wide, planting his other hand by your head and carefully watching your face. The shine of his fangs whips your heart into a gallop, more ink dancing on his skin as he transforms from something beautiful to something magnificent. The room darkens perplexingly until you realize wings spread from his shoulders, thin light gleaming through the stretched web of skin. His aura crackles with molten motes, a whiff of fire and smoke making a home in your lungs. When he looks back at you, half familiar and half transcendent, his roguish smile brings one to your lips.

“Strange little thing, wet and ready for me,” he croons, removing his hand from your throat. A rip of stitching signals he’s as nude as you are now, and your eyes widen when the heavy length of his cock rests on your mound, curving past your navel and thicker than your hand can circle.

“Say you want Dieter Bravo back, and I’ll have just as much fun wrecking you in that form,” he says, but there’s something cautious between you now. A shimmer of anxiety and distrust. You’re holding a thread of something truer than he intended to give you, and if you drop it you’ll never find it again.

“Can you help me make it feel good?” you ask, sliding your palms along his chest. Without proper pupils it’s hard to track his expression, but you think it’s awestruck.

“Of course, starlet. You’ve learned to cum from pleasure and pain, but I won’t have you suffer more than necessary.” Dieter leans down and cups your head, bringing your nose to his neck right where it meets his shoulder. “Breathe,” he instructs, and you inhale deep. Below the smoke and heat you smell sweet new earth, lush and fruitful. It makes your mouth water, clutching at his shoulders as he begins rocking his hips against yours. His monstrous cock slips in the wet mess between your legs, slicking the underside generously.

“Fuck, you arousal is so delicious, I could taste you for centuries,” Dieter whispers. Lifting up, he smiles at your dazed expression and wandering hands. They trace his features, lingering on his lips. “How are you feeling now?”

You want him inside you, filling you up to bursting, to breaking. The need is hotter, all-encompassing. It’s surety that he won’t hurt you, that you’ll be shown pleasure beyond anything you’ve experienced. It’s lust but also trust.

“Can you kiss me?” is what you say, and Dieter’s smile is a touch softer before he leans down and claims your lips.

You swear you hear a hiss when he touches you, his skin scorching but not enough to burn. Parting his lips and nudging your jaw open, he traces the inside of your lower one with the tip of his tongue. One hand cups the back of your head, cradling you to his mouth, and with a forbidden thrill you realize his hands are now large enough that his fingertips caress the perimeter of your face. The threatening pressure of claws in your skin arcs arousal back in your cunt, winding your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he orders, and with a magnificent beat of bat wings his silhouette glows with dancing light much like a breath sparking fire to life. The warm hue of his human skin has gilded to gold, tattoos moving along the dips and peaks of his body. Eyes black and fathomless, his smile is a lifeboat in a raging ocean. He lets the heavy weight of his tongue wet his lower lip as your eyes widen, hefty cock lifting from your mound to press at your entrance. Scrabbling fear overtakes you, and you clutch at Dieter’s shoulders as the pressure mounts.

“Again, starlet,” he croons, but his voice is the rumbling of great stones moving over one another as you inhale deep of his scent. Cool water pours through your limbs, easing your muscles and letting your legs drop open wide. His other hand presses at your lower back and arches you off the bed, resting your thighs atop his own. Then, with a controlled push his head breaches you, wrenching a wrecked moan from deep in your chest. He stops as soon as he’s engulfed in your heat, the only betrayal of his own state residing in the long exhale of breath that tickles across your chest.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Tell me if you need me to stop,” he grits out, but you shake your head and roll your hips. It’s sloppy, inexperienced, but he moves ever so slightly within you and it punches a groan from between Dieter’s clenched teeth.

“Please, Dieter, more,” you beg, his claws tightening around you again. Another measured advance, another wail, more snarling and groaning from the creature stuffing himself inside you. Whatever aphrodisiac he’s fed you is working magnificently. You’re full, the pressure intense, but the pain is dull and quiet. He’s watching where you’re joined so closely, stretched obscenely around his cock, waiting for your thighs to unclench before backing out and pressing deeper in.

“Touch your clit,” he gasps, “Rub that pretty clit so you can take all of me.”

Your fingers are nowhere as decadent as his tongue but they pull bursts of ecstasy close to the surface. Venturing a look down, you’re dismayed to see he’s barely halfway there, so much more of his pulsing cock still to take. He already feels like he’s in your stomach, battering against your lungs. Tears spring to your eyes, lower lip wobbling.

“It’s not going to work,” you whisper, and even with the knowledge that Dieter could turn human at any point you still wallow in the rejection you anticipate. Not good enough for anyone, not even the person you called for.

“Shhh,” Dieter soothes, easing you back down to the bed. He tugs over pillows to tuck under your hips before covering you with his body, still looking in your eyes even at his towering height. “Breathe. Do you want me to stop? I can let you rest, change back to my human form. If you can take all of this…” His hips twitch forward, a soft cry tumbling out. “...then you can take my human cock perfectly.” With a tenderness your eyes water for, he strokes his thumb along your cheek. “Do you want me to stop?”

It’s already so much, so intense and mind-blowing, but you can’t help yourself.

“I want all of it, Dieter,” you say, consequences be damned.

Much in the same way touching his horns unleashed something in Dieter, hearing those words unlocks something even more primal and greedy in his face. Dropping down to his elbows, he presses your face against his neck.

“Bite,” he orders, the word igniting every pleasure center in your body. “Hard, starlet, give me one as good as I gave you.” The words are barely out before you sink your teeth into the crook of his neck, but instead of blood or other ichor you’re flooded with pleasure. The sensation rips an orgasm out of you, hips bucking on his cock. You register Dieter pulling out to the tip before slamming his hips into yours, seating himself fully inside your throbbing cunt. You don’t know how your body makes room for him, how you’re not screaming (well, maybe screaming some), but he’s inside you and littering your body with, “oh fuck, oh fuuuuucks” as he swirls his hips.

“I did it,” you coo in pleasure-dipped delirium, head flopping back on a pillow as Dieter starts thrusting into you in slow passes.

“You sure fucking did sweetheart, look at that perfect pussy taking my monster cock,” he praises, now sliding along your clit with focus. The overstimulation rolls right into desire again as your cunt learns how to gorge itself on pleasure.

“It feels…good,” you say, bearing down on his thrusts to meet him with a little more force. He purrs in admiration, starting to speed up ever so slightly.

“Yeah? Like how good you feel all stuffed full?” Dieter asks but it’s nonsense now, his focus pulling between your face and his cock pumping in and out of you. There’s a little more pain now, places where his cock brushes that zip sharp up your spine, but it’s far from unpleasant. In fact, you might like it. Maybe really like it.

“More, Dieter. Want to feel you. Please,” you moan, restraint flickering in Dieter’s eyes.

“Fuck, baby, you can’t say shit like that when I’m so deep in you, I won’t be able to…” His thought falls off as his thrusts speed up, a little more force at the end each time. It’s kissing at something devastating inside, something clawing its way to the surface through years of shame and dread.

“Please Dieter, I’ll beg for it. I’ll…” Your brain wraps around a wicked idea. “I’ll pray for it.”

That does the trick. Dieter’s lips curl back in a snarl as he rears up to his knees, wings spreading to fill the room with only him. Hands gripping your hips, he looks down at you not like a lover, but like a fallen god.

“Then do it, starlet,” he challenges. His smile is cool, but his cock twitches in your cunt. You have him.

“Glory be to you, Dieter,” you say, and hellfire light erupts around him. Dragging himself out of your cunt, he holds tight as a bowstring.

“And to your…fucking massive cock,” you continue, eyes rolling back as he fills you to the brim. “And to your true form, in all its beauty,” you add, softer now, drawing his eyes back up to you. Time hangs as he studies your face before dipping down and sealing your lips with a kiss that means too much for words. When he lifts away you finish the prayer.

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.”

Dieter’s smile glints.

“A-fucking-men,” he rasps, giving you just enough time to press your hands against the headboard before he starts railing you.

You’re lost in pleasure and ache and sin and Dieter pounding recklessly into your cunt. His grip paints bruises along your waist, battering thighs marking the inside of your hips. His claws dig into your flesh and sharp scrapes tighten your nipples. Hands roam up over your breasts, around your neck, pressing your wrists into the bed as ominous splintering and cracks echo in your ears.

“Another before I cum on your tits, sweetheart,” he pants, spitting down onto your clit and circling it with vigor. You cry out, hips bucking as the thickness of his cock impedes on your quivering walls. “It’s so close baby, just cum around me. Let me feel you cum on all my cock this time.”

“I can’t,” you cry out, shaking and sobbing around him. Dieter tuts, his rapidly increasing slap-slap-slap of thrusts maddening.

“You can, and you will starlet. You didn’t think you’d take my cock. I didn’t think you’d take it, and look at you now. So you’re going to cum. You’re going to cum now.”

The order shakes the room, pictures rattling on the wall as a final flick hurtles you off into oblivion with Dieter’s roaring triumph right behind. He’s somehow still fucking his cock into you even though you’re so tight it almost hurts to be cumming so good. A final crackling roar and you’re achingly empty, followed by a hot splash of cum across your stomach. Then another cresting your breast, and more and more until you’re covered in it, sticky trails sliding to pool in your bellybutton and drip over your sides onto the covers. Dieter is gasping above you, glowing like a sacred artifact as he pumps the last drops from his cock.

You close your eyes once and it’s a mistake. As soon as you let your eyelids touch exhaustion grips you, fighting your desperate attempts to reopen them. It’s battling this bone-deep tired when you experience Dieter’s return to a human form. The horns receding, tattoos fading to just the ones that grace tabloid pages. The wings fold away, and soon a sexy as hell rumpled and soft body replaces the supernatural one.

“Wore you out, starlet?” Dieter Bravo asks, kneeling between your parted knees with a rakish smile. You try to return it with a nod but your whole body is heavy, the mess barely bothering you. Dieter hums thoughtfully, and in a few moments a warm washcloth is cleaning up his cum.

“Side effect of my influence, helps a lot in the moment but it’s got some pretty strong sedative properties. Good for a speedy exit.” His chuckle sounds faraway now, even as you try to clutch at it.

“Stay,” you manage to croak out, hands seeking his body. You find his hair again, nose buried in your sex as he licks softly at your folds. The building ache there creeps back down to something dull and manageable.

“Our contract is up, can’t stay once you’ve given me what I’m owed.” Dieter’s lips start leaving small kisses along your abdomen, fingers soothing your skin. “Even if it was very, very good.”

“Please,” you try again, racking your rapidly puttying mind for anything to keep his hands on you.

“Even when you say it so sweetly,” Dieter says, but there’s melancholy now. It glances off your fingertips as sleep pulls you under.

In the between world of dreams, you think he says something more to you, but Morpheus snatches it away.

Hail, starlet, full of grace, Dieter is with thee.

This might be the silliest thing I’ve ever…well, hmm…

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, all those delectable orgasms you gave me.

Holy starlet, bringer of…something special.

Pray for this sinner.

There’s blood on your sheets when you wake, though less than you expected. There’s also less pain, though the ache takes your breath away when you sit up too fast. Hobbling to the bathroom with the cool pink of morning light guiding, you inspect your body in the mirror.

You don’t look much different than before. Some strange notion of losing your virginity making you suddenly appear “mature” is dashed away. Maybe there’s a little glint of a secret in your eye, but not much more. Actually, surprisingly not much more. You expected bruises, scratches along your body and love bites marring your landscape. Instead your canvas is unblemished, no marks or injuries to hide. It’s almost as if he’d never been there.

Sitting down on the toilet, you wonder if maybe he wasn’t. That you dreamt up debauchery due to food poisoning or someone spiking the punch at the Halloween party. You couldn’t possibly have summoned an incubus.

A dark mark inside your thigh catches your attention, and any doubts dissipate. A ring of teeth, four larger fangs prominent, marrs the inside of your thigh. Brushing your fingertips over the circle, the skittering thrill of those memories settle in your chest.

You ride on the endorphins for a few days, a handful of people noticing. A work friend tries to interrogate you on it but “a lady never tells” is a saucy enough reply for her to give an approving look. You buy a new bed online, the base of yours splintered to ruin, but you keep the cracked headboard like a souvenir.

Online dating doesn’t seem as daunting now that you’re not so worried about the dreaded “first time.” You even accept a few dates, meet some generally nice men with generally boring personalities. They don’t make your heart race like a certain celebrity whose name you googled briefly before slamming your laptop shut. They certainly don’t kiss like him, or make sexy little jokes or terrify you as much as intrigue you.

So for a while you try to move on. There’s no other option, right? Dieter Bravo the Movie Star would never give you a second thought. Dieter Bravo the Incubus surely has better things to do, more lascivious living. So you try to find something even remotely like what you felt that night.

It’s mid-November when you find yourself sitting on your living room floor again, piece of chalk in hand. You lit candles this time, bought black lace lingerie, made yourself up to feel pretty. It doesn’t help your shaking hands as you pull the rug off the summoning circle. Touching up a few spots, you settle by the broken line where you released Dieter. It all popped off when you completed the circle last time, so with a deep breath and a swipe of the chalk, you reconnect the chalk.

And you wait.

And wait.

A bulb in a lamp flickers but it’s brief. An errant breeze almost snuffs out a candle. But nothing happens. Your knees are sore, eyes watering but you blink the tears away.

It was a long shot, you have to admit. A fluke chance, never to be repeated. You’ll have to settle for something bland, safe, loving but…

Nothing like Dieter.

You’re about to get up from the floor when one other idea tempts you. Something you thought he might have said before leaving you ruined.

Pray for this sinner.

Clasping your hands in your lap, you close your eyes and take a deep breath.

It’s been a long time since you last prayed.

“Dieter…” you whisper. The fine hairs on your neck rise up, but you press on.

“Dieter, I pray to thee,” you continue, closing your eyes. “Come to me in my hour of need.”

A pause, then a final entreaty. “Please.”

A rumble creeps into your body, tiny puffs of candles snuffing out reaching your ears. You dare not open your eyes yet, too hopeful for disappointment. Instead you wait, and hope.

A hot hand, thick fingered and human, slides up your chest, over your throat and cups your chin. Relief floods your body, melting back against a solid chest and chuckling lips.

“Hello, starlet,” Dieter croons in your ear, wrapping his arm around your waist and tucking his head into the crook of your neck. Your fingers search for curls, burying in his hair as you lace your fingers with his.

“You came,” you breathe, sparks igniting on your skin as he presses a line of kisses from your shoulder to your ear.

“How could I not, when you prayed so sweetly?” he teases, tugging you back to sit in the cradle of his crossed legs. “Smart of you to try the circle, but outside of all hallow’s eve you don’t have access to enough power for that trick.”

“But you came,” you repeat, turning your face into Dieter’s ministrations. He nips at the side of your jaw, soothing it with his lips before murmuring a confession into your skin.

“I hoped you would call again.”

A thick emotion swells in your chest, and you spin in his grasp to crash your mouths together. The momentum knocks him backwards to the floor, letting you straddle his waist and feast on his ample lips. His hands roam your back, reverent in their paths. When you break to suck in lungfuls of sweet air he leans up to mouth at your neck, possessive hand on your ass urging you to grind against him.

“Have you let anyone else fuck you?” he growls. To your delight the anxiety and trepidation that colored your first encounter is nowhere in sight. You smile wolfishly down at him.

“How could I? You’ve ruined me for any man,” you tease, and under your body he writhes, the whites of his eyes trading for inky black. “Plus, one time is hardly enough to know if I even like sex. I’ve barely begun to explore.”

The fangs flash between his kiss-swollen lips, and under the promise of any delight you desire you glimpse the even more exciting fondness that will draw you back to him again and again.

“Then we have a lot of work to do.”

END

Crawlin' back to you Ever thought of callin' when You've had a few? 'Cause I always do Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now, I've thought it through

The Arctic Monkeys, "Do I Wanna Know?"

#dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #incubus!Dieter #virgin reader #prolix fics

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fraugwinska · 6 days

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Hhggffffffgg… pweasd.. pweasd more Leap of Faith. Part two of them meeting each other in hell. Pretty sure they��d end up in hell since suicide is a sin, iirc?

Uweh wahhhh. Felt it real deep of losing the only meaningful connection, the big sadness taking over. I’m sobbing. My heart—

Your writing is amazing as always. I eat that shit up.

...The people have spoken. I am your humble servant. Please accept this offering...

Heavy themes, religious trauma, mental/physical torture Minors please DNI

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Like a shooting star.

You looked like a shooting star against the purple, starless sky of the pride ring, a glowing gold and teal line trailing behind you like a tail.

Alastor pushed his shadows faster through the streets of the pentagram, not a care who he pushed, sliced or scared out of the way - he had to get to you, had to catch you and not let you crash into unforgiving ground, like it was mundane, like you were any other meaningless, unimportant, goddamned sinner.

He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.

Faster and faster your form grew shape, and he realized that the big, heavy radio that was still in your arms - still pressed tightly to your chest - acted like an anchor, accelerating your plunge, threatening to shatter you into the hard, stony streets underneath, or worse: Through.

"Let go!", he hissed desperately to himself, pulling and yanking and gnashing and urging his shadows to work to their limit, whipping them into a speed that could break both, him and the damned radio, if need be, if you would just slow down and gain him a few more crucial seconds to get to you. The distance between you and him shrunk until your fall felt close, so close, too close, as though if you'd only be conscious to just reach out and outstretch a hand to him, his eldritch tendrils could grab it.

"Come on." His dark silhouette growled, partly manifesting and elongating himself more to maneuver around the last alley corner. "Almost... THERE!"

As a streak of blinding light, like a lightning bolt, and with the force of a crashing plane, you smashed into his solid, physical demonic form, as Alastor manifested into an extension of flesh and limbs right beneath your descending trajectory, and swallowed you right there in his arms before both of you hit the ground.

***

The void around you was dark. Quiet. Endless and expanding. You couldn't feel anything other than the feeling of nothingness surrounding you, floating but at the same time... not. No ground beneath, no sky above - you didn't even know when you hit the water. Was it even water anymore? Did it matter?

In the blindness, you registered the vanta black around you fading into white, bright and scorching. And that feeling you previously lacked bloomed to the front of your consciousness: Pain. Like a thousand needles poking out from every corner of your skull, making you yelp out and whimper. You shifted your body, or at least tried, only to cry out and curl up into yourself, clutching whatever the big and heavy thing was in your arms, tight as the muscles in your upper body convulsed, twitched and trembled at the burning pain. Where the hell were you?

"𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽.""

A voice made out of a thousand voices spoke, and it resonated from within you – amplified through every cell of your body, booming and mighty and utterly inhumane. You screamed out the pressure it put on your brain, cried as it felt as though something was pouring into you and flowing out all at once, burning, devouring and replacing every fiber, every strand of DNA. You writhed in agony, wanting to beg for whatever it was to stop, but you were in the hands of an infinite power above you, and so, all you could do was howl and weep.

"𝓘𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵."

It was men and women and children, high and deep and loud and quiet and screams and whispers and it overwhelmed you to listen to it.

"𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵. 𝓘𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓲𝓹 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷."

Your throbbing hands cramped around the object in your arms, nails scratching on the surface. Wood. Soft wood, warm beneath your fingertips.

"Alastor...", you sobbed through clenched teeth, memories slowly pushing through the pain to the front of your mind, clawing their way through the thick haze of the booming voice of the entity. "I want to go to Alastor..."

"𝓜𝔂 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭, 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮. 𝓓𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵."

"He's not..." A low moan spilled past your dry, bitten lips as another wave of excruciating pain crashed down your spine. Tears stained your cheeks as the radio in your arms felt heavier and heavier, dangerously close to slip from your grip.

"𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷, 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾."

The voice was patient, neutral, not showing any sign of rage or warmth or even condescension. It only held a commanding power, like a pull from gravity, unintentional, elemental, to give in, to accept, to repent. But you couldn't. Couldn't even if you tried. The tears that came to your eyes now weren't out of pain alone, but because you couldn't help the insurmountable longing to leave, to not be held back any longer.

"Alastor isn't evil or wicked...", your cracked voice whispered. "Not to me..."

"𝓓𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓸𝓯 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓯 𝓭𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂, 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓪 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓪 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

Torture. It felt as though someone was physically digging through you with dull claws, sawing into your very soul, bending, ripping, breaking and rearranging, molding the picture you had of Alastor to a villain, a torturer, a destroyer, a greedy animal without reason, feasting upon human despair and wailing screams, wreaking havoc and taking lives laughing along the way as he rips fangs into flesh that looked like your own.

"That... isn't him.", you mouthed breathlessly, forcing yourself to focus. "You're a liar."

You fought to come back, with the sound of Alastor's smiling voice, molten with static and spoken with feeling. 'And I can most assure you... pretty is a well fitting word to describe you.'.

"Liar... liar... LIAR!"

The illusion the entity conjured around you began to shatter, as did the images it showed you, breaking and tearing away like rotten paper from the ones you wanted to hold on to... The hours and days and nights spent together, the long and entertaining conversations over meals, his teasing comments and your quick-wit responses, the little things that made his voice lift an octave and a tiny huff, which you learned over the weeks was him trying not to chuckle at your banter. The softness in his tune when he realized you were drifting into slumber. The way he called you his dove.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

the entity said, though their tone had begun to waver, echoing withing the faint sound of breaking glass.

"𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭. 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓮, 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓭."

You felt heat creeping up your legs, as if your skin was bubbling, burning and it was hard to speak, as the smell of cauterized flesh and blood filled your nose. Bones were shifting, limbs trembling and twisting as if they wanted to turn you inside out, skin color changing and fading into palish white, nails growing into slender blue talons, something rough and rigid sprouting from your back and shoulders. But you only tightened your arms around the radio, eyes pressed close and teeth grit together.

You've had enough.

"Fuck your lies, fuck your salvation and FUCK. YOUR. GOD."

Gravity returned in an instant, like someone cut a hole through space, the air and heat from your lungs gone as it ripped you from the strange white with unexpected violence – malevolence even - body flaying in the sudden wind of the descend.

Purple and red shades swirled before your eyes, wild strands of glittering golden hair fluttered in and out of your vision, barely recognizing them as your own. The heat of the air and the sight of a black pentagram on a red sun, sinking slowly beyond a tumbling horizon were the last things you noticed before unconsciousness reached mercifully out to claim you again.#

***

“Angel! Get Charlie over here, I found 'im!”

Husk stared down the crater, trying to wrap his head around the sight before him. His ears flicked as he heard Angel shouting something unintelligible to the girls, his footsteps quickly nearing the place where he stood.

“She's comin' in a sec, she and Vagina ran ova' to the maneater colony to get Rosie and... what in Satans left ballsack?!”

The spiders' eyes widened when he saw what Husk saw - Down the deep and wide cavity, right in the middle, was a twitching, faintly green glowing mass of tentacles and limbs. A distorted groan rumbled from below, thick and riddled with static feedback as Alastor's corrupted form slowly receded to normalcy – as normal as he was. He was lying on his back, curled around the motionless form of a naked female demon. Her legs were pulled up, a limp hand with short, teal talons pressed against the side of the radio demons wild, madly grinning face, while the other was trapped and hidden in between both bodies.

Both Angel and Husks hairs stood on ends at the sound he made, not daring to move or draw attention to themselves until Alastor had regained full consciousness and, most of all, reason back. The unknown sinner that was pressed against Alastor's chest had gray, crooked looking wings sprouting from her back, various shades of teal staining the ragged tips. Her skin was white, bordering on cream with some spruce and azure specks that traveled over her neck and shoulders. From where they stood they could see blonde locks tangled in Alastor's claws, shimmering in hell's twilight as if they were made out of real gold.

Angel gave his partner a nervous side glance, as if expecting him to say or do something. "Should we... holy mother of shitballs, this is so fucked up... umm... should we get them out of..."

"̷S̷̷ T̷̷ A̷̷ Y̷ ̷W̷̷ H̷̷ E̷̷ R̷̷ E̷ ̷Y̷̷ O̷̷ U̷ ̷A̷̷ R̷̷ E̷."

Husk had only heard Alastor's voice like this on a few occasions and those instances had almost always ended in bloodshed. He shook his head at Angel in a silent warning, gripping one of his wrists when the blackened pits of the radio demon found his, glaring at him with glowing crimson iris'. It sent a shiver down the cat's back, and Angel, feeling the tremble of his partner and sensing that this was a rare occasion where he should keep his usual, lewd remarks to himself, cleared his throat.

"I-Is a'ight Smiles, we're not movin'. Charlies' comin, and she's bringin' Rosie, so just... chill, okay? No one's gonna hurt y-your uh... girlfriend?" Angel forced himself to remain eye contact, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

Alastor didn't answer for a good minute or two, eyes shifting over Husks' grim, but wary face and Angels worried one, before looking back down, the flames of anger and fear dying as soon as his gaze fell on the woman cradled in his lap. Her pale, motionless face was partially hidden by her hair, but the features he recognized were much like the ones she had before she did the unthinkable. Her breathing was slow and shallow - but, above all, she was here, right here, next to him, unbroken from the fall, safe in his arms...

He brushed a few stray strands of her golden mane aside, watching closely as her chest barely heaved and fell, transfixed at the movement, the guarantee that she lived. He lifted one his hands to caress her cheek, the motion much more careful and tender than either Angel or Husk thought him capable of, wiping off tiny pieces of debris from the radio she had carried like a lifeline. It had been burst by the impact, splinters of mahogany wood and shards of metal wiring scattered around them both. The top of her left wing had suffered some damage, no doubt the result of the force of his grip as he caught her, little cuts and smears of dried blood covering her sides.

"My dove. My foolish, silly, lonely girl.", his strained voice breathed, his usual filter missing, as he turned her unresponsive face gently with the tip of his claw, hoping to see any indication that the girl that he had driven to the lengths of sheer, reckless stupidity was still here with him.

The sound of steps on the broken concrete made his head turn with a sickening crack. Alastor was now curled completely over you, his arms wrapped tightly around your figure, hiding your vulnerable and exposed body from view. Rosie had arrived alongside the princess and her partner, all of them short of breath and as shocked and confused as the other two demons to find the radio demon and a freshly fallen sinner, locked into an awkward embrace.

He watched her kneeling next to him, her expression was best described as compassionate curiosity. When he didn't move, didn't talk, didn't acknowledge her presence around him, his form only slightly moving to shield your motionless frame away, Rosie, ever the understanding and pragmatic lady she was, carefully reached over to him and set a gloved hand onto his shoulder in reassurance. Her razor sharp smile was soft as she held his blackened gaze for a heartbeat.

"Seems like I will meet your little dove after all, my dearest friend. But now, let's get you both somewhere safe."

***

You opened your eyes to red. All red. Everywhere red. Warm and bright and comforting.

A sensation tickled your head and nose, feathers, brushing the top of them with a barely there touch. You wanted to brush them away, but your arms felt heavy and warped and strange, unable to be lifted. Slow blinks put your eyes into focus, like the lens of a camera that was getting adjusted on it's intended shot.

You were looking at a red painted ceiling, and when you strained your aching head to tilt a little your eyes slowly wandered over luscious, ornate wallpaper in burgundy's and scarlet's, morbid looking horns and skulls mounted on the walls next to slightly askew, empty picture frames. A heavy, dark bookcase on your right was full of tattered tombs, books and magazines, small models of twisted looking skeletons and an old, vintage... radio...

Everything clicked back into place.

Alastor, gone.

The bridge, dark over the water.

The black and the white.

The voice and the pain and the lies and the fall...

Your breath hitched, and your heart started to pound faster and louder, thrumming violently in your ears as you fell into panic, eyes frantically forcing your body to move, to search, until you realized you were stuck underneath the weighted presence of a head that rested upon your sternum, tufts of soft black and red hair draped over your chest, slightly covering a face hidden away in the crook of your neck. A low, quiet hum of white noise came from the person the head belonged to, sitting at your bedside and upper body half-slumped over you... a sound resonating deep within you, stirring up all too familiar feelings.

He was still, but clearly breathing, and he hadn't moved even though your pulse must've skyrocketed. A raspy gasp of relief and astonishment escaped you. It had worked. You really had done it. And Alastor...

You started to sob, loud and violent, your chest burning and heavy, but not out of fear or panic anymore but the impact of a thousand feelings of pure happiness. The sounds woke the creature slumbering on your shoulder, his shoulders twitched, and you could see him lift his head to slowly look up, dark circles under his crimson eyes.

Your name rolled over this demons lips, not a word, no greeting, only a longingly whispered name, spoken with a broken, ragged, familiar voice. It made you finally cry, tears spilling from you uncontrollably, unable to stop, unable to think. You heard him call your name again, saw the widening grin of his mouth through watery eyes, his arm reaching out to brush your tear-stained cheek. He didn't manage to even fully extend his fingers when your shaking hands reached out to grab his lapels, pulling him into you so that you could finally touch him, feel him instead of just hearing him. Finally tangible, finally underneath your fingers as well as your skin.

"It's you... i-it's you right?", you stammered breathlessly, voice wrought with tears of happiness. "A-Alastor. I found you, I'm not dreaming, You're Alastor..."

"At your service, my dear...", Alastor shushed softly, one hand gently caressing your hair as you leaned into the warmth of the touch. His wide smile wavered for a moment, gaze shifting to something sad and mournful as he pulled himself away to look at you.

"But you shouldn't be here, my dove." He sighed, but as he looked back to you and saw the frightened, horrified expression on your face he shook his head, leaning his brow against your own, a gesture of assurance.

"I never intended for you to be here. You didn't deserve this death, and hell doesn't deserve you."

"H-Heaven can take a long walk off a short pier..." You tried to speak with a steady voice, but failed, as your whole body began to shudder in bubbling anger at the mere implication of this cursed entity. The one that claimed to be merciful salvation but had no problem with cruel manipulation. You blinked a couple of tears away, drawing a trembling breath, before meeting his tired eyes.

"I was... in some strange place. I was offered redemption, if I..."

You frowned, sitting up slowly, careful not to make him withdraw more, holding onto the sleeves of his jacket with stiff, aching hands.

"They wanted me to denounce you. If I renounced you they... would've let me enter heaven. When I didn't want to, when I said I wanted to go to you... They showed me things while hurting me. Horrible, disgusting lies."

Your breath quickened and the corners of your vision darkened, and you realized with a shuddering panic that you were close, way too close to breaking down into sobs again. Your claw-like nails dug into the material of his sleeve as you struggled to compose yourself, ripping tiny cuts into it. You took a deep breath, pushing through the memory, reliving it until...

Your shoulders shook. For a moment, you felt him shifting, as if he'd expected you to burst into tears again. Instead, you laughed. You laughed despite your chest hurt, and even harder when you saw his floored, surprised face.

"I basically told god to go fuck himself."

For a heartbeat or two, silence enveloped both of you. Alastor blinked once, then twice, the third time his grin fell slowly. Another beat later he buried his face in the crook of your neck and...

...the boisterous, unmuted laughter, roaring, insane cackling, so deep and resounding, you could feel it in your stomach, erupted from him. Alastor almost toppled over as he tore himself from you, raking a hand trough his hair as his head shook, a manic, wonderfully impish grin tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"You know I don't think you were honest with me about your name, dove. Your initial answer of 'crazy' seems much more fitting."

Alastor was laughing so hard, his whole body was trembling with the effort. You felt yourself giggle, then unrestrained laughing along, but it died in your throat when his lips found yours in a sudden swift moment. It was full of everything. Full of curiosity, of promises and hope, it was the saving grace you sacrificed heaven for. You smiled into it, moved your lips against his, gentle and chaste, before he pulled away too soon and pressed his forehead against yours. You could feel his warm, slow breathing against your cheeks.

"How fortunate for you that I work best with 'crazy'."

Your beaming smile slowly faded, your hands finding his face to make him look at you. There was one more weight you had to lift off.

"I'm sorry.", you whispered, closing your eyes. “I'm sorry for...”

"Don't be, dear. I was at fault, fearing our connection would... weaken me." He sighed. "You might not understand it right now, but I will tell you everything, once you're fully recovered. Can you wait for that?"

You nodded, a small, grateful curl forming on your lips. You opened your eyes to stare into his, crimson, bright and intense, and yet soft and affectionate. Eyes you always tried to envision, although nothing you imagined came close to the real thing.

"Do you... still think it?", you asked, voice shaking slightly.

Alastor hummed a questioning noise, prompting you to continue, which you did, after a second of hesitation. "Me, weakening you. Do you still think it?"

His quiet laughter resounded in your ears, filling you with warmth and making your heart skip a beat.

"My silly, darling dove. With the woman on my side who dared to throw curses at the face of our very creator - What could ever stop me now?"

And, as Alastor's smile grew wide, and your own mirrored it, you were claimed by red claws and a hot, eager mouth once again, kissed again by those soft, sinful lips, the lips of your friend, your savior, your love - the devil himself, whispering the answer to his question unspoken through your skin right into your heart.

Nothing could stop the both of you now.

Nothing at all.

Taglist for the most awsome people that walk the earth: @littledolly2345 @sleepywritersworld @crescentparadise @rapturenyx-blog @phisen @alastorsgirl48 @mullet-mother @sirens-and-moonflowers

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #angel dust #charlie morningstar #hazbin husk #rosie hazbin hotel #angst #fluff #happy ending because WE NEEDED IT #TW: dark themes #religious trauma #for the frauchen #I almost died writing this what even is sleep

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meowsgirldrawing · 1 year

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Pact Marks- Obey Me Thoughts/Headcannons

So in one of my recent posts, I showed where I imagine My MC- or Mackenzie's pacts marks are.

For those who are new or just unfamiliar with this topic somehow, Pact marks are what the fandom of Obey Me! Shall We Date?! has basically agreed all on being on each MC when they/he/she makes a pact with one of the demons. I dunno if the creators confirmed that as I am only in lesson 13-14 in the game itself.

Here are my headcannons/thoughts to just have on here✨

Lucifer

(Spoiler, hes the last one to get a pact mark from but not in the least undermining)

Where I imagine his pact mark would be on MC's chest.

Kinda like the phrase, 'Huffing up chest in pride', it shows his shamless pride in allowing the human to make a pact with him.

Considering how possessive Lucifer tends to be towards MC, in a "This is my human" way, his mark is the biggest, maybe even boldest as its even able to peak over MC's collar bones, making any non-turtle neck like shirt unable to cover it all.

It glows his signiture blue when activated, bright and unable to be unnoticed either.

And in the dark, a lingering lighter shade trails around the stars, giving a nice ring to the MorningStar name

With my MC, I imagine they aren't afraid to show it, most of their outfits being tank tops, low collar shirts, or even just a sports bra on some nights.

Lucifer sometimes catches MC trailing their finger along its edges, only to shirk their hand down as soon as he notices.

Of course...he smirks, raising a curious brow.

MC just ignores his glances and moves on.

Mammon

He was a an easy one, Ngl.

Look, I adore This little Greed demon with all my heart but he does tend to steal, and gamble, and basically do any money grubbing.

All with swift and talentful hands in his own craft.

His pact mark is on the hand, preferably dominant hand of MC.

Its not too big or too small, just fitting across the back of MC's hand.

When activated, it gives of a nice yellow hue, gold lining the mark's edges in a shifting manner.

My MC tried drawing weird symbols on top of it, human symbols that kids draw on their skin everyday y'know, just to see if anything changed.

It didn't. Just erased whatever they did and glowed like normal.

Mammon called her weird then proceeded to try his turn at it.

Now they needed new pens.

Mammon hated the mark at first, finding it stupid given how it even came to be in the first place.

Now he traces it every night with a curled up MC beside him, clutching onto him as if he isnt holding them tight enough.

Leviathan

He is tricky tricky boy, lemme tell ya.

Either his pact mark worked in spots his brothers' worked better in or it just didnt seem like Levi's spot.

So I figured, under bicep.

The guy is shy, right? So I believe his would ultimately end up somewhere where it's covered the majority of the time, that or just hard to see at most angles.

I did think of thigh, but i suppose the thought it ending up there would have this okaku blushing for days on end.

Which bicep also depends on which arm is MC's dominant one.

My MC, like all her other marks, is proud to have them, so they dont get why it was somewhere mostly hidden.

Hence why it gives them further reason to show it off during their shared movie nights, wearing more sleeveless shirts or tops.

Leviathan is her Lord of Shadows just as much as they are his Henry and they are proud to say it. (Enough without embarrassing the Envy demon of course)

Leviathan turned as flustered as a peach at first anytime he saw it fully, but now...

Now he laughs as MC 'proves' their muscles to him after an off comment he made, flexing off that mark of Envy without even realizing. He just snorts and shoves them lightly, a domino effect taking hold as they do it right back.

Beelzebub

Did I even need to think on this guy?

