#tw: extensive scarring | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mooishbeam · 8 months

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『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity.

DING DING DING

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium.

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf.

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!”

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it.

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe.

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you.

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching:

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!”

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy”

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss.

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.”

“Then why is this happening?”

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice.

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily.

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life.

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest.

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect.

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished.

“Hm? Who’re you?”

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.”

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this.

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly.

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you.

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked.

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist.

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.”

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.”

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.”

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?”

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours.

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this.

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear.

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.”

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response.

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring.

“Wriothesley! Times up.” He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you.

“Two minutes.”

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe.

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest.

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line.

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads.

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette.

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand.

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.”

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you.

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand.

“No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy.

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.”

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.”

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him.

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze.

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips.

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips.

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction.

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl.

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence.

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head.

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair.

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone.

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle.

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant.

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face.

“Why are you being annoying-”

“Who were you talking to” he chides.

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.”

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.”

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel.

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word.

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners.

Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course.

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone.

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face.

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you.

He promised.

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address.

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again.

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly.

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse.

“What? I don’t know.” “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response.

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy.

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-”

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-”

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab.

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-”

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes.

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-”

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there.

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts.

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds.

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside.

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask.

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid.

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face.

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body.

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology.

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.

“So, um.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably.

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts.

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes.

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you.

“Sorry. For what I said.”

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit.

“You know I didn’t do it, right?”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.” you reassure.

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention.

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy.

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours.

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house.

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw.

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge.

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom.

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness.

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks.

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance.

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can.

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest.

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?” he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.”

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.”

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

#genshin smut #genshin au #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley headcanons #wriothesley #fontaine #genshin x reader #genshin impact

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helen-with-an-a · 2 months

Text

The Object that stood in the way of a World Cup pt. 3

Hi. So here is part 3 (again, this will have another part because I am determined to get it happy at the end; it's just taking me a while to get there ahahah). Big thanks to @lyak12 for helping me work out my issues with the fic <3

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5 : Epilogue

Ona Batlle x Reader

Flashbacks are in italics

TW: Injury, R ain't ok mentally, suggestiveness

Description: R comes home from Australia to start her recovery

Word Count: 3.6k

You had required three surgeries in total to fix everything – an emergency one to save your leg, one to place the screws and realign everything and one to reattach the ligaments in your knee. The damage the tackle had done was extensive; your shin was splintered into 3, some coming through the skin, and the force of the collision ruptured your ACL and meniscus ligament, too. No one dared show you the video, and you weren’t bothered to look it up. Even though you couldn’t remember what happened, you’d have the scars for life. You had asked what the timeline was for when you could get back on the pitch. One doctor had said it was an if not a when. You didn’t like that doctor. It would be a when – football was your lifeline, your escape when times were tough. You didn’t know how you would cope with it. Your physios at Barca had said that when … if … you were back on the pitch, your playing style would have to change. They had told you in broken English that you probably would never play the same and would have to rely on speed and technical ability rather than strength in matches. But that was ok; as long as you were on the pitch, you didn’t care how you had to play, just so long as you could.

You flew back to Barcelona a month after the World Cup. You wanted to be back earlier, but you hadn’t been cleared to fly and definitely hadn’t been cleared to fly halfway across the world. The medical staff in Australia were lovely – sneaking you extra desserts, cheering every milestone, no matter how small, braiding your hair, and helping apply your moisturiser when you were too tired to do it yourself. Your family had only seen you that first day. You didn’t mind – you didn’t particularly like when they were around anyway. It was always too loud with them. The bad kind of loud. The Lionesses were the good kind of loud. They had piled into your room, staying as long as possible. Georgia had left you with her Tamagotchi, making you promise her you’d try to keep it alive. Being suitably distracted by the mountain of sugary sweets piled on your bed by Hempo, much to the horror of Leah and Sarina, you missed the way Lucy eyed you wearily.