The tongue is wear his mark resides.

Not only for the obvious, Ahem Gluttony, but because the tongue is known to be the strongest muscle in the body.

It tends to blend in with the color of their tongue but mostly when its activated.

Oo, imagine MC eating a cherry flavored treat, the glow would just light the whole thing up. Light bulp idea if MC is ever in the dark and lost.

Ahem, anyway, as mentioned, it glows a fiery red, making MC's mouth looking like light up city when even just a little bit opened.

My MC had at one point thought her mouth was bleeding when she saw in it the mirror, had to have Beel explain they were indeed fine, if anything, looked cool.

Both her and Beel test out how bright it can get depeding on cherry flavored treats when gorging in food one night.

Beel cant help but blush at the sight of his unactivated mark as MC sucks their tongue out at him, having just won a victorious round. A game Levi lended them for a bit.

He hms, pats their head lightly, and mutters 'cute'. MC is left confused, their tongue still poking out in a blep.

Asmodeus

So...HAHA- So many people thought my MC's mark from Asmo was on their bottom.

While I would not be surprised, given this man, I headcannon their mark being a tramp stamp.

Right above their bottom.

Its not big, barely taking all over their lower back. But enough to give off a big enough glow when activated.

When activated, the pact will glow a saturated pink, a tease of purple easing into the 'ink.'

Ngl, I got this idea after reading another headcannon list of Obey Me Pact Marks and thought it was too good to not keep.

Its somewhat easy to hide, depending on the type of clothing MC wears, but it quickly becomes hard to cover ehen activated, the pink being too bright.

Asmo calls them his little firefly at some point

As for my MC, she gets flustered, never thinking a pact mark would be that low. But after catching a wink from Asmo, they turn gears and smirk instead, thankful for their wild and long hair hiding the pink in their ears as they clap back quick with some remark.

Asmo just chuckles at whatever she said.

Teasing hands, always playful but never pushing, linger down at the edge of MC's shirt only for it to turn into a tickle over his mark. MC squeaks out, laughter pulling over as they skirt away, clutching their lower back.

Asmo takes their playing shoves with a smug grin, gleaming with absolute delight as he catches one at last, landing a sweet kiss at their knuckles.

Satan

Similar to Lucifer

Satan would hate me I know it

But yes, dreadfully similar to Lucifer, Satan's mark is big and bold, appearing right under where Lucifer's(At the time he never knew that of course).

It lays across the lower ribs, that tip of it? Its lined up to go straight in between both, mark and center.

It is easy to hide, but if MC is one to wear short crop tops, or anyhting that shows close to the lower ribs as mentioned, it wouldnt be hard to miss.

Yet, the mark is impossible to miss when activated, unless you stacked like piles and piles on MC's torso, yeah..that green glow would be seen a mile away.

Its a bright, fiery green, almost oozing into their clothes like Wrath itself would.

Why is it on the ribs? Well, you know that feeling you get when you are angry. That fire in the pit of your chest? The only reason its on the ribs instead is because of how calculating Satan is.

"Imagine how an aggressor would feel if they suddenly saw its glow? They would've turned to rigor themselves without my help"

Are you sure you aint like Lucifer-

My MC played a game of, 'What Can Hide The Mark??' With their closet one day, just curiosity at best.

Yeah, they thought better of it when Satan came a-knocking very confused and very weirded out by the dark light green light game on his side.

Theres a weird, fizzy feeling Satan gets anytime he saw the mark in a more direct manner. Their shirt riding up as they slanted on the couch, at the beach, anywhere were he got less of a tease of it and more of a frontal view.

It wasnt made out of hate for his brother, it wasnt even a half-assed one either, it actually meant something, to both him and MC.

Hmm....Satan's eyes fliker back down, escaping MC's sudden gaze, a little heat on his cheeks going ignored in favor for catching up with this novel's protagonist.

Belphegor

So......I may or may not have accidentally put Belphie's mark on Mc's neck.....

Chapter 16 anyone?

BUT- BUT Then it gave me an idea!

So while we arent exactly sure the marks would be chosen by the brother's preference, or MC's preference, I think its just up to what the fans think-

What if it was kinda an accident itself?

Like obviously, at the time of the pact between the youngest brother and Mc was made, the events of Mc/not Mc's death was still fresh to everyone. Hence the whole, making a pact to protect Mc from Belphie.

And since it was still in everyones minds for a while, the mark accidentally formed in the one place everyone, including MC had a hard time looking at without getting chills.

It could be many possibilities from this, but it also can give MC enough motivation to work it out with Belphie, wanting to make the mark not one to look at in digust but instead at least a gentle fondness like the others. Obviously the last part might take a long while to come, but they would at least be able to ease the pain of it.

Anyhow- the mark is pretty dang small compared to the others. Small and barely noticable depending on how MC's hair style is.

When activated, it glows a nice lilac hue, the edges dipped in a very light, almost white color. It can almost be mistaken for a night light, like those ones for children, if it wasn't on MC's body.

If covered with a turtle neck for instance, its dimmed but not completely, still vying for attention.

I do believe MC would have at least some sort of trauma towards it, like cant have people touching around their neck for awhile. Even if Lucifer were to cup their chin, their nerves start a-ringing.

I like to imagine my MC doesn't necessarily get over it, but is able to move past it. Shes one to not let things affect them, but obviously with seeing yourself and feeling youself die is extremely hard to do for a human, so its more or less them just wanting to stop feeling so weak at the idea. So she asks Lucifer or Satan (the two most likely to understand it) in private to help her by gently edging their hands around her neck area sometimes so she can at the very least, emotionally move past it.

Exposure therapy( But this is for my MC, I definitely believe people have a right to decide how they/their characters wpuod respond to the whole thing as everyone seems to either forgive Belphie, take a long time to do so, or just want their character to avoid him)

It takes him a loose second to realize, but when he does, Belphie is quick to snatch away his hand from MC's upper torso. Hes hesitant to even toss it back around their waist. But MC, despite their sleepy and craving for warmth state, takes note of his sudden distance and tightens their grip around his shoulders, effectively dragging him snug against their body.

They murmer reassurances before he can even breathe a single word, and hes burrying his face in their shoulder, the one beside his own mark. Tears sting his closed gaze and their wading soft fingers their his hair. A kiss to the side of his head is all he needs and he wrapps his arms back around, agreeing like aways.

Gentle forgiven but never forgotten...

#oc x canon #oc inserts #obey me mc #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #Obey Me Chapter 16 mentions #obey me pact marks #Pact mark headcannons #Obey Me Pacts #obey me x reader #my thougts

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ghost-bxrd · 2 months

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So I was rereading your Owl Song series for the like. 5th time and when I saw this line, “"NO!“ It almost shouts, taking the owlet by his shoulders to stare intently into his eyes, “Nev-er. Jason is you. Ne-ver talon. Never."" I was hit by an idea.

Can u imagine an au where instead of Jason coming back to life by Superboy Primes punch it's by the Court? Batman didn't get all of them and they've been rebuilding, they had been looking to get Dick back and hey! What better way than turning Jason into a Talon as well.

Oooo yes! I think this has been brought up before!

@cyrwrites also did an awesome drabble about Dick thinking Red Hood is a talon (but before finding out that Hood is Jason), so definitely give that a read! I totally come back to it every other day because it’s that good.

But if we go down the route of Jason becoming a genuine talon? Oh boy, ooooooooh boy. So there’s possibility 1, where Jason keeps his memories and fights the court every step of the way until he manages to escape. Or 2, Jason forgets everything and the court turns him into their weapon.

Maybe option 2 would be more likely, with Jason and Dick clashing on accident and Dick managing to subdue Jay and then teaching HIM how to be human again and the two of them just chirping and hooting at each other—- BUT, honestly I think option 1 would be much more interesting.

Jason wakes up and he remembers. And everything still hurts and the people surrounding him are sticking needles in him and his vision shifts until the colors bleed away and back in wrong and he’s both cold and hot at the same time and he wants to call for Bruce, for Alfred, for Dick, but his screams are slowly morphing into bird like shrieks and oh, oh, Jason— Jason knows what’s happening. Knows for sure when he manages to free one arm and sees the veins on his skin shot through with black, necrotic electrum.

But Jason’s smart. He’s smart, and he endures, and if this is the Court then at least he’s still in Gotham. So Jason plays along. He’s good. He remembers how Dick used to act at the very beginning and Jason’s always been good at acting, and gods he’s going to get out of here and go home but first he’s got to sell this act and sell it good.

And it works. It works. The Court is ecstatic about his “fast progress” and before long he’s sent out on his first solo mission (with a couple of ‘babysitters’) but Jason grew up in the Alley, and he was Robin, escape artist is practically in the job description, and all hopped up on electrum? Yeah, it’s easy to ditch his babysitters (Maybe slit their throats if we wanna go bloody) and book it for Batman’s closest patrol route.

But for whoever’s patrolling that night? There’s suddenly a strange talon dropping down in front of them, cooing and trilling and struggling to form words but— but it doesn’t matter. The talon is clearly asking for help, is still clearly a child, and no Bat would ever turn down a child in need.

(Dick breaks down completely when they pull the hood off Jason’s head and his little owlet stares back at him with eyes that should be blue but are now a glowing gold.)

#owl song #brainstorming #jason todd #court of owls talons #talon dick grayson #talon jason todd

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 8 months

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When the Stars Love You

(x)

Summary: Dean belongs in the starlight.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Nothing really. Implied smut, angst, fluff.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 1,028

A/N: So the beautiful @deanwinchesterswitch created the gorgeous aesthetic above as a request, and the original post can be found here. I was very inspired by this amazing piece of art, and with her permission I've written this little drabble in response to that inspiration. Thank you for this, Kym.

I'm placing this story somewhere in the 15th season, I guess. It's sometime after they realize that Chuck has been playing them all along, and that all he wants is one specific kind of ending. It sees Dean questioning everything in his life, and not sure what's real and what's Chuck. Y/N tries to help him through.

The beautiful divider below and at the bottom was created by @saradika

You loved Dean in the starlight. You were pretty sure the stars sparkled brighter when he was beneath them; they winked flirtatiously to get his attention. He'd turn his face up to them and they'd glow. You knew how they felt. When Dean focused his attention on you, you lit up too, bright and happy.

But tonight had been tough. You'd shouted and raged at each other, throwing words like daggers, seeing whose aim was the most true. As usual, in matters of skill, Dean was the victor. His words sliced sharp and deep, and made you bleed.

Even though you knew his heart - had connected it to your own with delicate stitches - his anger and desperate need to shove you away from him with both hands, often pulled the stitching loose, left your heart frayed and in danger of unraveling.

Sometimes you wanted to take scissors to them and cut him away from you for good, try to sew up the parts of you where he left holes.

But then you'd remember the way the stars watched him, the way they would shine down on him, and gild him in gold; the way moonlight washed over his face, and made it clean and soft - shadow and light dancing over his skin the same way it moved through his soul.

Now, you walked out into the inky dark and looked for him shining in starlight, bathed by the moon. You found him stretched out on Baby's hood, and the night was kind to him, it was his home; he'd lived his whole life there. So his breathing was easy now, fresh night air filling his lungs, and his heart was open once again.

You felt his pain, his regret, in the way his eyes wouldn't settle on your face. He sat up, and the lights of nighttime shifted, showing his sadness and exhaustion. The wind whistled around you, a cloud passed over the moon, and they seemed to chastise you for disturbing their midnight prince.

But the stars twinkled on. The lines of their movement, their path across the sky, reminded you that this man in front of you had been thrust into a destined life. He'd been told by god, by angels, all the heavenly host, even by a demon or two, that his reason for being, his sole purpose for walking in the waking world was to either die like a sacrificial lamb, or murder the boy he'd raised to a man.

Both brothers had been raised for slaughter, and all god wanted was to see which one would be slaughtered and what other would be left behind to dissolve into darkness, and, of course, he wanted to see just how much of the world would fall with him.

It was a burden you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, and one you actively wished you could remove from the broad shoulders of the man you'd loved for most of your life.

Dean finally looked at you fully, his deep green eyes shadowed in the darkness, but so filled with pain that even the stars couldn't watch anymore, and let the clouds cover their face.

A sound of low thunder rumbled from the east as the first, sharp, stinging needles of cold rain pelted you both. You ran the last few steps to him, as he jumped off the hood and dragged you into his arms. His kiss was hard and determined, like he was stamping you as his, before he pulled away and yanked you into the car with him.

Your kisses turned frantic as the squeaking metal door slammed shut. Hands flew over skin and tore at clothes, ripping the sodden material off and sucking the dampness from each other's skin.

You were both seeking pleasure from the pain, apologizing for the words you'd used to skewer each other, by whispering beautiful, warm messages of love across cold, pebbled skin. Your hands sought forgiveness with each caress and you both gave it freely as your eyes locked and you fell together into the abyss.

The storm raged around you, and through you, fast and powerful, both tempests breaking on a scream of pleasure and a fiery bolt of lightning. The ecstasy ebbed, and the thunder grumbled its last, as the stars peeked out to brighten the aftermath.

Dean's voice was deep and gentle, imitating the retreating thunder.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm just…"

He sighed deeply, not able to find the words.

"Lost." You finished for him. "You're lost. Chuck is trying to force you down the only path he's left open for you, so now you're scrambling in the dark trying to avoid the road and smashing through anything you think might be an obstacle."

Dean shook his head, awe in his expression at your ability to read him and understand him so easily. "Yes." He said simply.

You shook her head and climbed into his lap. "I'm not an obstacle Dean. I wasn't shoved in your way to make you stumble." You took his big hand in yours. "I chose to be here and walk beside you."

You felt his uncertainty and squeezed his hand tightly. "I promise it's true, and I’ll prove it to you, because no matter what you say or do, I'm gonna stay here beside you, and we're gonna destroy Chuck together."

You rolled down the window and let the damp, cool air rush over your exposed skin, turning his chin with your fingers so he was looking out the window at the stars bobbing and weaving through the clouds.

"We don't have to follow Chuck. Let's pick a path in the stars and follow it. They'll lead us home."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted sardonically. "Chuck made them too."

You shook your head, not convinced. "No, mother nature is stronger than him, and the stars love you. They're on our side."

Dean laughed softly. "You're nuts, woman."

But he kissed you softly, and you felt the kernel of hope bloom in your joined hearts.

So open your eyes and see The way our horizons meet And all of the lights will lead Into the night with me And I know these scars will bleed But both of our hearts believe All of these stars will guide us home

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays. @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @impalaslytherin @maggiegirl17 @akshi8278 @candy-coated-misery0731 @deanswaywardgirl @slytherinlyn314 @globetrotter28 @jensensgirl @perpetualabsurdity @tristanrosspada-ackles @djs8891 @muhahaha303 @kayyay1219 @emily-winchester @recoveringpastaaddict @maximumkillshot @mimaria420 @sacriceria @envyaurora95 @lacilou @jc-winchester @spnwoman @mimi-luvzyu

2 - Dean Winchester Fics Only. @carryonwaywardgirl

3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.) @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @alexxavicry @nancymcl @spalady26

4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well) @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @maliburenee @supernatural4life2022 @spn730015 @kickingitwithkirk @waywardbaby @foxyjwls007 @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp @deanwithscissors @myloversgone @snowlovespie @leigh70 @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @charred-angelwings @hopefuldreamers-world @jensensgotyoudean @thoughts-and-funnies @magssteenkamp @princessmisery666 @eevvvaa @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @waynes-multiverse @mrsjenniferwinchester @bernasaurus @jensenslady79 @courtn92 @avanatural @ellie-andthemachine @this-is-me19 @roseblue373 @katbratsupernaturalwhore @fanfic-n-tabulous

#dean winchester #dean x y/n #dean x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #inspired writing #deanwinchesterswitch #beautiful aesthetic

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toboldlygohome · 3 months

Text

"Because you're beautiful."

Leonard McCoy X Reader

Summary: This morning, you wake up before bones.

Character(s): Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Warning(s): Pure fluff

You drifted slowly awake to the rays of artificial sunlight peeking through the window of your room. The Enterprise had docked at Yorktown the previous evening and you were intent to sleep in. Unfortunately old habits die hard; the clock beside the bed read 7:45 AM. You had managed to pull an extra 45 minutes of sleep, but you were up much earlier than you wanted to be.

You closed your eyes and hoped for sleep to return to you, but your sleep schedule prevailed. You stared at the ceiling for awhile before moving to sit up. You stopped when you heard soft breathing coming from beside you.

You turned and finally noticed your husband of three years, still sound asleep. Leonard worked the alpha shift most days, while you worked the beta shift. This meant that he always woke up well before you. He always said that waking up to you sleeping beside him was the best part of his day. You never understood why until now.

His hair was a mess, brown strands sticking up in every direction. His eyelashes cast little shadows over his cheeks. You admired the way those beautiful lines on his face softened, how his lips parted slightly as he breathed in and out slowly, deeply.

You laid back and watched his chest rise and fall, watched how his hair waved in the breeze of the air conditioner. Leonard's skin lit up with the sunshine streaming in, the perfect mix of gold and pink that glowed in the most ethereal way. Time slowed as you took it all in.

Something stirred from deep within, sending a wave of emotion through you. Every day you fell for him a little more. Three years of marriage and you were still mesmerized by him.

You scooted closer, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As if on instinct, Leonard reached out and pulled you to his chest. Your stomach did back flips as you pressed your cheek against him. You could hear every silent exhale, every steady beat of his heart. You swallowed hard and pressed a tender kiss to his chest. Then another. Then another.

You slid a hand under his shirt and hugged him close. He released a soft sigh as the skin of your hand made contact with his side. He smelled nice too. A mixture of fabric softener and a smell that was so distinctly Leonard, it was impossible to compare it to anything else. You closed your eyes and took a mental snapshot. There are some times in your life where you become aware beyond what would be considered normal. Small moments that should have been insignificant, but somehow endure and replay in your mind over and over again. This was a core memory being formed, not a big one like when you first stepped on the enterprise, your wedding, or your tenth birthday party. It was a quiet one, like riding bikes in the park with your best friend, or the first time a butterfly landed on your arm. You knew that someday when you were old, grey, and drifting away into eternity, you'd see this moment flash before your eyes. And when you did, you'd feel that jolt of unbridled love just as strongly as you were feeling it now.