You considered Lucy a big sister, especially since moving to Barcelona. She had been concerned about you since you arrived. The happy, bubbly young woman she had come to care for deeply had retreated back into the quiet shell you had been when you first joined the senior squad. At first, she thought you were just nervous – she knew how scary it could be to be in a new city without many friends. But after a while, she knew it was something more sinister. She barely saw you outside of football; you were always making excuses to avoid team bonding or insisting you needed to stay late to work on things. Things you already excelled at. She grasped just how badly something was wrong with the first international camp of the new year. She thought you would return back to your old ways, finally being around your old friends and not having to navigate another language. But that wasn’t the case; if anything, you grew even quieter – especially around Alessia and Ella. That concerned her the most – you were closer than family to those two. They could always be relied on to drag a smile out of you. So, she kept an eye on you. Quietly observing your behaviour.

Whilst you hated that you weren’t back in Barcelona as quickly as you wanted to be, you were glad you didn’t have to see Ona again so quickly. That night was the last time you had seen her. You hadn’t said anything as she took a seat across from you. She hadn’t said anything as you started to drift into an uncomfortable slumber. Only when she was sure you were in a deep sleep did she break her silence.

“Mai podré dir-te com ho sento,” she whispered. “Sempre t'estimaré. Espero que algun dia em permetis estimar-te de la manera que et mereixes.”

“Oni, I can’t speak Catalan, remember? You’re going to have to repeat that in English.” You laughed as she chattered away. It was an off-day and oddly warm in Manchester. You lay with your head in her lap, top tucked up into your bra, exposing as much skin as possible in an effort to soak up the summer sun.

“Sorry, amor. I’m just happy it’s finally warm here. It reminds me of home a little bit.” She carded her fingers through your hair as you snuggled your face into her stomach.

“Tell me about it?” You asked gently. You loved hearing the stories of her home, her childhood, her life back in Spain.

“There’s this little cafetería back home. It sells the best Crema Catalana ever. I don’t know what they do, but, mmmm ... es tan delicioso. It’s even better than my Mamí’s. It’s so pretty too. It’s got this really cool tiled pattern flooring and vines on the wall at the front. During the summer, they open all the doors and play music and …” You could listen to Ona talk all day; the excitement when she mentions her home is unparalleled. You could feel yourself drifting into sleep – the warm weather, her gentle fingers scratching at your scalp, her intoxicating smell that wrapped around you like a soft hug.

“Mmmm,” you hummed happily. "It sounds fantastic. I wish I could visit,” you commented.

“You shall. I’ll take you. You’ll come to see my home, we’ll do all the touristy things in Barcelona, and then I’ll show you all the local spots in Vilassar de Mar, prometo,” She vowed.

“Good. I …” you cut yourself off with a yawn, “I don’t want to see Barcelona without you.” Your eyes fluttered gently.

“You won’t. I won’t let you. You’re stuck with me for life, amor.” You smiled softly at her words. You liked the sound of being with Ona for life. “Ve a dormir, amor. I’ll be here when you wake up.” You nodded and allowed yourself to slip into a gentle dream.

Arriving home, it was easier to avoid Ona than you thought. You were still on strict instructions to rest. Alexia had tried to force you to stay with her. When that failed, Lucy had tried. You liked your space. You liked your private time. You felt like you could never fully relax around people … except for around Ona - that voice in your head reminded you. No! You couldn’t allow that voice to win. You had a recovery to think of now. You had compromised a little bit, though. You lived in the same building as Ingrid and Mapi, so you gave them permission to get a spare key cut. This allowed you to have people constantly checking on you without feeling like a burden on them. Alexia wanted a key for herself, but she lived on the other side of town, and you didn’t like dragging her so far from her usual daily routine.

To be honest, you were unsure if you wanted to see Ona. Alessia had quietly told you that you wouldn’t calm down on the pitch until Ona held you. In the extra month you were in Australia, you had come to terms with the fact you were still in love with her. You had tried to deny it when you initially came to Spain. But now it was just a fact you had to live with. That night in the hospital was so incredibly awkward … strange … nice. She had stood in a training top you were fairly sure was yours once upon a time, head hung low as she picked at her nails. You wanted to bat her hands away, to tell her to stop, but she had sat too far and out of your reach.

“I’m telling you, Y/N, something’s wrong with Ona”, Hayley whispered to you in the bathroom. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but she won’t stop picking at her nails; she’s really quiet. Something’s not right. I think something may have happened during the break.” You sighed deeply. You also think something may have occurred whilst she was in Spain. You had picked her up from Manchester Airport, and you could tell instantly something wasn’t right. 3 of her fingers were wrapped in plasters, and the others looked just as sore. When you extended your arms out to hug her, she looked a little apprehensive but stepped into your embrace anyway. No matter how much you wanted to keep her in your arms, you stepped away after a few short seconds. You had never seen her so tired, so different, so … you weren’t quite sure what had happened. You kissed her forehead gently as you ushered her to the car.

It didn’t take long for you to find Ona – she was sitting in your cubby after all. Despite your concern, your heart couldn’t help but flutter as you recognised your number on the hoodie she was wearing.

“Me gustas en mi ropa,” You said as you crouched in front of her, hands resting gently on her knee. She didn’t smirk like she usually would. She didn’t react when you started tracing gentle shapes on her bare legs. She just kept picking at her nails. “Oni… lo que le pasó?” You asked in the gentlest tone imaginable. She just shook her head, wiping a stray tear away. “No … hey, hey, hey, no. Oni. Mi niña hermosa. Don’t cry.” You surged forward. “Please don’t cry.” You didn’t know how to comfort her. You had seen her angry, you had seen her scared, you had seen her frustrated. But you had never seen her cry before.

You had eventually coaxed her into going home. You had waited until everyone had left—Hayley hurrying people along to let you deal with the situation. The force with which she gripped your hand left a sour taste in your mouth. You had kept your hand in hers the whole journey home and into your flat. You led her to the sofa as you lay down, pulling her on top of you.

“Now …” You started, “I’m not going to make you talk to me. But I can tell something happened when you were in Spain. I want you to tell me, but I’m not going to force you. Whatever you want to share that’s entirely up to you. But please, Oni … I’m not going to judge you, or laugh at you, or hurt you for telling me anything. Un problema compartido es un problema dividido, right?” You whispered as your fingers slipped under her jumper.

It took a while, but eventually, she told you. You held her as she cried over the conditions in the Spanish camp. You held her as she recounted the story of her being forced from her bed at 5 in the morning for a run and not being allowed to stop until she threw up or passed out. You held her as she ranted about how mean the coaching staff were to Pina, and when she had stepped in to intervene, she had it twice as bad. You held her as she eventually slipped into a fitful reprieve from the nightmare she had just returned from.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake Ona’s voice from your head telling you, you weren’t could enough for Barca. If she thought that before your injury, what would she think about you now? You were looking at a year off the pitch, at least, let alone having to train in a new style and learn a new way of playing that could have you set back even further. It echoed in your mind before behind, when you looked at yourself in the mirror, when you were with the team as they tried to help you feel better.

Most days looked similar for you in the first month you returned. You were still in a cast and brace, so you couldn’t do much. The doctors - and Alexia - had told you how important it was to establish and stick to a routine. So, you did. You woke up at 8.30 every morning. There was training – you obviously couldn’t go, but since all your friends had that schedule to stick to, so did you. You would go into the bathroom and have a really awkward shower; more often than not, you would flood the bathroom, then get ready for the day. Lucy told you that you needed to change out of your pyjamas every day, so you slipped on loose shorts and a shirt – your ‘day pyjamas’ you had christened. You had breakfast with Ingrid and Mapi before they left for training, and then you sat on the couch. All day. With your mind slowly descending into chaos over everything that had happened. And then you would hear the conversations from outside that told you some of the girls were coming round to see you, and you plastered a smile on your face as you asked them about their day, and they would ask you about yours. On non-training days, you granted yourself a lie-in. Keira and Lucy would come by with pastries from the bakery down the round and fresh fruit for you to snack on. You would sometimes have a Lioness Facetime if everyone’s schedules allowed.

You had yet to go to a match or the training facility, watch a game on TV, or even just play Fifa. But that would come with time; you would have to go eventually because that was where the physios and trainers were. People thought you were reluctant to go because of what had happened. Which you were … a little bit. The main reason that made you nervous about going was Ona. A picture of her on your timeline had sent you into a spiral for a good few hours. You were scared of what seeing her in person would do.

You had seen the picture of her in the Champions League promotion. And she looked so good. You had stared for far too long at her beautiful smile that still took your breath away, her chiselled jawline that you used to pepper kisses across when you cuddled up against her, her veiny arms that had made you feel so safe and loved, her messy bun that you had jokingly begged her to teach you how to do, her freckled cheeks that would sport a soft pink hue every time you complimented her, the dimples you would poke at when she was trying to be angry at you but failing miserably.