You turned your head up to his face again and smiled, thinking how lucky you were to wake up to such a vision of a man. You couldn't fight the urge to lean in and kiss his cheek. It tickled your lips with the stubble growing there. You kissed him again, enjoying the prickliness. Leonard hummed and gave you a squeeze. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. The sun caught them at that perfect angle yet again. You could never quite discern their color. Were they green? Blue? Brown? Right now they seemed like the perfect culmination of all three.

"Good morning darlin'," Leonard whispered in his early-morning timbre that sent goosebumps down your back and up your arms.

"Good morning handsome," You beamed at him and brought your hand to his hair, smoothing the unruly tufts.

"What time is it?" he closed his eyes again while he waited for your answer.

"Too early," You joked as you drank him in. You felt that tug in your chest again, the one that took the breath from your lungs and brought a stinging to your eyes.

His eyes opened again, a smile playing on his lips. The light from the window behind you cascaded around your head like a halo. It was as if he awoke in his own personal heaven, complete with an angel. But the moment his eyes focused, his brows furrowed in concern. "Y/N? What's wrong sweetheart?" He brought his hands to your face and stroked the skin just under your eyes with the pads of his thumbs. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"No honey," you laughed softly as a couple stray tears fell to his hands. "Nothing like that."

"Then what's wrong?" he peered into your watery eyes.

"Nothing's wrong," you admitted.

"Then why are you crying?" Leonard watched you expectantly, trying not to lose himself in the love your gaze was swimming in.

You paused and ran your hands through his hair again. Another snapshot etched itself into your mind. No star in the universe could compare to him. You'd trade all of them away to remain suspended here in his arms forever.

"Y/N?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you crying darlin'?"

"Because you're beautiful," You breathed.

A new expression crossed his face in that moment, one you remembered seeing the moment you said I do.

He pulled you down and kissed you deeply, cradling your face in his hands. You sighed dreamily and clutched his shirt tightly.

Frozen.

His hands moved to your waist as you lost yourself in the feel of his lips. Leonard's deft fingers danced along your sides, sending delightful shivers rippling across your skin wherever they touched.

Another snapshot.

He kissed you desperately, like he might never have the pleasure again. He was breathless and lost in a daze. Leonard needed you like he needed air, it was only now that he realized just how much you needed him too

You pulled back and pecked his forehead softly. The lines were back, but you didn't mind. They made him look distinguished.

You eased your head down to his chest. Leonard breathed deeply, content.

"It's early... let's stay here for awhile, if that's okay with you." You whispered.

"You ain't gonna hear me complaining," he smiled against your temple.

"Good," You hummed. You never really considered yourself a morning person. In fact, you loathed rolling out of bed at the crack of dawn and you could barely function without a cup of coffee. But as it turned out, maybe being an early bird wasn't so bad.

After all, you got yourself one hell of a view.

....................

Taglist: @shadowbriar

If you want to be added to my taglist, feel free to reach out!

Thank you for reading!

#bones #bones x reader #leonard mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #star trek #star trek fanfiction #star trek x reader #x reader #bones mccoy #mccoy/reader #leonard mccoy star trek #reader fanfiction #reader insert

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princessfanonanona · 2 years

Note

DP prompt: Mr. Lancer is formally introduced to Clockwork at parent-teacher night.

Hi berry I love you berry but stop sending me prompts that get away from me I'm dying (affectionate and joking)

---

Mister Lancer heaves the sigh of an underpaid teacher with a long, long night ahead of them.

So far the parents have been…normal. Expected responses to common patterns of students.

He leans back, away from the desk to rub his face. The next pair of parents has him debating the flask he stashed in his bag.

He had sent a notice for young Mister Fenton to attend with his parents, against common practice. The boy had taken it with resignation lining his very soul. His eyes betrayed something else though. It made him wonder; if something else was happening behind the scenes.

Afterall, why would a child show signs of fear?

Sitting up, Lancer looks over the file again, feeling like he was missing something paramount to the situation.

A knock on the door draws his attention up.

A mop of black hair is barely seen at the bottom of the window.

"Come in!" He calls straightening his notes.

The door opens and Danny trudges in with his shoulders bunched near his ears.

Lancer can't help but notice the slight limp in his gait and the way one arm is curled around his torso.

"Are you alright?" He can't help but ask.

Danny flinches, ducking his head lower to hide behind his bangs.

"'M fine," he mumbles, shuffling his feet.

Lancer frowns, and looks back at the open but empty doorway.

"Are your-"

"No, they're not," Danny cuts in. He stands awkwardly beside the chairs in front of the desk. "Can we just get this over with?"

Lancer blinks at the level of aggression in his voice. He takes a moment to reassess, seeing the lines of tension as more than just fear and shame.

"Have a seat, Mister Fenton," Lancer says, keeping his tone even, his posture loose. Danny balks but does as he's told, curling up on the seat.

"I had wanted to go over a few concerns," Lancer says, making a show of pulling some files from the folder. He watches Danny tense further out of the corner of his eye. "However, I have decided that perhaps a…re-evaluation is in order."

He drops the papers into the trash.

Danny frowns, blue eyes flicking between the bin and his face.

Lancer waits, giving the boy time to collect his thoughts.

"Why?" It's small, barely formed without any malice.

"Because I believe I've never had the full picture," he answers, leaning forward on his desk to bend to Danny's eye level. "And I do see so much potential that's being buried away."

Danny scoffs looking away, "No potential here, I'm just the family fuck up."

Oh, and isn't that something.

Lancer feels his heart ache a little.

"Something tells me you could be top of the class if you didn't have your full attention diverted elsewhere," he says.

He shrugs, hands fisting his loose t-shirt.

Lancer files away just how loose the shirt is. How had he never noticed?

He opens his mouth to continue when he feels a chill run down his spine. Something heavy settling around his neck.

A medal?

A gold gear embedded with an inscription.

"Pardon my sudden arrival," a voice says, making Lancer startle.

A youngish looking ghost floats besides Danny. Bright red eyes glowing harshly against blue skin and a large staff held loosely behind.

"You may refer to me as Clockwork," they say, drifting to take the open seat next to Danny. "I do apologize for being late."

"Late?" He repeats. Gaze flicking between the evidently frozen Fenton and the ghost with what appears to be the mechanisms of a grandfather clock in its chest.

"For the parent teacher conference," they say, body shifting to something far older, long white beard piling onto the curled wisp of a tail. "You did request to meet with young Daniel’s guardian, no?"

Lancer blinks, hands clenching and releasing as he tries to understand what is happening.

"That- I did, however, I was expecting to meet with-"

"The Dr's Fenton, yes," Clockwork frowns, red eyes shimmering a darker hue. "Do forgive me if I request that you do not continue to believe them well-intentioned when it comes to Daniel's well being."

He glances at Danny, frozen in his curled defensive position.

"I was beginning to suspect…" he begins tentatively.

"And that is why I am here," they say, settling on the chair and shrinking into a form more akin to a toddler. "You have begun a long path, a dangerous one and I wish to provide you with an opportunity."

Lancer swallows.

"What is your relationship with Mister Fenton?" He asks instead.

The ghost smiles, something fond softening his features as he turns towards Danny. He places a gentle hand on his head, smoothing the unruly locks.

Danny blinks eyes flashing green before settling back to blue.

"Grandfather?" He questions, body instantly losing its tension.

Clockwork brushes a now adult hand to cup Danny's cheek. "It is okay, little one, we will talk soon."

Danny nods, closing his eyes as they let go, body going still once more.

"I see," Lancer says, thoughts flying a mile a minute. Something about the situation doesn't sit right with him, several flags waving in warning.

"I offer you a choice," the ghost says, turning their full attention back to him. Two vials appear on his desk. One purple one green, both shimmering gold.

"I will tell you of the story of young Daniel and you will decide to either erase your memories, remembering nothing of this conversation, or a promise of secrecy and become an ally of a child in need of guidance, becoming a true pillar of support."

Lancer frowns, "I want to help Mister Fenton in anyway I can, that is my job as a teacher, to help mold the minds of our youth to reach their fullest potential."

Clockwork smiles, something amused that Lancer finds somewhat cruel.

He is viscerally reminded of the stories of his childhood, of fae and their strange rules.

"I will listen if you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, leaving nothing out."

"That was my intention," they smile, lips curving into something truly mean.

"Swear it, on your name."

"I swear upon mine own name that I will tell you the truth as it stands in the sands of time."

Something fizzles against his skin, dousing the room is something cold.

And so Clockwork begins his tale. The story he tells is something more twisted and horrible than he could ever imagine.

It is thanks only to a lifetime of experience that keeps his dinner down for some of it.

Lancer bracea himself on his desk, head in his hands by the end of it. He swallows around the lump building in his throat.

"This is all true?" He whispers in shock.

"I swore upon my name," they say.

Lancer presses the palms of his heels into his eyes, making starbursts bloom.

He draws a deep breath and releases it as a gust of air.

"You must now make a decision," they state.

He looks up, blinking his vision clear. He looks at Danny, feeling new bile rise in his throat.

"Forget this entire conversation or bind your soul to the would be king."

"Okay," Lancer picks up the vial.

#danny phantom #dp phic #lost time #ghost king au #marginally anyways #oh hey cliffhanger i missed you glad to have you back #i really do need to stop letting these get away from me #also no beta we die like danny #i spent my day at work writing this somehow what #prompts for a fanona #asks for a fanona #nona writes

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echoalyssa · 5 months

Text

Little Shadow | Azriel Shadowsinger

image generated by Midjourney AI

She slips out from his shadow, a coy smile on her lips. Where Az was the shadows themselves, she was the fog that rolled in afterwards, only strengthening the shadows. She’s wrapped in Illyrian leathers most of the time but today she’s wearing a backless black gown, dark hair braided into two on the sides of her head. There are pieces pulled free from her braids to frame her face. It’s long, falling past her waist. Silver jewelry is braided into her hair. Her eyes are bright, almost untamed.

The dress is similar to Feyre’s Court of Nightmares, featuring a slit that ran up all the way to her hip. The olive skin of her long legs is entrancing. The material clings to her body and every eye is on her tonight. Her strap up heels are a shimmering gold.

Her skin is covered in glimmering gold lines. He had his seven siphons, but she was the siphon. The blaschko lines of her body that were normally invisible were visible. It was like the condition, epidermal navis. The lines of power displayed clearly on her skin in gold, making it seem as if she was glowing the way I siphon would.

Behind her neck is a tattoo of a set of wings. Her wings.

Two long scars run down her back, visible over the top of her backless gown. She’s Rhys’s baby sister, second in line for the throne if anything were to happen to him. Though she had no interest in taking over for Rhys.

She’d once had wings before they were cleaved off by Tamlin and his father many years ago. The scars are deep but flush with her back like they had literally been wrenched out of her back.

She was an Illyrian with phantom wings.

She had the vaguest memories of flying though she doesn’t miss it as much as she does in her dreams when she remembers.

The high lord of the Spring Court and his son had left her wings for Rhysand to find, along with the body of their mother. It had been over a hundred years before she had returned to her home in the Night Court.

The pair orbit each other, guarding the other one. Azriel was the quiet one but so was she most of the time. They’re always touching each other or whispering into the others’ ear. There’s an air of ethereal beauty to the two of them, two people that had experienced horrors that few others could even imagine.

The two of them were dangerous apart, but lethal together.

She moves to Feyre’s side, whispering something in her high lady’s ear and Azriel’s burning gaze follows her the whole time. Unknowingly, he shifts his body in her direction. A mirror to his shadow. He’s constantly assessing her body language, scanning her vicinity for threats.

The pair were loyal to their court and high lord and lady, but they would always be most loyal to each other.

She moves away from Feyre and is immediately approached by a High Fae male; his hand touches her elbow, and she jerks away from him. He reaches for her again and Azriel moves forward. He’s by her side in half a second but he doesn’t interfere, knowing that she can handle the unwanted advances herself.

Unless she asked him to, he would not overstep.

The next time his hand darts out she grabs his wrist, twisting hard. The blaschko lines on her arms flare. The High Fae makes a noise low in his throat and that lofty composure falters. He backs away quickly, casting Azriel a glare.

It’s Nesta that approaches them next, harping on them about the High Fae that the pair had just chased off.

Azriel’s mate tolerates Nesta but only because she was Rhys’s sister. Only because she loved both Feyre and Cassian. Even so, she knew one thing. Nesta was a raging bitch.

Azriel rolls his eyes and pulls her to him finally, his lips ghost over hers. Soft music begins to play from somewhere and Azriel pulls her to the floor. He rests a hand on her lower back, just under her scars and begins to sway her.

She smiles up at him and Azriel knows that nothing in the world will ever compare to the moments spent with her.

#acotar #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel smut #azriel acosf

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friendlyneighbourhood-parker · 2 years

Text

Scrap Yarn

pairing: Steven Grant x reader

Summary: Steven knows everything about getting caught up in hobbies, him being the one at fault when it comes to letting the time drift away while reading a book. But after spending your day away crocheting you feel sore and he desides on helping you out

word count: 1.6 k

Warnings: the reader cracks their back by stretching I think? it's mentioned a couple of times the craking of some joints, besides that this is fluff!

A/N: It was really hard not to make this angsty for some reason? like I intended this to be fluff from second one but drafted it two times and both of them went to an angsty route i didn't want to? but couldn't (apparently) help but write? anyways hope this isn't too far from fluff. also the reader is mentioned to wear glasses but I hope that's not a problem when reading it. anyways, enjoy!

Your knuckles were cramping and your wrist felt stiff, you could feel the pain growing on your lower back from the position you settled in hours ago and didn’t shift from, and if your grandma saw the way you were scrunching down she would probably scoff, pulling you to straighten your back and tell you how her mother would’ve tied a broomstick to her back so she wouldn’t grow a hump. You squinted your eyes and moved your hands closer to your face, trying to see the stitches you were making from the pattern that followed an imaginary beat.

One, two, three, four. One – one, two, three, four. Two – one, two, three, four. Three – twist and repeat.

It was rhythmic, simple and perfect to get lost into, working for hours without even realizing the passage of time. One hand holding the yarn while the other twisted and turned the hook, both of them tired but never stopping, tranced by the webbing growing before your eyes. What was once a ball of yarn was now becoming a new scarf, or maybe it was a hat, perhaps even a sweater? You weren’t exactly sure but part of the charm was not knowing the outcome of your creation because you weren’t in need of something new just something to keep both your mind and hands busy.

It wasn’t the first time Steven found you like that, on the couch with the basket filled with yarn by your feet on the floor, wearing the grey stained shirt – too big and too old to wear outside but perfect for those days where staying inside was the only thing on your ‘to do’ list – and making small talk with him, mostly him being the one talking before deciding to pick up a book from his shelf and just let the silence settle. It was something you liked to do from time to time as a hobby, making new gloves for Jake and a hat for Marc so they wouldn’t pass cold on winter, and believe me when I tell you Steven was grateful for the book bag you made him last time but he also knew how easy it could be to get lost into those little hobbies that left your mind to wander.

You couldn’t believe how the hours passed by so fast, the bright evening sun coming through the windows and engulfing the entire flat in an orange tint that confirmed exactly what you were afraid of, the day was coming to an end and you spent it away crocheting, again. The shadows seemed harsher while everything being touched by light appeared to glow as if it were made of gold, you looked over to Steven before reaching over to the standing lamp between the sofas.

The change of lighting making him turn to look at you, gifting you one of those warm smiles that made him close his eyes and little lines run near his mouth. You smiled back, reaching for his arm and softly caressing him while exchanging ‘I love you’s before he continued with his lecture and you went back to your project.

The once angry beat coming back in a softer melody, one that left you with only peace.

One, two, three, four. One – one, two, three, four. Two – one, two, three, four. Three – twist and repeat.

It felt weird being submerged in silence, it normally being filled by Steven’s words as he talked about his day, telling you the little comments being thrown by Marc and Jake or the new stuff he learned by reading when he had a break at his work. But now he was back to his reading and you in your crocheting, neither of you wanting to disturb the other. The turning of his pages becoming the only sound that filled the flat and any exterior noise being kept outside by the closed windows.

You grunted, frustrated at yet another hole where you didn’t notice the missing stitch until it was too late, having to undo your work to correct the mistake before continuing. Steven peered at you over his glasses before looking at the clock that hung on top of the tank where his fish happily swam. He closed the book and stretched his arms in front of him before leaving it on top the coffee table.

You didn’t notice he was sitting beside you until his hand reached for yours, stopping its movement and making you look back at him with a soft smile.

“You’re mumbling” He simply said.

A habit you had that never realized but he always noticed, every time that your mind got carried away the words started to slip out of you like a silent prayer you couldn’t hear but he noticed loud and clear. He never spoke about it, finding it cute how you would count away the movements done and those that were yet to come.

One, two, three, four. One – one, two, three, four. Two – one, two, three, four. Three

“Yeah I don’t- ” you rolled your shoulders, hearing the popping sound that made your bones after changing positions “Fuck that felt good. Guess I got a bit carried away”

He hummed in respond, taking what he would call a ‘tangled little mess’ from you. He saw how you shook your hands, starting to feel the pain from them and heard the way you moaned softly after finally stretching your back. He shook his head laughing while taking your hand once more, moving it slowly so the wrist would rotate comfortably and this way easing the pain.

“You should rest from time to time” he reminded you

“I know, but I don’t really pay attention to the clock” you shrugged and pulled your hand away from him hissing at the pleasurable pain once he cracked your knuckles “you’re killing me”

“Me? You’re the one who tortures your poor hands” he moved to the other hand, repeating the same loving gesture in it before moving it closer to leave a sweet kiss on the back of it.

His hand reached for your shoulders, massaging the places he felt stiffer and knotted making you whine in response, shutting your eyes.

“Fuck that hurts” you laughed out trying not to think of the painful touch, knowing he wasn’t putting that much pressure, you were just a bit stressed.

“I know love but you’re tense” he looked up at you tilting his head at your frown, his hand moving closer to your face to smooth out the wrinkles that formed in between your eyebrows with his thumb. “I’ll drag your ass out the sofa to stretch if I have to”

“I don’t need to” the back of your hand gently moved his out of the way, rolling your eyes at him with a big smile plastered in your face.

“Yeah you do, you get too focused” he gestured you to turn around and you complied with his command.

Your arms rested on the sofa headrest letting him face your back, his hands made their way across it, softly trailing from the back of your neck down to where your t-shirt ends making his way under it. Rubbing the places he heard you complain about in other times, his movements were calculated gliding on a place he knew by blind memory, his thumbs made pressure on your lower back and you exhaled a breath you didn’t notice holding in. The sore feeling being gently soften out by the attentive hands of your lover.