“Great game today girls, you played fantastically. And well done to Ona.” You were standing next to her in the post-match huddle, she shyly groaned as her achievements were recognised in front of everyone.

“Mi Oni’s got her name on the score sheet,” You sang out as you walked back down the tunnel, arms wrapping around her waist. “We need to celebrate.” A round of cheers from everyone echoed the sentiment. Just as you were about to separate to go shower, you felt Ona squeeze you gently. “Hm?” You asked, scanning her features for discomfort.

“Could we do something … just us tonight?” As much as she loved the girls, she wanted a night with you. Alone. She looked so adorable as she quietly mumbled her desires to you.

“Absolutely we can,” your smile reassured her. You pressed your hands against her cheeks quickly before turning to head to the showers.

You didn’t even bother with an excuse when you messaged Lessi and Tooney.

Y/N: Sorry not coming tonight - other plans x

Tooney: Rude

Tooney: Do these other plans involve a Spanish defender???

Y/N: Maybe x

Y/N: She wanted to do something just us

Lessi: I want details! x

Y/N: Nothing’s going to happen

Y/N: U know we r just friends

Tooney: And I’m just friends with Joe :p

Y/N: Its just a MOVIE NIGHT x

Lessi: If u say so x

Tooney: stay safe x

Y/N: ffs and I do say so.

Y/N: text me when ur both home pls x

Lessi: Will do x

Your other plans involved very little deviation from your regular nights. She had cooked for you like always, serving up a delicious paella that had you begging her for cooking lessons. Over dinner, you relived her goal from your perspective and forced her to tell you what she was thinking when she sent it into the back of the net.

“Now that you’ve started scoring, you won’t stop. I’m telling you.” She had laughed at your promise. “I’m being serious here. We need to come up with a celebration for you.” She just hummed and kissed the top of your head as she gathered the plates and took them to the sink.

Later, you were lying on the sofa watching a Spanish movie she insisted on, telling you how it was a part of her childhood and she needed to share it with you. You weren’t paying any attention. You were far too distracted by her fingers running up your spine. It was driving you mad in the best way possible. Your ear was pressed against her chest, her heartbeat comforting and peaceful as you burrowed yourself deeper into her.

“Estás bien?” Ona asked, your movements catching her attention.

“Yeah.” You responded. “I’m really proud of you, you know that, right?” You shifted again, this time drawing yourself up to cage her in with your arms. The blush reappeared on her cheeks as you stared intently at her. God, she was so beautiful. “And I’m really happy you came to Manchester. You make everything better.” You told her honestly. She was getting overwhelmed. You could see that as she avoided your gaze. You gently poked the place where a dimple appeared when she smiled. “Oni …” you waited until she looked back at you. “Puedo besarte?” You said as you stared at her lips.

“Sí.” This wasn’t your first kiss, drunk or sober. But this time felt different. You couldn’t explain it. Her soft lips parted as you licked the seam of her mouth.

You continued to make out lazily on the sofa before Ona broke away for some much-needed air. You didn’t care, though. Your lips just moved to her neck – you were careful not to leave any marks, no matter how much you wanted to decorate the pale skin with dark splotches that claimed her as yours. She whimpered and whined underneath you until she was begging for more.

“Por favour. Do something. Anything. Necesito más,” she implored, hands tangling in your hair as you pulled away.

“Relajarse. Let me take care of you.” You sighed into her skin.

You're just a quick fuck. Easy. Nothing more to me. Her wicked words bounced around in your head. God, she had really ruined you. That was the first night you allowed yourself to truly feel everything, every emotion you had suppressed and bottled up for the last 9 months. It was painful. Raw. Terrifying.

At first, you were angry — so, so angry. Pure, unadulterated rage bubbled up and over the top of your carefully constructed walls. You threw a vase. It shattered into pieces like your heart had done all those months ago. It was satisfying, but you wanted more. You needed more. You ripped apart a cushion someone gave you as a housewarming present. You screamed and raged and shouted your emotions.

Then you cried. It started as a few lone drops that quickly became a torrent of unstoppable, hot tears. The sobbing hurt. It was painful and gut-wrenching. You had never cried like this before, and that scared you. These were the tears of someone heartbroken, and desperate. You cried so hard you thought you were about to throw up.