“You’re the one to talk” you moved your head side to side enjoying the feeling on your neck before letting it fall back on his shoulder, looking at those deep brown eyes that looked back at you.

“Even I take breaks!” he chuckled, his arms wrapped around your waist behind the fabric.

“Still…” you closed your eyes humming “thanks for this”

“Any time, my love” he pecked your lips before getting up, dreading to move away from you but knowing the bed would be so much comfortable for cuddles. He lend you a hand, helping you get up “Although you shouldn’t force your sight or you’ll end up with a pair of these”

He grabbed his glasses that rested on top of his book and dangled them in front of you before placing them inside his shirt pocket.

“Oh, I do need them” you shrugged making your way towards the bad.

“What?” he reached for your hand pulling you closer to him, his expression was one filled with confusion as he tried to recall ever seeing you wearing glasses.

“I wear glasses Steven” you chuckled palming his chest, noticing a tiny strand of yarn stuck on his shirt, you took it and flipped it away.

“I’ve never seen you with them”

“I broke them a while back, never found the time to get new ones” you turned around, placing his arms around your shoulders and scooping your back against his chest.

“But… we’ve been dating for almost six months” his chin rested on top of your head, heels rocking both of you side to side.

You shrugged once more not really worrying about it, it’s been so long and you couldn’t really bother at this point “I’ll do it later”

“Let’s go to sleep and I’ll personally take you for new ones in the morning” he kissed the top of your head and rested his chin there once again.

The both of you made their way to the bed, funny steps on sync to the not so imaginary beat that Steven mumbled to you in an effort not to stumble with each other, you remaining in your place between his arms laughing at his mockery of that little habit of yours.

One, two, three, four. One – one, two, three, four. Two – one, two, three, four. Three

Like the rhythm of your hearts beating in unison.

#steven grant #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant x you #marvel #moon knight #moon knight system #steven grant x reader #fluff fanfic #steven with a v #steven grant one shot #steven grant fic #steven grant x y/n #steven grant fluff #marc spector #jake lockley #moonknight

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tallseaweed · 3 months

Text

Relinquish Your Burden: Chapter 4

Word Count: 2.2k

Remembering the peculiar gravity that she experienced on her first visit, Sylvie opened the Time Door within arms reach of the Yggdrasil. On a hunch, she positioned the door at the middle of the ‘trunk,’ where the verdant light of Loki's magic flared the brightest.

Normally, she would try to enchant her way past magical barriers, but with such high stakes, she was paranoid that enchantment would inadvertently harm the timelines. Instead—taking care to keep her feet firmly planted on the New York side of the Time Door—she lit one of her palms with magic and rested it on the trunk, hoping it alerted Loki to her presence.

One moment passed. Then another.

Just as she was starting to think that Loki either couldn't sense her or was purposefully ignoring her, the timelines began to shift, morphing into the entrance to a small tunnel, just tall enough for a person to walk through. She exhaled in relief, leaning back through the Time Door to address the group.

"Alright everyone, he's letting us in. Watch your step, there's a bit of a gap between us and the tunnel." And with that, she turned her back on them and disappeared through the glowing orange door.

She was in a sea of emerald green. The entire tunnel was aglow with thousands of shifting timelines. Awestruck, she gently ran the tips of her fingers along the branches that made up the walls. She didn't need her magic to be able to sense how alive they were. Thin strands of time would occasionally flake away, only to be reabsorbed after briefly floating around on a phantom breeze.

Sylvie glanced up ahead of her and froze. There, sitting on a makeshift gilded throne in a cavern at the end of the tunnel, was Loki.

A memory came to her, unbidden.

"I don't want a throne, I just… I just want you to be okay."

Voice thick with emotion, she whispered, "Hey, Loki."

He gave her a bittersweet smile. "Hello, Sylvie." His voice was a bit hoarse from disuse.

Abruptly, his gaze shifted to the Time Door, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he beheld the group gathering behind her.

---

Mobius wasn't sure what he'd expected to be walking into. The last time he'd come anywhere near this close to the timelines, the bursts of temporal radiation had left him unsteady, feeling like he was about to be flung from the gangway at any second. So when he stepped into a tunnel of intertwining timelines emitting the soothing green glow of Loki's magic, he marveled at how natural, how right it all felt. The multiverse really had needed to be freed.

Mobius's attention was instantly drawn end of the tunnel, his eyes immediately locking onto familiar pale green ones. His breath caught in his chest.

Those eyes.

Seeing Loki brought all the memories rushing back in sharper clarity. How could he have forgotten just how sinfully sharp the lines of his face were, or that slight furrow between his eyebrows? Loki looked exactly the same as the day he'd left. He supposed existing outside of time would do that to a person.

Loki was sitting on a makeshift throne, the gold of it reflecting and blending into the soft emerald light of the cavern at the tunnel's end. In his hands were the thick strands of timelines, glowing brightest where they met the steady flow of magic emanating from his palms. As Mobius drew closer, he saw that the timelines fanning out behind Loki's head appeared to be part of his cape.

A choked whisper came from behind Mobius's shoulder. "Brother… it's really you."

By that point, the group was exiting the tunnel and entering the small cavern. Mobius was close enough to see every minute expression that crossed Loki's face.

The God took a shuddering breath, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm not the brother you lost, Thor," he whispered back hoarsely.

"That hardly matters," Thor protested.

Loki took in their little group for a moment before quietly asking, "What are you all doing here?"

That snapped Mobius from his stupor. "Getting you out, of course." He made an effort to sound lighthearted. "You didn't think we would just leave you here, did ya?"

Loki closed his eyes, a lone tear slipping past his dark eyelashes. "Mobius, I can't leave. The timelines would die without my magic."

"You're wrong," Sylvie cut in, and all eyes shifted toward her. She crossed her arms and continued. "I don't know why you don't realize it, but this multiversal Yggdrasil you created? It can sustain itself. I could tell from the moment I first saw it. Felt it. You can leave, Loki." She softened her voice. "The timelines don't need you anymore. You're free. I swear it."

Loki squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly. He looked back up at her, taking a deep breath. "Look, I don't know why you think you could possibly know that, but even if that is true, I still can't leave." His voice was shaking slightly, continually rising in volume. "If I'm not here, who would watch the timelines for threats to the Multiverse? For He Who Remains' Variants?? I'm here to keep everyone safe." He looked from Sylvie to Thor, then down at Love, but his eyes locked on Mobius's as he said "I chose this burden, this purpose, and I won't abandon it now."

Mobius felt like Loki was trying to get him to understand something that he wasn't saying, but Mobius refused to take the bait. He was being ridiculous! Mobius shook his head and said, "Loki, the TVA is keeping everyone safe now, it's their new purpose!"

Loki set his jaw, seemingly attempting to keep his emotions in check. "Mobius, I can see threats before they even happen. For the TVA, finding these threats is still like finding a needle in a haystack. They would never see them coming in time."

All of a sudden, something, no, someone appeared to the right of Loki's throne. Immediately, Sylvie drew her machete and Thor gripped Mjolnir in warning, but neither of them made a move. Starting a fight in such close proximity to the timelines would be catastrophic.

The being was humanoid, but larger than they were—easily over a head taller than Thor. Once Mobius got over the shock of its glowing blue eyes, he took in its warm brown skin, high-collared purple robes, and gold adornments. It peered down at Loki.

"What if I told you there was someone else monitoring the threats to the Multiverse?"

Loki's eyes widened. "You," he breathed.

Never taking his eyes off the strange being, Mobius took a protective step closer to the throne. "Who is this Loki?"

"I am the Watcher,” the being responded. “I observe all that transpires in the Multiverse. Its stories are my own."

Mobius raised a questioning eyebrow at Loki.

"It's true,” Loki confirmed. "I've seen it myself. He can appear anywhere, see everything." He looked back at the Watcher. "But doesn't make a habit of intervening."

"I've been watching your creation for quite some time, God of Stories," said the Watcher. "What your companion says is true. Your creation can sustain itself without you."

At this, Loki's jaw visibly tightened, and Thor and Sylvie lowered their weapons.

"Like I just told my companions, I'm here to do something if the Multiverse is in danger. Can you honestly say you would do the same?"

"I may have sworn an oath to not interfere, but as I'm sure you're aware, I've recruited others to do so in my place when the Multiverse is truly at risk." The Watcher paused, assessing the God below him. "What if I swore a new oath—to forewarn you of any impending Multiversal threats?" Loki's eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. "You could pass the information to your Time Variance Authority”—Mobius cringed at the Watcher’s palpable disdain for the organization that spent millennia restricting the multiverse—"or use the information however you see fit."

As Loki weighed the offer against his stubborn resolve, Mobius realized he was holding his breath. Exhaling shakily, he closed the remaining distance between himself and the throne, kneeling down before it so that he was looking up at the man he'd once called a scared little boy, a mischievous scamp, his friend. Mobius gently placed a hand on Loki's knee. A supplicant before a God, he mused. Loki looked down at Mobius in surprise. Such beautiful, devastating eyes. "Please," Mobius whispered, blinking back his tears. "Come back to us."

Loki’s cheeks were glistening in the emerald light. "But Mobius," he whispered back, "it's my burden." His eyebrows were furrowed with grief. Before Mobius could collect himself enough to respond, the Watcher interjected. “This is your glorious purpose, God of Stories, but it does not have to remain your burden.”

"Please, Brother," Thor pleaded shakily. Mobius didn’t need to turn around to know he was crying too. "Come home."

Loki squeezed his eyes shut and was silent for a long while. Mobius looked down. He wouldn't be able to stand looking Loki in the eyes if he denied them again. Loki took a shaky breath, and Mobius emotionally braced himself.

"Alright," Loki whispered.

By the time Mobius realized what he meant, the God was slowly, painfully prying his fingers open to release the timelines he held. Mobius pulled his hand back from Loki’s knee and watched in awe as the timelines fell away from his grip, absorbing into the other branches as if they had always meant to be there. Even in the wake of Loki's absent magic, the timelines retained their soothing green glow.

With his hands unoccupied, Loki began unfastening his cloak with stiff fingers. When it came free, the timelines melded to the cavern walls, and what little fabric remained of the cloak disintegrated upon contact.

Loki braced himself on the stout armrests of his makeshift throne, rising unsteadily to his feet. Mobius shuffled backward, bringing himself to standing as Loki rose to his full height, lifting the horned kintsugi crown from his head. Carefully, as if it were made of glass, he placed it onto the throne's gilded seat and slowly turned to face them all.

Before he could say anything or take so much as a step, Thor was crashing into him, pulling him into a bone-crushing embrace. It didn't take long for Loki to grip him back fiercely, and for both brothers' shoulders to begin shaking with sobs.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Thor choked out, and Loki’s grip tightened on his brother's fur cape.

"I'm here," Loki whispered thickly. "I'm here, Brother."

Mobius felt tears streaming down his own face and looked over to Sylvie. She was crying too, wiping her eyes as she watched the sentimental reunion. He leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. Whatever resentments Mobius had toward the way she'd gone about this, Sylvie was the reason they’d got here. That Loki was free. That he was coming back to them.

He looked down at Love. She was watching the embrace with a bittersweet smile. With all the hardship and grief she’d endured at such a young age, she undoubtedly recognized how precious a reunion like this was.

When their sobs subsided and Thor reluctantly released his brother, Loki turned to the Watcher. "I want to hear you swear the oath."

The Watcher's mouth quirked slightly at the authoritative tone. “As you wish,” he granted. "I, Uatu the Watcher, swear to forewarn you of any impending threats to the Multiverse."

"And any threats to my friends and family," Loki interjected. The Watcher raised his eyebrows. Loki was not deterred. "Have I not earned the right to the knowledge that would keep them safe, with all I had planned to and would have sacrificed?” The Watcher’s lips parted to reply, but Loki didn’t give him the chance. “If not for that, then as a continued servant to the wellbeing of the Multiverse?"

The Watcher paused for a moment, considering. "Alright God of Stories, I swear to warn you of any threats to those you hold dear."

Loki’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you,” he whispered solemnly. The Watcher nodded once before fading away.

The weight of ensuing silence was palpable. Deciding it had stretched on for long enough, Mobius voiced what they were all likely thinking. "Where to now?"

He had no idea where Loki would want to go. Back to the TVA? Likely not, and since his original timeline had been pruned, it left no obvious options. Mobius guessed Loki must have been having a similar train of thought, seeing as he was shifting uneasily under Mobius’s gaze. "I'm… not sure," he admitted eventually.

"Not to worry Brother, I know a place," Thor responded easily, resting a hand on Loki's shoulder. The latter's green eyes glanced toward Mobius and Sylvie. Tuned into Loki’s every move, Thor added, "Sylvie and Mobius would be more than welcome there as well." Mobius felt a pressure in his chest ease.

"Alright then, where to?" asked Sylvie, pulling out her TemPad.

"New Asgard."

-----

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm so sorry that the wait for this chapter was a lot longer than expected, I underestimated how chaotic my transition back to classes would be. From here on out, I'm estimating that I can get a new chapter out around every 2 weeks.

Loki's officially back! I hope I did the reunion justice. I figured it would be hard for him to accept that there was another way to keep the Multiverse protected after all he went through in episode 6.

I decided to use capital-M Multiverse when Loki and the Watcher were talking about it to demonstrate their knowledge and reverence for it. As Loki mentions, he sees himself as a "servant to the wellbeing of the Multiverse." Everyone else uses lowercase-m multiverse because it is still a semi-abstract concept for them. They know it's the result of the timelines being freed, but that's pretty much the extent of their understanding.

I went with capital-G God for referring to Loki because I was inspired by Loki Head Writer Eric Martin saying "We wanted to truly have him step up from lowercase-G god to capital-G God." Loki definitely deserves the promotion 😅

taglist:

If you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist at any point, please leave a comment or send me a message :)

@loopsisloops @muddyorbsblr @superficialdomina @infinitystoner @unlucky-number-13

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#loki #loki fanfic #loki s2 finale spoilers #loki spoilers #fix it fic #lokius #lokius fic #mcu loki #loki marvel #mobius #mobius m mobius #mobius mcu #loki series #mcu #marvel #brodinsons #the sun will shine on us again #relinquish your burden

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lychniis · 2 years

Text

― AZALEA AND MARIGOLD.

zhongli | rex lapis x reader.

“take care of yourself for me.” + “grief.” + angst.

WARNING(S) : while not exactly major character death, we can count forced separation a warning enough, reader suffering, zhongli suffering, angst, hurt / no comfort.

#main masterlist | flos anthalogy masterlist

“SING ME YOUR song.” Zhongli asks you once when the sun was high and the ginkgo leaves were gold. Refusal was non-existent around Zhongli, and even your embarrassed flush and the hesitant voice in your head fell flat in the face of his smile ( a beautiful smile, a cherished smile, something you wish you could store away somewhere like lightning in a bottle ).

“Of course.” The words escape easily and you sing ( of everything beautiful and all the little things that matter and don’t ). He hums to your tune and he shuts his eyes. The ancient light within him glows but he is unbothered by your staring. He only smiles wider, and there is mischief in his lines and in the corners of his lips.

He was content with your song and with you in his arms and you were content as well.

( Because this was love; despite your ephemerality, despite Zhongli’s longevity. This was love and the acceptance of that fact. This was Zhongli seeking you out and memorizing your laughter, memorizing the dips and the edges of what made you and what made this. This was love. )

ii.

“Sing me your song.” Zhongli asks you in the dead of night. His arm rests over your frame and his nose is tucked into your hair. He smells of Osmanthus Sencha, possibly from his nighttime brew ( you smelled it in the kitchen when you were rearranging the bookshelves ) and you nuzzle in with sleepy blinks and a soft yawn.

“Now?”

Zhongli chuckles. It is rich, deep and the fluttering in your stomach begins again ( and you were that blundering fool once more, so in love, so infatuated with this man in front of you ). “If you are comfortable, yes.” he replies, and you feel a featherlight kiss on your lips.

So you sing. Your voice is hoarse, you pause in between to yawn again, but Zhongli still listens and his honey eyes hardly shift away from the adoration they hold. Your voice finally ceases and you lapse to trembling silence save the sound of him breathing and the bustle below. Zhongli kisses you again. It is slow, loving and he takes his time ( for he has plenty to spare ).

“Thank you.” he murmurs. “Now rest…you need your sleep.

He’s humming again. You know the tune and as your consciousness slips, you see the absent look in his eyes..

You sleep.

iii.

He feels less like Zhongli sometimes. His gaze is disconnected, the gold in his eyes shines a little duller and when he looks at you, he takes a moment for him to soften, to let his love show. You see it in how he stares less about the harbor with bittersweet reminiscence. He does not speak of his old tales.

This is fine, you tell yourself. He just needs space and he needs time. As stubborn as he can be, Zhongli can still change and he still finds himself walking down paths he’d hardly take. This is fine.

Zhongli forgets about your birthday that year.

iv.

“Would you like me to sing your song?” you ask softly. Zhongli blinks.

“Your song?” he repeats. He looks confused, but he nods. “Alright then.” The wave of his hand prompts you to start. Your voice is shaking and the hole in your chest only sinks deeper as you stroke his cheeks. Remember this, you tell yourself. Remember this. Remember the gold in his eyes, the warmth in his smile, the way he turns his face away when he is embarrassed. Remember this.

Zhongli sighs. “Your song…ah yes…” he whispers and the sadness in his face grows ( and a part of your heart breaks and everything feels raw and wrong ). He does not speak after that and listens to your melody, fingers lacing with your own. When the song ends, Zhongli kisses your knuckles ( there was melancholy in everything now ).

“I love you.” he smiles. There is still a part of him left; weathered down fragments and shattered pieces of who he was. The parts that shone through and gave you this one last respite ( and you do not know if it hurts you less or if it hurts you more now ). “I love you.” he repeats. A weight settles over your shoulders.

You kiss him on the lips one last time.

“I love you too.” you whimper out, just barely managing to muster them out past your broken voice and the tears that begin to fall. He wipes them away, like he always did.

“Take care of yourself for me.” he begs. You stare at him long and hard, at Zhongli, at everything and you nod.

Remember this.

Cloud retainer leads you away, her voice soothing but you hear nothing but static and the adeptal seal click into place behind you.

( And you think, you swear, you heard him hum your song behind you. )

People speak of a song that is sung in Mt. Aocang; and a lonely dragon within it's caverns. He remembers not who he is, but he knows his heart once knew love.