When you came to your senses, you were standing in the middle of the living room – how you got there was beyond you – feathers lightly floating around you, the wall had a slight dent, and someone was knocking frantically on your door. You didn’t move. If it was Ingrid or Mapi, they had a key. If it was Lucy or Alexia, they knew where to find the spare set. If it was anyone else, you didn’t want to see them.

Strong yet gentle arms pulled you to a warm body. The scent that engulfed you was soft and sweet. Alexia.

“Está bien, cariño. Let’s get you to bed, sí?” She was too gentle. Alexia didn’t do this kind of comfort. She offered practical solutions, honesty, and tough love.

“I… I’m scared,” You admitted as she helped you twist into bed.

“I know recovery can be scary, pequeña, but you will do it. It will be hard. But you can do it. Te lo prometo, puedes hacerlo. Everyone is going to help you. You can lean on us. We're here for you, bebita.” She was misunderstanding what you were referencing. You weren’t scared of recovery. You were physically healing well. A physio had been sent to your house from Barcelona to assess you at home to see whether you could start your rehabilitation at the club. She had asked you questions, and you had given the right answers. Your scars were healing well, and you had the expected range of motion for your injuries. Physically, you were right on track.

You were scared of your own mind. In the month you had been home alone, you had thought hard about anything. Ona had really broken you, yet you couldn’t let her go. What did that say about you? You had always thought you were stronger than that. You used to never understand what it was like when people would go back to an ex-partner who had broken their heart. Ona was never even officially yours, and she had managed to do so much damage.

This is becoming a lot more intense than I had planned ahahah. Hopefully, the next part will be out soon.

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso soccer #barca femeni x reader #barca femeni #fc barcelona #manchester united #man utd #man utd women #alexia putellas #lionesses #lionesses x reader #woso fanfics

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luveline · 11 months

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I have a potential request for the eddie zombie!AU! could I request eddie taking shy!reader under his wing as he is traveling? maybe she is injured and is like 100% sure she’s going to die but then eddie comes along like a knight and helps her to safety, and then they just stick together?

thank you for your request angel! —eddie finds you wounded in the midst of the apocalypse and wants to help, 2.5k, fem!reader. tw for zombie apocalypse typical circumstance, blood and injury

Eddie is absolutely sick of being alone. He imagined the apocalypse cooler than it turned out to be —there aren't that many people around anymore and he's constantly a bit hungry, and having long hair is now the norm. He hasn't seen a real living human being in three weeks and he's starting to wonder (worry) if he's the last man on Earth.

That is, until he sees blood on the sidewalk outside of a pizza place. He'd been planning on going inside just to smell the floury scent of pizza dough, and maybe pretend to answer the phone (he never worked as a delivery guy, but he thinks it might've been his calling). Blood is everywhere in the apocalypse. Genuinely everywhere, and it smells bad when it's old, vinegary and acrid. There's blood on car doors, bloody handprints on windows, pools of it where people died and then their bodies, reanimated and without control, stood and walked off again.

So Eddie's gotten good at blood. He knows old blood from new blood when he sees it, dead blood from alive blood, and the blood trail leading behind the smashed glass door of the pizza place is both new and alive. Or, probably alive. Was alive. He nudges it with his shoe, and it's still wet, not even slightly clotted.

Definitely alive.

Eddie doesn't really think about how whoever it is that's inside could murder him in cold blood for his gear. Eddie's sort of stacked —he has a bike, a proper one like a professional doing the Tour De French, or whatever, he doesn't remember what it's called, would need. The point is that he has a really sturdy bike and a wagon strapped behind it full of camping shit, and the world is so desolate that nobody's tried to shank him for it yet. He leaves his bike by the door and tries to open the door slowly, not wanting to startle whoever it is that's bleeding that badly into hiding from him and his extensive first aid kit.

Eddie pulls it to his chest and steps carefully over a path of broken glass.

"Hey," he calls out. He clears his throat. "Is someone here? I– listen, I'm not here to hurt you, I saw the blood, and I have bandages and antiseptic and everything you need. Maybe. Unless you got shot, I can't do stitches for shit, trust me." Trust the weird huge scar on his ankle.

"Listen," he continues, approaching the counter, peering behind it at a skyscraper of pizza boxes and a dust covered floor, "I know you have no reason to trust me, so I'm gonna go sit outside, and if you want to come out where I can't corner you, I'll help. I swear."