He still sings his song and the sadness it holds ( for he was lost and he has forgotten himself and the people have forgotten him ).

Most souls leave immediately. But some stop to listen.

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

requested by : @meimeimeirin

today i woke up and chose emotional violence. blame rin; she put the idea in my poor liddle head.

taglist — @x-zho, @dustofthedailylife, @deus-lapidis, @silentmoths, @nebulaera, @niverine, @aestellia, @ofoceansandtombsanew.

#FLOS ANTHALOGY - 100 FOLLOWER EVENT #&&. my writing !!#genshin impact #zhongli x reader #genshin zhongli #genshin impact x reader #morax x reader #rex lapis x reader #x reader

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bittermuire · 1 year

Text

Evidence pt. 2

in which nesta has a crush on a piano player

continued from this snippet

If they’d even bother to ask, then Nesta would tell them.

He’s a musician—that’s how they met.

They met on a night neither of them can really remember. It was snowing. One of those pretty first snows, little flakes that melt the moment they get settled on the ground. It was night so the snow was only visible in the glow of gold lamplights lining the streets, a blur outside the restaurant windows. The restaurant, it’s called Evanna.

And Nesta and Evanna became very good friends as she drew apart from the Inner Circle. That dusky, candlelit restaurant demanded nothing from her but sore feet—the musicians there, violins and cellos and drums and the oboe, and the piano, a gorgeous piano, played too well not to dance and to have partners whose faces never repeated themselves. A little drunk, satiated with the sardonic mile-long bill they’d send straight to the townhouse, Nesta was happy, happy, to dance.

At some point he became the piano player.

Sometime around that point Nesta grew very fond of the piano (player).

It was gorgeous after all, with clean lines and glossy wood and a clear ringing sound (and dark-eyed with long nimble fingers and thick, wiry brows that would shoot up and down as he played, a swaying body, half shadowed).

And he played and she danced and peering over countless shoulders and breathing in countless colognes she watched him, the calloused pads of his fingers pressing down keys that could very well have been along her spine. He never seemed to take note of her, no matter how she spun or stepped or stared. You must only have one love, she thought, looking at him look at the piano, but it wasn’t some crushing defeat. Only a crush. A little flutter in her broken heart; a butterfly beating its battered wings in hesitance. Do they still work? Can I still fly?

Her favorite nights were when it was snowing hard and his hair was damp, snowflakes melting in the dark sweep over his forehead. He’d grin and make his way over, squinting, cleaning his glasses on the sleeve of his coat. One hand up in greeting. The cheers of the rest of the musicians, smiles, arms over shoulders, playful teasing. A little visceral, voyeuristic—Nesta would sit at the bar and watch him, enchanted, amazed. What kind of man was he? They liked him. They wanted him there. In an odd way, it was a relief. She felt like a girl again—he’s so handsome, he’s so tall, I just know he’s kind and gentle and sweet—brushing her hair and blushing, heart tripping over carefully collected pictures.

And then—

(This part, this part she wouldn’t tell anyone, except herself, because it’s still a bit too magical and she doesn’t believe in magic, not anymore.)

And then she caught him.

A man’s arm clutched around her waist, murmuring things in her ear; he was too tall and she was struggling a bit to find her man over his shoulder without being too obvious, but then they shifted to the right and he appeared, bent as usual over the keys, glasses in perennial danger of slipping down his nose, and then—

She caught him.

He looked. (For her.)

Turned his head in a scant moment, dark eyes reflecting the candlelight and the dancers, hands shifting like water and memory.

He was looking, searching, and then he found her, and the unmistakable evidence as their eyes met, a key in a lock, click:

A missed note, a stumble over the keys. A quick recovery.

“So, what do you say?”

Her partner’s hand tightened on the small of her back. She looked up at him. “What?”

“Will you come stay for the summer at my estate?”

The music fell away; a scatter of clapping and requests arose as Nesta frowned. “I don’t know who you are,” she told him, and drifted back to the bar.

And the nights became a little warmer, tinged with gold, as the city sank into the woolen heart of winter. Her own heart began to remember how to skip a beat when she saw his face; her lungs, her chest, began to forget how to ache. She took to having a strong coffee rather than a glass of wine. She loved dancing, after all, and it was one of those few things more enjoyable while sober. A string was still tied around her heart and squeezed from time to time, but it was becoming a part of her, not unlike the rush of blood in her veins or the tingle of her skin after coming in from the cold, something strange but recognizable. Myself. Half of the general but also half of her. Bearable and unthreatening.

She was plagued with the usual fears of a girlish crush—did she imagine it? Did she really catch him? Was it all in her head?

But it happened again. And again. And again. His mouth slightly agape, eyes soft behind glasses reflecting the light. The dark brush of his brows as he looked, looked, the telltale misplaced finger and the glances exchanged by the rest of the musicians—the smiles, the knowing laughter, the shaking heads. Like some kind of detective Nesta pinned all the evidence up on a board and drew lines, circled moments, and fell in love.

(And fell in love, oh dear. And with a man she’d never even spoken to, no less!)

He wasn’t so secretive about it, after a while; Nesta twirled and as she brushed her hair from her face she’d catch him, gaze heavy and caught unmistakably on her. She took another hand and went into another pair of arms and as her body was pulled especially close, there was a faint clash of notes. A particularly clumsy one trod on her toes and she rolled her eyes and landed on him, hiding a smile, eyes darting from hers. It wasn’t a secret. And one night, sometime before Solstice, Evanna was quieting down and the number of couples on the floor had dwindled to very few. Nesta was thinking about ordering an especially expensive drink, not even to drink but just to have on the bill, when there was a light tap on her shoulder. She spun around, frowning, but it was him. Her piano player. The frown fell from her mouth, the harsh tilt of her brow. He was real.

“Might I have a dance?” he asked her, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He offered a hand. “Just one.”

She squinted. “Who’s going to play the piano?”

“My friend.”

She peered over at the piano. Sure enough, there was a lanky guy settling down onto the seat, looking curiously down at the keys.

“He’s a… beginner. But he plays quite well.” A faint blush bloomed over his face, clean-shaven and pleasant up close.

She shook her head and took his hand, pushing down a smile. “Fine.”

They moved to the edge of the floor, the click of her heels a little louder in that soft, nearly empty room.

He put his arms around her and after a hesitant moment, gathered her close. He smelled nice, musky and warm. She stepped closer and rested her cheek, rather daringly, on his shoulder. He wasn’t frightening, was he?

“I’ve never played the piano,” she confessed.

He laughed, a light rumble in his chest, against her heart. “I’ll teach you.”

I could write so many of these snippets. like them dating, how he proposes, the wedding, how human it would be

#nesta archeron #nesta archeron fic #nesta being happy pt 2 #just her having a cute lil crush

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awkotaco24 · 1 year

Note

hii! i'd like to request a steve x fem!reader fix please :> so it's a soulmate au fic and i've seen an idea about the first sentence they're going to say to you is written on you. maybe it will turn into gold when it's said to you with a tingling feeling so you know he's your soulmate. and as steve works at family video, for reader, it's a spoiler of a movie line about a character dying maybe, but she doesn't know that, so she says that that's what the death or dying part in her line said. so like a meet cute maybe thank youu <33

This is such a cute concept! I hope you liked it! This is the second time attempting to post this so hopefully it works this time

Requests are open

Word count: 600

When a person turns ten years old, the first words their soulmate will ever say to them appears on their wrist. Once those words are said, they turn gold. Some people say they got a tingling feeling shoot up their arm, others say they feel a warm feeling settles deep in their chest. But everyone always says they feel a massive amount of relief when they find their person.

Though some people never find their person and are destined to be alone. And that’s what Y/N thought for herself. She never thought she would find her person. Until one hot day in Family Video

~*~

Y/N walked into Family Video, sighing in relief to be out of the blistering head. July in Hawkins was like walking on the face of the sun. In short, it was hell. Wiping sweat from her forehead, Y/N walked further into the fantasy section, hearing a girl yell out,

“Welcome to Family Video. Let us know if we can help in any way.” Y/N continued on her way, picking up movies every now and then to read the description, only to put them back down. She wanted to find the perfect movie she can watch over and over so she doesn’t have to leave the comfort of her A/C-cooled apartment until this heat wave passes Hawkins, which wouldn’t be for another week. So Y/N was on a mission to find the best movie this store had to offer.

Across the store, Steve and Robin stood behind the checkout counter, each fiddling with their own fan, Steve out of anxiety, Robin out of boredom.

“I’m telling you, Rob, I’m destined to be alone for all my miserable life!” Steve said to his platonic soulmate. Steve thunked his head down onto the counter, Robin wincing at the force of the smack, running her hand through Steve’s hair.

“And this is why you’re a dingus. You’re only twenty years old, Steve. You have plenty of time to find her.” Robin replies, sighing again when Steve grunts. “Well, I’m going on break, help this customer out please.” Robin says, walking to the back.

Y/N walks up to the counter, setting her movies down and smiling up at Steve. He gives her a smile back, looking at what movies she picked out.

“Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.” Steve says, smiling at the tapes in front of him.

“W-what?” Y/N asks, a tingle shooting up her arm. Steve’s smile falters, looking back up from the counter.

“It’s from the movie.” Is all Steve replies with. He gets a warm feeling settling in his chest, prompting him to look down at his soulmate words, seeing them glowing gold, a slight glow lighting up his face. “It’s you! You’re my soulmate!” Steve exclaimed happily. Y/N’s smile widened, flinging her arms around Steve, and pulling him into a hug.

“I never thought I would find you. I’m so happy I finally found you!” Y/N cried, burying her face in Steve’s neck. Steve let out a joyful laugh, pressing a kiss to the crown of Y/N’s head.

“Hang on, wait right here. I’m going to see if Robin will cover the rest of my shift so I can stay with you. Get to know each other.” Steve smiled, letting go of Y/N to go find Robin and tell her the news.

Y/N thought she would be leaving Family Video with only a few movies, not with her soulmate.

Funny how life works somehow…

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #reqs open #request #i tried my hardest #i tried my best #i don't know what tags to use

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years

Text

The Grand Tour - Chapter 9 (AO3)

(Autumn part 2 - There's a festival in Autumn, but things get a little too much for Nesta. I can only offer my deepest apologies in advance.)

Nesta closed her eyes, thinking of his hazel ones, how the gold caught there glimmered like drops of molten sunlight. She thought of how his eyes shone whenever they looked at her, how they somehow conveyed more emotion than he could ever express, things Nesta didn’t even think there were words for. No language could do the way he looked at her justice, no words yet written adequate enough. No, Nesta didn’t have much in the way of faith, but faith in Cassian came naturally.

Nesta.

A name— her name, one that was whispered by the wind, keening, moaning, carried across the sea. A name that drifted, swept to far off places and dying lands, carried to the monsters hidden, lurking, buried, in the deepest, darkest, parts of the world. A name that made the wicked shudder, made ancient powers tremble—

Nes.

A name that was murmured, muttered, nothing more than a breath on his lips as Cassian slept. Her name— breaking through both his slumber and hers to reach her, calling to her. Nesta woke to the sound of her name, soft and hushed, and Cassian, still sleeping, whispering incoherently as he dreamed. Incoherently— except for her name. Meaningless babble, except for when he asked for her, when he searched for her, his hands blindly searching until his fingertips touched her skin. A red-siphoned glow bathed her as his hand brushed down her arm, as he pulled her closer to him, as he sought her out even in dreaming.

“Nes,” he muttered again, still sleeping, growing restless in his unconscious search for her.

“I’m here,” she answered, and though he didn’t wake, the hand he had resting on her middle squeezed, his breathing growing deeper, more even. His wings twitched once, and then he was more deeply asleep than before, letting out a sigh as his murmurs ceased.

In the silence, where there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, Nesta waited. Not for him to wake— but for days now, Nesta had been waiting for the inevitable moment where this all went wrong, where the bond between them terrified her. She knew that, at some point, something would set her off, make her breathless with fear and longing for her mortal life. Ever since the bond had snapped for her in the Summer Court sea, she’d been waiting for it to hit her, waiting for the gravity of it all to finally sink in.

They had been in paradise— Cassian’s kisses chasing away all of her insecurities, his promises soothing every worry, and it was easy to face the world when everything was perfect. A time would come, she knew, that the weight of it would hit her. She couldn’t know when, or where— so all she could do was wait.

Wait— wait for reality to set in, and wait for the sun to rise. Wait for Cassian to wake, and kiss away all of her hurt. The sun began to lighten the Winter Court sky, and only when it had turned the horizon a pale gold did she raise her head from where she’d rested it above his heart. Only then did she look up at the curve of his jaw, the small scar on the bridge of his nose that said he’d broken it more than once. She studied his face as if she were learning it, all of his contours and shadows, watching the early morning light play against his golden brown skin. His eyelids flickered, close to waking, but sleep wasn’t quite ready to relinquish him yet, not quite ready to surrender him, and though he shifted, though her name passed through his lips again, those eyes remained closed.

With a touch that was light and tentative, Nesta set about waking him, about making him say her name properly instead of mumbling it in his sleep. She traversed the plains of his chest, tracing every scar, every faint line, every remnant left behind from wounds that had almost killed him. Her nails were light across his collarbone, and she smiled softly to herself when she felt his breath catch. She followed his curving, curling tattoos, over the powerful muscles in his arms, across his chest, and down, down, to the waistband of his cotton pants. Her fingertips seemed to burn, skirting his hip, before moving back up his chest. She carried on until there wasn’t an inch of his skin she hadn’t searched, until she was following the curve of his ribs, reaching behind him, to the wings that lay behind him. She grazed the membrane, soft under her fingertips, with a touch so light she barely even felt it herself but—

Within a heartbeat, Nesta was on her back. Looking up at the wooden-beamed ceiling of the Winter Court inn they’d returned to after the caves in Autumn, Nesta blinked. Cassian had her pinned down, hovering above her, his eyes clear and sharp, like a blade against a whetstone. Nesta had wanted him awake, and oh, he was definitely awake now.

His skin was warm where it brushed hers, the weight of him a haze to her senses. He hummed, the sound low, guttural, thick and rough with sleep.

“Next time you want to play, princess, why don’t you wake me first?”

“I did wake you,” Nesta countered flatly, trying to shrug. Cassian’s hands gripped her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and her shoulders didn’t move very far. She scowled. “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

His lips split into a slow grin as the final vestiges of sleep fell away, and Nesta could almost see his mind whirring, watching as it dawned on him, in the soft morning light of the Winter Court, that he had her trapped beneath him, entirely at his mercy. She tracked it, saw the moment his eyes darkened, saw him bite the corner of his lip, mischief and hunger flaring in his gaze.

“I was in the middle of a very good dream,” he tsked, dropping his head to kiss a line of fire along Nesta’s jaw. She shifted beneath him, but his hands were firm about her wrists, his grip soft but unyielding. Her heart raced and her blood pounded, and all she wanted was for him to keep kissing her, keep her pinned against that mattress. Everything narrowed until the only thing she was aware of was the weight and warmth of him on top of her, and how she wanted him closer. How she wanted him so much more than closer.

“About what?” she asked, blinking as unseeing eyes tried and failed to focus on the ceiling above. Her vision was dim, and all she could feel was his lips at her neck, all she could hear was the cadence of his breathing. There was nothing but this, nothing but Cassian and the kisses he dragged down her throat, teeth grazing her skin, the heat and the intensity of him, of the attention he lavished upon her. She wondered if he could feel it, could feel how much her want for him had turned feral. Wondered if he could sense that her longing had turned desperate. Given the way he practically shuddered when she shifted beneath him again, she figured he knew all too well.

“Doesn’t matter,” he rasped. “This is better.”

He reached the hollow of her throat, dragged his nose across her collarbone until he reached her shoulder. The thin straps of her nightgown were nothing - absolutely nothing - against him as he kissed over the curve of her arm. Before Nesta could beg him to do away with the straps altogether, he moved back up, claiming her lips and kissing her lazily, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. As fae, Nesta supposed, he did. They had forever to do this— forever to lie in one another’s arms as the sunrise gilded the sky outside. Forever— but that was still a strange and foreign concept to her, and patience had never been her strong suit. She had never been good at waiting, especiallynot when what she wanted so desperately was right in front of her— right on top of her. She worked one of her legs out from under him, shifting until he was between her thighs, until she could lift her knees and cross her ankles around his waist. His wings quivered, flared, and Cassian hissed as she pulled him down, brought him crashing against her. Cassian might feel like he had all the time in the world— but Nesta didn’t, and it wasn’t slow, languorous kisses she wanted. He bit down on her bottom lip, muttering something about her being a wicked temptress, but Nesta was too far gone to care— she wanted him undone, wanted to feel his heart racing as fast as hers.

His hands left her wrists at last, one coming up to cradle the back of her head, and the other brushing her waist, her hip, before settling low on her thigh. His fingers were sure, steady, as they whispered across her skin, climbing higher, skirting a path over her until her back was arched, until she was breathless and practically begging him—

He tore his mouth away from hers, swallowing as his gaze caught hers and held firm. “Nes,” he whispered, as though he were a man desperate, starving. Nesta was starving too, resting a hand against his cheek. Their last night in Summer, she had been ready to give him everything, but he’d pulled away, refusing to have her for the first time in someone else’s bed. She didn’t know whether those rules still applied, but she was unravelling already, desperate and pining, aching— longing to find out what else he could do with those fingers, that tongue, because just the feel of his palms brushing against her bare skin was enough to send her into free fall, and she didn’t think she’d survive if he didn’t touch her the way she wanted.

Cassian flicked his gaze back to her lips, then lower, lower, right down to where he rested in the cradle of her hips. He swallowed again, and a fire roared to life behind his eyes, one that she knew was mirrored in her own. “I thought I said I wasn’t having you in someone else’s bed,” he muttered, dropping his head to kiss - devour - her neck once more. “I thought I said I wanted to keep you in my bed for days.” His eyes flicked back up to hers as he reached the hollow of her throat, and the heat in his gaze made Nesta shudder. “I want you all to myself for days on end, and this place won’t do. The walls are as thin as paper and a housekeeper will be knocking on the door in an hour and a half.”

“An hour and a half?” Nesta echoed, a smirk curving her lips, even as she fought to breathe, struggled to stay sentient. Cassian paused to nip her collarbone, kissing over the small hurt before going lower, reaching the neckline of her nightgown. “I’m sure there are plenty of other things you could do with an hour and a half.”

“Is that what those smutty books have been teaching you?” He looked up at her from beneath his eyelashes, bold and cocksure. His lips curved, almost menacing, as he carried on kissing down her stomach. His voice was a purr against her skin, dark and promising, and with every kiss he placed above the silk of her nightgown, her skin scorched, burned, as if he were a match and she were nothing but tinder.

Wordlessly, she nodded. She couldn’t manage speech, could do nothing but weave her hands through his hair as he moved lower still, nothing but drop her ankles from around his waist. He smirked, devilish and wicked, and Nesta was dimly furious, because she’d wanted him to be the one undone— not her. She wanted him to lose control, and yet she could barely remember her own name as his thumb traced idle circles over her hip, light and teasing and maddening. He grinned against her navel, against the bare skin of her stomach as he slowly, so fucking slowly, pushed up the fabric of her nightgown, the silk like sandpaper against her sensitive skin. If she were tinder, then all she wanted was to catch fire and burn, wanted to let the flames consume her until there was nothing and nobody else left.

“I said I wouldn’t take you for the first time in Tarquin’s villa, and I won’t take you in this tiny little inn, either,” he said, arching one perfect eyebrow as Nesta scowled, about to protest, to beg him— “But if you tell me you love me, and ask me very, very nicely…” He lifted his head and met her eyes, his fingers still tracing patterns over her hip. He moved, lips grazing her hips instead as his fingers crawled up the inside of her thigh. When she shivered, the smirk he gave her was downright sinful. “…I’ll show you exactly what I can do with an hour and a half.”

***

Nesta lay boneless against the pillows, limp in his arms. His hands were still splayed on her thighs, holding her where he’d wanted her, and as Nesta grasped at some semblance of composure, Cassian groaned against the sensitive skin of one thigh before nipping at the skin below her hipbone. He looked up at her with such a smug, satisfied grin that Nesta groaned herself, shoving his head away and rolling onto her side. She tried in vain to regain her senses, but the truth was, there was nothing in the world she cared enough to remember in those moments, when his touch was like a brand against her skin, where she’d broken and shattered and fractured, and he’d caught every last piece.

The world bled back in, sharpening as Nesta came back down from her high. Cassian smirked again, evidently satisfied with the way she’d just melted around him, collapsed on his tongue. He’d be insufferable. She knew it— he boasted too much already about how much she liked it when he kissed her, how much she always caved under his touch. Insufferable, smug, arrogant fae bastard.

It took several long minutes, but once Nesta had recovered the power of speech she asked, “What are we doing today?”

Cassian crawled back up the mattress, stretching out beside her and propping his head up on a fist. The bare skin of his chest gleamed in the early morning sunlight, and with a shrug, he let his wings stretch out behind him. They draped across the mattress casually, lazily, in a display of utter ease and security that she rarely saw in Velaris. As if it was only here, only with her, that he would ever let himself just be.

“Your choice,” he said lightly. “The original plan was to go to Spring, but there’s a festival in Autumn today— a big one. They make as much fuss over it as we do Starfall, though there’ll be no stars falling from the skies tonight. There’s music and dancing and fireworks instead, and a whole lot of wine. No bonfires,” he added quickly, carefully, “Just music and revelry. After all we’ve been through this past year, I think we could use some revelry.”

Music. It was true that Nesta wanted to dance. Wanted to feel the beat rushing through her, the way she had in the Dawn Court, when Helion and his courtiers had called it a night long before she’d had enough. She wanted to feel the wildness of the Autumn Court, wanted to hear the music that moved the creatures with fire in their blood. She wanted to drink their wine, eat their food, live— live like the characters in her books, but a flicker of trepidation crawled up her spine. It was one thing visiting a mountain range in the Autumn Court, and another thing entirely to be spotted at their biggest festival.

“You said you wanted to steer clear of crowds in Autumn,” she pointed out. “That’s why you took me into the bloody forest and made me walk for hours up the side of that mountain.”

Cassian tutted, rolling those beautiful hazel eyes. “As I recall, you liked that bloody forest. Besides, we’ll use a glamour.” He rolled onto his back, folding one hand behind his head, as Nesta lifted herself up onto her elbows and, incredulously, looked down at him. Ridiculous. Ridiculous fucking bat. He’d mentioned using a glamour so casually, so smoothly, that it took Nesta a moment to catch up. If a glamour was an option all along, then why the fuck did they have to endure that whole ridiculous ordeal with Tarquin?

Nesta shoved the flat of her palm against his shoulder. “A glamour? Why wasn’t that an option in Summer?”

He twisted his head, smirking again, giving her a wink that set her soul on fire. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere we’d be seen in Summer,” he shrugged. “And by the time we did, I’d honestly stopped caring.”

Nesta’s jaw dropped, words failing her. Ridiculous, he was so utterly, utterly ridiculous. There was a pause, where Cassian continued to smirk, but after a moment, his eyes narrowed— with curiosity, with purpose. He was an untapped well of curiosity, and just as he’d been able to tell that Nesta had a hundred questions to ask in Vivianne’s chalet, Nesta could tell that Cassian was burning with inquiry now. He looked at her like he was assessing a battlefield, studying a landscape and taking in every detail, whilst dragging a thumb, idly, back and forth over his bottom lip.

He dragged his gaze up to her eyes. “We could try it,” he hummed. “You could try it.”

“Try what?” she asked, though she already knew the answer— already knew what he wanted, what he was planning. Maybe it was the bond, or maybe it was just the way she knew him so completely, but Nesta knew he wanted to see if she could use a glamour herself. Her throat went dry, because she didn’t want to refuse him, didn’t want to be the one smothering that light in his eyes, that curious grin— but Nesta had hated her power before, cursed it, reviled every spark of it that ran through her veins.

Cassian was already getting up, rolling off the bed and standing at the end, hands on his hips. “Glamouring,” he answered simply. “Try it.”

As if it were that easy. Nesta had tried to get a handle on whatever magic ran through her veins before the war, tried to master it, and failed. It made her blood run cold, the thought that she had magic at all— that a glamour was something she ought to be able to do now. She had tried, fucking tried, and the wall had come down anyway. Tried, and war had ravaged them, torn them apart, despite her best efforts. She thought of Cassian’s broken body on that battlefield, how she’d tried to use her magic to save him, and it hadn’t been enough. If not for Elain, both of them would have died there, the magic inside her doing nothing to save them.

“I don’t know how,” she said warily, sitting up and crossing her legs on the mattress. Nobody had ever taught her. Amren had tried to help her get a handle on the power she’d stolen from the Cauldron, but Amren hadn’t much cared for whether Nesta was overwhelmed, or hurting, or just plain terrified. Besides, she’d been too caught up in trying to use Nesta as a weapon in Rhys’ war to teach her something as basic as a glamour. She had pushed her to the brink, and it was useless, futile. Nesta was a mortal in fae skin— never born to wield magic, never built for such things.

“Do you want to try?” Cassian asked slowly, taking his hands off his hips and resting his palms on the curved footboard of the bed. He curled his fingers around it, leaning forwards as if he were studying something— studying her.

Nobody had ever asked her before.

Amren had demanded Nesta learn, Feyre too. She’d never had a choice, not really, but Cassian was offering her one now. As much as it made her feel sick to her stomach, as much as part of her wanted to shy away, she didn’t want to refuse him.

Nevertheless, she sighed as she shook her head. “I don’t even know if it will work. I always saw through them before.”

Cassian hummed, and after a minute said, “What about now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at me. Is anything different?”

Nesta studied him. His hair was mussed, from sleep and from the way she’d dragged her fingers through it, and his shoulders bore marks from where her nails had clawed at his skin. The siphons on his hands pulsed slightly, just a little brighter than usual, but other than that— “No, nothing.”

Cassian hummed again. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t be able to see my wings,” he answered, rustling them as if to test her. Her eyes tracked the movement and he grinned.

“Well,” Nesta said tartly. “I can. They’re right there.” She leaned forwards and poked him right in the centre of one leathery, membranous wing for emphasis. He shuddered, but the grin didn’t fall from his lips.

“We should have known you were special all along,” he said, eyes practically glowing. His mouth had fallen open slightly, as if he were astonished, as if he couldn’t believe she was his. Ruefully, he shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how we missed it. How any of us couldn’t sense it below the wall.”

“Why?” Nesta breathed. “Why don’t they work on me?”

Cassian shrugged, leaning forward to brush his knuckles against her cheek. “I don’t know,” he answered. He offered her a small, wry smile. “I’ve told you before. You’re one of a kind, Nes.”

Nesta shook her head as his hand dropped away from her cheek. “I’ll try it,” she said softly, tentatively. She met his gaze, saw the love and admiration burning there, and though she wanted to run, though her every sense was screaming at her to stop, she nodded. Cassian nodded too, and held out his hand, palm facing the ceiling.

“Start small. Clear your mind, pick something to change, and convince yourself that it’s real.”

Slowly, Nesta placed her palm in his, letting his warmth anchor her, letting his touch tether her, the way it had all along. He’d been her anchor when she’d scried for the Cauldron too, kept his hand on the small of her back and kept her from drifting too far. He’d always been the one to bring her back home— and she’d been a fool to not realise it sooner.

“Like what?” Nesta asked, weaving their fingers together, feeling his callouses against the softness of her palm.

“The colour of your eyes— imagine the colour you want them to be, the colour you want me to see, and will it to be real.”

Nesta snorted, letting her eyes drift closed. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” he shrugged. When she cracked an eye open and glared, he smirked and added, “Relatively.” He paused. “You’re fae now, Nes. Glamours come as naturally to fae as breathing. I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to do it without even thinking about it once you get the hang of it.”

After a silence that seemed to stretch forever, Cassian let out a gentle, soft, sigh. “Have a little faith,” he said, reaching over and lifting her face up to his, his finger curling beneath her chin.

“In what?” Nesta asked sardonically. “The Cauldron? The Mother? The gods that brought me here in the first place?”

“No,” Cassian shook his head. “In me. In you.”

Nesta didn’t have much in the way of faith. Never had— not below the wall, when there had been those that believed in gods and monsters. Not when the Children of the Blessed treated the fae as gods, and certainly not above the wall, when the only gods Nesta knew where the ones the fae revered. Difficult, to worship at the altar of the Cauldron when it had torn her apart from the inside out. Faith in Cassian though, was something else, another matter entirely. Nesta closed her eyes, thinking of his hazel ones, how the gold caught there glimmered like drops of molten sunlight. She thought of how his eyes shone whenever they looked at her, how they somehow conveyed more emotion than he could ever express, things Nesta didn’t even think there were words for. No language could do the way he looked at her justice, no words yet written adequate enough. No, Nesta didn’t have much in the way of faith, but faith in Cassian came naturally.

She willed her eyes to be as his, not to be hues of blue and grey, but gold and hazel, warm and depthless. She didn’t feel anything— there was no hum, no snap of power, but when Nesta opened her eyes, Cassian’s breath hitched before his lips split into a breathless grin.

“Perfect,” he said, leaning over the foot of the bed to take her face in his hands. “You’re perfect.”

“It worked?” she asked, receiving only a fervent nod in answer before Cassian was kissing her. Softly, lightly, his lips met hers, and Nesta shook her head, willing her eyes back to normal. She loved his eyes— but it felt wrong, somehow, to be hiding anything from him, to be right in front of him yet standing behind illusions and magic. When he looked at her, she wanted him to see only her, her true face, with no barrier between them.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent the time since Hybern hiding her pointed ears every chance she got, pulling her braids down over the tips every day without fail. The fact that she now had the chance to hide them more definitively, and yet no longer felt any need to… made her feel a little unsteady. As if she were growing too comfortable in this life, too accustomed to the changes wrought upon her. A flicker of trepidation ran down her spine, a creeping chill beginning in her fingertips, an unease that made her heart stutter and miss a beat. She ignored it— pushed it down with every piece of willpower she possessed. Beat it back until she could breathe easy again, but all over again, she began to wonder when it would all end, when the moment would come that all of this finally became too much. Cassian, in the infuriating way that he always seemed to know what she was thinking, stroked a hand over the tips of her ears.

“You’re perfect,” he said again.

“All I changed was the colour of my eyes. I hardly think that makes us safe enough to go to Autumn,” she pointed out when he pulled away. Cassian made a non-committal sound and waved a hand in the air.

“Oh, the glamour was never for you. I just wanted to see whether you could do it.” He shot her a boyish grin, all charm and irreverence. “As long as nobody recognises me in Autumn, we should be fine.”

“It’s always you that’s the problem,” Nesta said dryly. “I’m starting to see a pattern.”

“Indeed,” he said with a sly smile. “But you’re stuck with me now, so…” He trailed off and shrugged, as if to say, what can we do?

With a roll of her eyes, Nesta rose from the bed at last. She plucked up a robe that lay draped over a chair by a small dressing table, slipping it around her shoulders before pulling out a dress from the wardrobe. “The festival,” she said, shaking out the creases. “Tell me more about it.”

Cassian leaned back against the footboard of the bed, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “They don’t celebrate Solstice in Autumn, but this is somewhat similar. It’s a celebration of the seasons, just like Solstice, but where we celebrate the longest night of the year, they celebrate eternal Autumn. They let fireworks off in the sky and light hot coals to bring warmth, before setting them down on the ground to warm the earth.” He shrugged. “It’s supposed to make the land ready for the crops they’ll plant over the next few weeks. At the bigger festivals, they line all the coals up, row after row after row— an endless stretch of them. It’s tradition for the young boys to walk barefoot over it when they reach nineteen.”

“Huh,” Nesta said, blinking. “It’s not—“ She cleared her throat. “Feyre told me about the fire celebrations in Spring. It’s not… that kind of festival is it?”

Cassian laughed, the sound loud and bright and clear as a bell. “Calanmai? No, sweetheart, this isn’t like Calanmai.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively, taking a step towards her. “Not unless you’d like it to be. I’m certain I could find us a nice quiet cave somewhere.”

“Brute,” Nesta scowled, batting at his shoulder.

“So,” he said, ignoring her altogether. “You’ve made your decision then? Autumn?”

“Autumn,” Nesta echoed. “I want to go back to Autumn.”

***

It was dusk by the time they arrived in a large clearing, a chasm between the trees, in the south of the Autumn Court. “This is the biggest,” Cassian muttered into her ear as he pulled her along, his hand tight around hers. He swore that his wings were glamoured, that if anyone else looked, they’d see her walking hand in hand with a red-haired, pale skinned, Autumn high fae. For the first time, Nesta was glad that glamours didn’t work on her— that she could see his hazel eyes, the wings she’d once abhorred, and the man that was honestly, truly, hers. “They have these celebrations all over the court, but some of them are little more than two coals in a fire pit and a couple of pitchers of wine. Fae from all over Autumn travel to this one.”

Just like Cassian had said, there was a bed of coals laid out on the floor of the clearing. It stretched perhaps five feet across, and more than double that in length, a veritable river of hot stones and ashes. They glowed orange in the fading light, burning and smouldering, and Nesta wondered how anybody would ever be able to walk over them. She could already feel the heat from across the clearing. The embers glowed in the twilight, sparks drifting upwards to the sky, and it was… beautiful. Faelights were strung between the trees, and the entire thing had the atmosphere of a proper fairytale— the kind Nesta read about in stories, the kind her mother warned her of. Wild and enchanting, dangerous and beautiful.

Cassian steered her to a long trestle table, laden down with food and wine, as a band struck up on the other side of the coals. The drums echoed, tambourines and lyres singing, a beat that Nesta felt reverberate inside her chest, and as Cassian pushed a small cup into her hands, she looked with wide eyes at the revellers already dancing, wildly, with abandon, as though the music had unleashed something buried deep within. Cassian cleared his throat and knocked back his glass.

“Faerie wine,” Nesta muttered, dragging a finger around the rim of the cup. “And here I was always taught never to drink this stuff.”

“You’re no unsuspecting mortal, Nes,” Cassian smirked. “But it’s still heavy, so go easy.”

“Are you calling me a lightweight?” she asked, prodding him in the chest.

“Never,” he answered, flattening a palm over his heart. “But whilst I’ll gladly stumble home with you any time we’re in Velaris, I’d rather you keep some of your wits whilst we’re here.” He lowered his voice as he passed her an apple on a stick, coated in syrup. “Just in case we run into god-awful Eris, or any one of his brothers.”

“Is that likely?” Nesta asked, sipping at her wine. It was sweet on her tongue, tasing of plum and berries, strong and potent. Already she wanted more, already she felt her blood start to fizz, and if this was how it affected her as fae, she shuddered to think at what it would do to a mortal. One sip would be enough for oblivion.

“You never know,” Cassian shrugged, leading her to a circle of tables at the edge of the dance floor. The grass had been flattened, a small wooden dais set up for the band, and a large circle of small stones served as the demarcation line between dance floor and forest. Already, it was busy, various fae twisting and turning, moving to the music as if it flowed through them, as if they were nothing but its vessels.

She could have listened to the music forever— as intoxicating as the wine, and making her feel as faint as the wine, too. She finished her first cup, and when Cassian plucked a second from a nearby fae carrying a tray, she didn’t refuse it. His warning melted into nothing, replaced by warmth and mirth, a desire to do nothing but stay here forever, to taste the sweetness of the Autumn wine on her tongue and hear the beat echo through her bones. Cassian told her stories, of Starfall and Illyrian holidays, traditional celebrations and customs they refused to let die. His voice was low, lest any of the fae around them realise it wasn’t an Autumn high fae that had Nesta’s ear, but an Illyrian, but Nesta listened, enraptured. He told her of the snowcapped mountains, of the celebrations they would have around campfires. He spoke of folk songs and dark nights spent under a moonlit sky, the mountains cradling a harsh but proud people— a people he would have to fight, soon enough, if the rebellion wasn’t quelled.

His face fell as the rebellion crossed his mind— as it crossed hers, too. She blinked slowly, placing a palm over the siphon nobody else could see. It glowed once in recognition, and suddenly Nesta was knocking back her third cup of faerie wine and rising from her seat. Despite the wine, despite the way the world had blurred at the edges, she didn’t falter, didn’t stumble, as she pulled Cassian up with her.

“I want to dance,” she said firmly. “Dancing fixes everything.”

The faelights above glimmered, merging with the stars, until Nesta couldn’t tell the difference. Cassian smirked as he curled his fingers about hers. She could feel everything— the grass soft beneath her slippered feet, the air cool on her cheek, the heat from the coals drifting across, warming the bare skin of her neck. She could smell smoke, but there were no fires— blessedly, there were no fires, just embers, and coals, and heat.