He follows the trail of blood to the cabinet under the ingredients counter. The door moves near imperceptibly.

He gives it a second, and then Eddie turns to leave.

"Wait," says a girl's voice, muffled and weak, "wait, please."

Eddie waits, spinning on his heel to watch as you push open the cabinet door.

He's surprised at the cleanliness of your top half until he realises the bottom of you might as well have been dipped in an exploded blood bank.

"Oh, shit," he says, rushing forward.

You flinch back and he follows on unperturbed, even when you throw your hands up to cover your face.

"I'm not gonna do anything," he promises, panicked, "where are you bleeding? You'll have to show me." He makes sure you can see his lack of weapons and his huge green first aid kit.

"It's my side," you say, and as soon as you speak you start to cry, little shuddering huffs of pain escaping you as Eddie kneels at your side. "I– I– I tried to climb over a fence, and I got caught on the barbed wire, I didn't– I don't–"

He shushes you with as much gentleness as he possesses and pulls up your shirt. It's your hip, not your side, and the cut is a frankly gruesome laceration into the fat. Eddie's going to have to sew you up after all.

He knows what he should do even if he's only done it once before, finding your blood covered hand on instinct and squeezing it. "It's okay," he says, not knowing if it will be, "I can fix it. I have everything, okay? Can I fix it?"

"Please," you whimper.

He doesn't need any pleading. He clicks open the first aid kit and looks first for gauze, pressing it to your side even as blood pools wet and shiny on the floor beneath you. You're in agony, clearly, twisting away from his touch.

"Please stay still," he says, firm but kind. "It'll hurt more the more you move. I have painkillers, and I'll give you some right now. Right now, okay? Stay still."

You shriek as he presses down on your hip but you don't move. He hates having hooked a sound like that from you —Eddie's not a violent person, even if he's rough around the edges— and he rushes to correct it. He swaps the soaked gauze for a second, pressing down hard again, and remembers with a white hot panic that he didn't disinfect his hands.

It's rough going. He finds the painkillers, you take them dry. He has the urge to touch your cheek because you're in so much pain, and the blood has somehow ended up on your face like a crimson tear. Eddie disinfects his hand and your hip, which still hurts wildly untouched by the painkillers, and opens a sterile packaging of needle and medical thread. His hands shake as he ties the thread with tweezers. It's imperative he doesn't touch the needle, even if he did disinfect his hands, because it will end up deep in your skin.

By the time he's ready to start the stitches you're crying and not speaking, a hand pressed to your mouth. "I don't know how much the painkillers have worked, and I don't think they'll stop this from hurting, but I think I have to stitch it before you lose too much blood. Is that okay? Can I start?" he asks.

You nod hurriedly. "Just– Don't– Just ignore me if I ask you to stop," you say weakly.

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood as strongly as he smells it.

He stitches your wound closed. It's a jagged wound shaped like an italicised 'y', and he does it as carefully as he can manage, even if the amount of blood pouring from it scares him. He doesn't want to do it wrong and have the stitches rip, or cause more pain than they need too.

He never wants to hear someone make the sounds you make ever again. When he tells you it's alright, that you don't have to bite them back, you start to sob with each string he tugs. He can't imagine how fiery the pain is.

When it's done, he disinfects your hip again generously. He must not do a bad job at stitching you up, because while the wound weeps blood into the disinfectant like dye seeping into fabric, it's ten times slower. You look down at your hip, hiccup, and look away. There's blood everywhere, so Eddie pulls you by the underarms across the floor and sits you up. You're still crying, sobbing, but you don't say anything. Eddie wipes away as much blood as he can. Then he covers your newly stitched wound with a fresh, thick square of gauze and tapes it. Finally, he wraps bandages around your waist to keep everything in place, and to apply pressure to the wound.

He looks at your clammy face with a mixture of pity and newfound pride. He doesn't know who you are, but you did a damn good job.

"Well done," he says, rubbing the lengths of your arms quickly, like a hug without closing in on you. "You did awesome. I'm gonna run outside to get my stuff, I have a shirt that should fit you, and some pants. Water, food. I have whatever you need."

"A tranquilliser?" you ask.

"Maybe not one of those."

Eddie retrieves his bike and his wagon, carting them into the kitchen, through your blood trail, and into the staff room behind you. It's snug but there's a couch, and that's all that matters. He shoves the bike aside and runs back to your side, crouching. You look like you're gonna pass out.