“Does it?” Cassian asked, dragging her back to the present.

“Yes,” Nesta said flatly, leading him to the flattened grass, the large stone circle that ringed it. Mama had told her stories of stone circles— forbidden places, made for dark magic, places where the fae from her nightmares sacrificed human blood in bacchanalian rituals, places where the stones were otherworldly and ancient, powerful. Hedonistic. Nesta didn’t believe in any of that now, but as she crossed the threshold, Cassian’s hand in hers, she felt a flicker of fire, a whisper of the magic that ran through this land, flowed through it like a river. The wine had heightened everything, and Nesta could hear the leaves rustle in the trees, swore she could see the details in each and every star above. She only clung tighter to Cassian’s hand, taking him with her as she plunged into the fray.

The dancing was erratic, feet slamming against the earth with no real rhythm, as if to wake it from its slumber. The drums were louder, the embers burning hotter, as the dance became a ritual, something almost primal— a hangover, a remnant, from the days when the magic controlled the fae, not the other way around. Those days were gone, but the festivals, the ceremonies, remained. Nesta had always loved to dance, but this was something else entirely— she had excelled at ballet, at ballroom dances, all elegance and poise, choreographed steps and timely beats. This was… this was fae. This was what Nesta had expected when Feyre first crossed the wall, this was the world she’d expected to find when she tried to follow.

Her other hand was taken by a long-haired woman, and suddenly there was a chain of dancers, a ring of them, pulling Nesta - and Cassian - along, and if they noticed that neither them knew the steps, none of them breathed a word. There was shouting, and laughing, and singing, clapping along to the music, and Nesta threw her head back, letting it wash over her. This was different to the way she’d danced at Helion’s palace, but it made her feel no less free, no less alive. Cassian hauled her back against his chest when the chain was broken, his hand breaking free of hers to snake around her hips, holding her close as the rhythm moved through both of them. Hers— he was hers, the hands at her hips and the lips whispering in her ear— all hers, and as the Autumn fae danced, Nesta clung to Cassian, gripped his hand as the world began to tilt, to spin. The beat was faster, the drums louder, chaotic, as the dancing descended into madness, and for the first time, Nesta couldn’t keep up, could feel it all getting away from her. Cassian was warm against her, his touch burning her skin, and when Nesta took a breath this time, it wasn’t enough to fill her lungs. Her head spun, the heat rising, and she was about to step away, about to ask Cassian for a moment to breathe, but another hand was touching her arm, pulling her away from Cassian’s embrace, from the safety of his arms—

An entirely unfamiliar grip encircled her wrist, pulling her forwards a single step. Nesta stopped hearing the music, stopped following the beat, and suddenly it was too loud, the host of musicians and instruments not harmonising, not anymore, but clashing, like nails on a blackboard. Cassian hissed, an animalistic, fae, growl rumbling in his chest. When Nesta blinked, she found a tall, dark haired Autumn fae with eyes like the sky at midnight looking down at her. His lips were curved into a smile, and he was handsome, in the way that all fae were generally handsome, but there was something about him that unnerved her, unsettled her, something she couldn’t quite place. Something about him set her on edge, something she recognised— not him, she’d never seen him before in her life, but something about him was darkly familiar. His people had fire in their blood, but his eyes were cold— cold and unforgiving, his smile charming but ruthless. He set her on edge, this handsome Autumn fae, made her blood chill.

It was a missed beat, a note just slightly off key. It was a shiver on the back of her neck, the world tilting slightly on its axis, just a little off kilter, a feeling of wrongness, jarring and unsettling and disconcerting—

“Don’t leave yet,” he said, his voice smooth. “I want a dance with you first.”

Nesta shook her head— wrong, it was wrong the way his hand gripped her wrist, nothing at all like the way Cassian had pinned it to the mattress just that morning. His fingers were tight around her, and Nesta heard Cassian growl again, felt him tense behind her. He didn’t let go of her, kept her tethered to him by an arm about her waist, as much a possessive touch as the way he’d touched her in Summer, when Rhys found them in that alley— but this time, thistime was different, because Nesta wasn’t thinking straight, could barely breathe, and she felt like little more than a toy caught between two warring children.

Some small part of her knew that wasn’t fair— knew that if Cassian let go, she’d be furious, but the wine was making her dizzy, and something about this fae was making her… panic.

“Get your hand off me, or you’ll lose it,” she managed to bite out through lips that were on the verge of trembling. She felt Cassian huff his agreement behind her. He had stepped closer, until his chest was flush with her back, his hand at her hip.

“I reckon I could take him,” the fae said, curling his lips as he glanced up at Cassian, at the form he could see that was in no way accurate. Cassian - Nesta’s Cassian, the real Cassian - smiled darkly, a black sort of humour settling over his features.

“You couldn’t,” he said evenly, lethally calm, “but I don’t think she was talking about me. If you don’t take your hand off of her, she’ll be the one to snap each and every one of your fingers, not me. So— fuck off.”

“I can’t ask a pretty lady to dance?”

Cassian snorted. “Not this lady, no. Not unless she asked, and I don’t think she did. Did you, Nes?”

Nesta shook her head, fighting a wave of nausea. “No.”

Cassian grinned, wolfish and vicious. “As I thought. So fuck off.” He paused, eyes flicking to the hand that was still there, unbidden and unwanted, making her skin cold. “I won’t tell you again,” he added, his voice dropping several octaves. A growl rumbled in his throat, in his chest, as stone-cold fury radiated from him— radiated down the bond Nesta hadn’t accepted.

The siphons only she could see flared, and she didn’t know what the Autumn fae could see, what Cassian looked like to him. She knew only that the man she’d seen on battlefields was standing before her now, the one prepared to bring fire and brimstone raining down on anyone in his way. A flicker of unease ran through her— not at Cassian, not exactly, but at the way the Autumn fae kept his hand on her wrist—

Spiteful whore— Tomas— it was Tomas’ voice she heard, as the Autumn fae spoke, as Cassian argued. She’d been here before, done this before— Tomas had spat at her as she’d ran from him, cursing her name, swearing he’d blacken her reputation until no man in a hundred miles would have her. His hand had left bruises around her wrist, like manacles, and with the way the Autumn fae kept hold of her, his fingers tight around her, she felt it all over again— he would be all charm and flirtation until he didn’t get what he wanted. The dark hair, the easy gait and the arrogance, the entitlement— it was all too familiar, far too familiar, and Nesta suddenly found it difficult to breathe, even out in the open. Cassian frowned as his gaze swept over her, letting a little bit of the glamour drop— she couldn’t see it, but she could feel it, could feel the thrum of his power in the air. The Autumn fae dropped his hand at last, and though Nesta ought to have been relieved, though she should have been glad, ice swept through her veins.

Cassian’s teeth were bared, his eyes dark and promising violence, and maybe she should have felt safe— he’d protect her, always, lay down his life if he had to— Maybe she should have been grateful, but she saw Tomas in the Autumn fae, and when she saw Cassian snarl, saw his fist clench and his siphons burn—

She’d started to think the lands above the wall were different, but the man who stumbled away from them now was just like Tomas, just as much of a beast. Cassian’s teeth had been inches from his throat, a rage settling over him that made Nesta blanch. Her head started to spin. It was the wine. It had to be. Her head was swimming, vision blurring at the edges, everything happening too quickly and too slowly all at once. Dizzy— she felt dizzy, as if the ground beneath her feet weren’t steady, as if she were one wrong step away from it giving way underneath her altogether. The Autumn breeze brushed her cheeks, but it didn’t cool her— she felt fevered, her blood pounding a relentless rhythm through her veins. Out, she needed out, but Cassian was glaring after the fleeing Autumn fae, and it scared her, panicked her—

And there it was, the absolute terror over the mating bond, come to claim her at last, because it was too much, and despite everything - despite Helion’s kindness and his promises, despite the wonders Cassian had showed her, despite the way he’d held her as she broke in a Day Court clockmakers - this land wasn’t hers. Cassian was hers— but how much of that was because of the Cauldron? How much would he still want her if he hadn’t, by chance, been bound to her already?

Unfair— she was being wildly unfair, her thoughts scattered and her mind racing, but Cassian’s anger had set off some reflex, some defensive instinct, that made her want to run.

No stars are falling from the skies tonight, Cassian had said— yet they were, everything was falling, the world around her melting away, fading at the edges. The stars were flickering, dimming, and Nesta’s head spun, raced, as she tried to catch her breath and found her lungs burning. She could hear Cassian’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words, as if he was speaking to her underwater. His hand brushed her cheek, sending her into freefall.

She turned, and darted for the nearest line of trees. The forest offered her a reprieve— salvation.

“Nesta,” Cassian’s voice was pained, agonised, as she turned her back on him, all but running for the forest.

She didn’t turn, even when she heard his footsteps behind her, following her. He was fast, catching up to her, and when his hand closed about her wrist, she tore it from his grip in the same way he’d done to her that day during the war. Sickness coiled within her as soon as she broke free from his hold— this was a relapse, a slide back into who she’d been— into who they’d been during the war, and Nesta couldn’t stand it, didn’t want it, needed him like she needed air—

It had been the way the Autumn fae had pushed, and pushed, and pushed, reminding Nesta that no matter what Cassian had showed her these past few days, despite all the wonders above the wall, this was still a land she should fear. He’d reminded her of Tomas, the way he’d pulled at her hand, the way he’d refused to take no for an answer. It had spooked her, unsettled her, and that— maybe she could have dealt with that. But it was the way Cassian had snarled too, the way he’d been suddenly, intensely, angry— the way he’d almost torn the Autumn court fae’s throat out.

It was too… fae. Too other. Too much of a stark reminder that no matter how much she loved him, how much she’d grown used to this land… it still scared the living shit out of her. She thought about how she’d glamoured herself that morning - how Cassian had said you’re fae now, Nes - and felt a sob climb up her throat— all the grief, all the heartache, all the longing for her human, mortal, life rose within her as she said another goodbye to one more piece of her humanity. She didn’t know how many pieces she could keep losing, how much of her would be left by the end.

“Nesta,” Cassian’s voice broke through the silence of the forest, and at the sound of his voice, her heart ached. Her footsteps slowed, and then stopped completely, coming to a standstill in a clearing lit by the watery light of the moon. Cassian approached her on sure, steady, feet, wrapping her in his arms and crushing her to his chest. “What are you doing? Don’t just take off like that—“

“Let me go,” she managed, her voice catching in her throat, panic rising in her chest. His hands fell away as soon as she’d said it, but confusion and hurt flitted across his face. “Please,” she said, something inside of her cracking right down the middle. “I can’t—“

Can’t what? Nesta covered her face with her hands, trying to steady her breathing. Can’t think straight because of this stupid faerie wine? Can’t look at you because when you’re so angry all I see is a male going after what he thinks is his, and I’ve been there before and I can’t do it again? Can’t have this argument right now because we’ll only end up hurting one another and I love you too much to let go?

“What?” Cassian said, eyebrows furrowing. “What set you off?” he asked, his voice gentle— too fucking gentle, and Nesta couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear that even now she was hurting him, even now couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Everything,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “The glamour, that Autumn fae, the wine, the way you—“ A gulp, a laboured breath. “It pushed me over the edge, the way you almost killed him for daring to touch me.”

“He didn’t just touch you,” Cassian argued incredulously. “He grabbed you. Am I supposed to stand back and let it—“

“No,” Nesta cried, clenching her fists so hard her knuckles started to ache. He was right, fucking hell, was he right, but— she’d panicked, fallen over a precipice, and there was nothing she could do now but keep falling until she hit the ground. “No, but it’s too much, Cassian. I can’t think— I can’t breathe, and he was so much like Tomas, and it scares me, because this land is so much like the one below the wall— I can’t do it again, I can’t be nothing but a possession—“

She was rambling— the wine, the fear, all of it making her incoherent, unable to string together a decent sentence. She should have stopped at two cups of wine, should never have drained her third— but it was fun, and light, and for once in her life, she’d wanted to laugh with the man she loved, wanted to drink and let go of everything—

Fear had always made Nesta reckless. It had made her threaten a fae king, made her sever his head, made her bite Tomas’ ear so hard she cut through flesh—

Made her pull away from Cassian’s touch, made her flinch away from him, even though it broke her heart clean in two.

“In what world would you ever be that to me?” Cassian took a step forward, his eyes searching hers, frantic. “What part of anything I’ve said hasn’t been clear? At what point did you think that I’m only here because of a fucking bond?”

Nesta shook her head, words failing her, the wine still making her head spin. She wanted to go home, but she wasn’t sure where that was anymore. Yesterday, she’d have said it was wherever Cassian was but now… he was looking at her like she was a stranger. Like this morning had never happened, like all the days since Solstice had been a fever dream.

“I can’t—“ Panic, panic coursed through her, stopping her lungs working as dread, pure dread, coated the inside of her veins. Cassian looked like he was about to fall to his knees. “It’s too much— too fast,” she managed, her voice brittle, breaking.

She had known about the bond for two days. Just two days, and she’d been too caught up with defending Cassian from Tarquin, too preoccupied with her sister and Rhys, too blinded by the thrill of stepping over the Autumn border, to let it sink in. Her heart felt like it was cracking, hurting, a physical ache that made her breathless. The word still spun, the ground beneath her shaky, and Nesta hated all of this— hated that it had to hit her now, when her mind was hazy and her tongue was too loose. She needed to breathe, needed a moment where she wasn’t Cassian’s mate, or Feyre’s sister, or part of the Night Court— she wanted to just be Nesta, to be the girl she had been before the Cauldron.

Suffocating beneath the weight of it all, Nesta looked at the ground, spying a single, wispy shadow curling around the base of a tree, slinking towards them. Cassian swore.

“It’s Az,” he said flatly. “Fucking shadows always know when something’s wrong.”

“Tell him to pick us up. I want to leave— I want to get out of here. I can’t stay.”

“And go where?” Cassian asked, his voice breaking. “Back to Velaris? Back to pretending we’re nothing— like none of this ever happened?”

Nesta shook her head, shutting her eyes tight as if it could make all of this go away. She hadn’t wanted an argument, but this had descend into one anyway. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but her sharp tongue had always been a defence mechanism— it had always been easier to make someone else bleed than face her own vulnerability, and tonight was no different. With the wine making her vision blur, making her head start to pound and her tongue far, far too loose… she should have said nothing, should have let him take her into his arms and forgotten all of it, but—

She shook her head again. “I thought I could do this. I thought the bond didn’t matter, because it’s you, it’s always been you, and I thought that it would be okay, that after this— after all of this, living above the wall wouldn’t seem so bad, exactly like you said in that healer’s tent after the war— but it’s too much, Cassian, and I can’t do it.”

Please, part of her begged. Please don’t do this— please, please, please don’t—

Cassian let out a choked sound, one that got caught in his throat as he stepped towards her, branches snapping under his feet. Nesta flinched— bones, it was bones snapping, not twigs, it was her father’s neck, it was Cassian’s wings, it was her own bones breaking inside the Cauldron—

He saw her flinch, saw her terror and her pain. With wide eyes and a broken countenance, Cassian stood before her, his world crumbling. “It scared you. I understand, but it’s who I am, Nesta. I can’t stop this— I can’t not act this way. It’s in my blood, it’s what it means to be fae.” His hand fisted, agonised, in his shirt above his heart, clutching at his chest. “It’s who I am,” he said again, quietly. “And it’s who you are, too.”

Please, he seemed to say. Please understand, and any other night, any other time, Nesta probably would. She wouldn’t be pushing him away, she’d be hauling him to her and kissing him until she couldn’t breathe— but she wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t, and so even as part of her screamed at her to stop, begged, pleaded, she raged on regardless, destroying everything in her wake.

“No,” Nesta breathed, agony piercing her gut. “No it’s not. It’s not what I am.” Her voice broke, and gods, she knew she hurt him— knew she’d cut too deep. He’d promised her that nothing she could say would be enough to make him bleed, but that wasn’t true, was it? Even as the words left her, Nesta regretted them, knew she was hurting the one person who meant the world to her. I love you, she wanted to say, I’m sorry, I love you, but the words wouldn’t come, her tongue tripping over them as her head continued to spin, as sorrow and regret coiled within her, curling up and settling in her bones.

“I know you, Nes,” Cassian breathed, his voice strained, aching, hurting, and it killed her— that she was the source of this pain, causing him this agony. “I know you’re scared—“

He reached for her, fingers skirting her hand, fingertips brushing against hers, and her soul seemed to lurch, to beg her to let him touch her, take her, hold her—

“Don’t,” Nesta gasped, the air knifing its way down her throat, cold and burning.

Cassian stood numbly, silent, his hazel eyes agonised. His fingers closed around thin air, and he left his hand there, extended, holding onto nothing. Slowly, as if in disbelief, he retracted it, frowning as he watched her pull so far away from him that there was no hope of him reaching her now. “Alright then,” he breathed, voice flat. “Get Az,” he muttered to the shadow by his feet.

Nesta closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself, wondering how on earth she could fix this— how to get back from this point. Cassian turned away, and Nesta’s heart splintered— she felt it, felt it snap as if it were a physical pain, and she wanted to scream. This was the wine, it was the wine making her spit those words, the fear of being grabbed by a man too much like Tomas Mandray making her push Cassian away, making her thrash and kick like a wounded animal. She knew she’d regret it. When the sun rose in the morning and she woke for the first time in days without Cassian’s steady weight beside her, she knew she’d regret it more bitterly than anything else she’d ever regretted in her life. But it was too late now— shadows were swirling and Azriel was stepping out a gap in the fabric of the world, his face grave and concerned, and she knew that he’d hate her, too. He’d only ever been kind to her, but now, she’d hurt Cassian, his best friend, and something inside her crumbled, her knees threatening to give way.

That morning she’d lay in the darkness and waited for it all to go wrong, and now— now it had. Catastrophically, soul-crushingly wrong, and as Azriel murmured something to Cassian, as Cassian looked back over his shoulder at her, anguish all over his beautiful features, Nesta felt hollow, as if her heart and soul had been carved out, pulled from her chest and cast aside. She wrapped her arms around herself, and waited for Azriel to take her home.

#nessian #nessian fic #angst #it actually hurt me to write this im so sorry #but its okay cause Azriel is about to fix it #knock their heads together and lock them away until they sort it #i just think nesta was always bound to freak out over the mating bond #but unlike in ACOSF Cassian doesnt scream at her in public

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