"Hey," he says, "can I lift you up?"

"It's gonna hurt," you say.

"Yeah, but there's a couch in there, and a door that locks, I don't want us to get attacked while we can't move."

"Are you going to attack me?" you ask, looking like you want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

He shakes his head quickly. "No. I promise."

A promise from someone you don't know isn't worth much, but you take it, and Eddie helps you up and into the staff room. Your crying wanes. Maybe the painkillers are working, or maybe you've run out of steam. Acclimatised to the pain.

Eddie stops before he gets to the couch. "No funny business, I'm gonna take off your pants."

"It's okay, whatever," you gasp out. "Sit me down."

Eddie unbuttons your jeans and you kick them off the best that you can. Your legs are streaked with blood too, but at least you can sit down without absolutely ruining the couch you'll be sleeping on for the next few days. Eddie locks the door, grabs the clothes shears, and cuts off your top. You really do look at him then, your eyes wide with fear, and he backs away from you with his hands up.

"Sorry," he says, "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to scare you. You've been holding your elbow, I thought maybe you hurt that too, didn't want you to lift your arm."

Your fear ebbs with his explanation. He grabs clothes from his wagon, ears piqued when you speak up. "I think I've broken it."

"Your arm?" he asks. That's an entirely different problem. It could be painful for the rest of your life.

"My elbow. It's swollen."

"I'll give you more painkillers," he says assuringly.

He grabs the shirt that looks like it'll fit you and a pair of pants that will be too big. He doesn't know why he has all this stuff that doesn't fit him, he kinda thought they were cool. And who could abandon a Dio t-shirt when no one will ever make one ever again?

"Do you need help?" he asks.

You sigh regretfully. "I don't think I really have a choice."

"You do. We could throw a blanket over you? Two blankets, even."

"Please help me put on the t-shirt," you say.

He doesn't resent you at all for sounding untrusting, even if he did potentially save your life a few minutes ago. People are cruel and will do the worst thing they can do to another person if they want to. He helps you into the t-shirt. You flinch when you straighten out your arm, but it goes on well. Next he helps you into the cargo pants that are luckily a starchy but flexible cotton. You wince as they reach your hip. He lets them lie low.

He makes sure there's a pillow behind your head, laying his favourite blanket over you and tucking you in amicably.

Pulling his hair out of his face, Eddie laments how sweaty he is and eyes the wagon for what best to feed you with. You're probably nauseous from pain, so while he'd love to feed you hearty oxtail soup or a can of meatballs that promise protein, he grabs a box of crackers, a tin of vegetable soup that he knows from experience is watery and sad, and his big flask of water.

He sits down a half a foot from you on the couch.

"Here," Eddie says, opening the crackers. "You should eat something, please. And drink some water, too."

You accept everything silently, though after a few morose chews of saltine you murmur, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Really welcome."

"You didn't have to help me," you say, shivering with pain still but looking less like you’re going to pass out now you’ve stopped bleeding profusely.

He looks down at his hands, blood in the grooves of his palms, and shrugs. "Yeah, I did."

"Most people wouldn't, though."

"I don't think there's a precedent for what people do anymore. You're the first person I've seen in weeks."

"You're lucky."

"Yeah?" He tucks his hair behind his shoulder. "I guess I am."

You eat another cracker, and then you stick out your hand very tentatively. "I'm Y/N. Thank you for saving me."

He shakes your hand with the same tentativeness.

"I'm Eddie," he says with a smile. "You're welcome."

"I thought I was gonna die in the cabinet," you say, rubbing your eyes, "like a sick dog. I just wanted to be alone while it happened."

It's a very solemn thing to admit to, and in the quiet of the room, your face and hands dull with blood, it's macabre.

"Sorry I didn't let you die," he says, trying not to laugh in shock.

You visibly fluster, your embarrassment held tightly in the set of your shoulders and your frenetic hand as you rub your collar. "I didn't want to die. I don't want to."

"Then you won't," Eddie says, knowing it's not that simple, but needing to persuade the agony from your face.

You look down at your lap. Eddie searches for something to offer, something he can give now that you're lucid enough to know you were in the shit. It's terrifying business, knowing you could've died.

"I have a bottle of Black Coconut rum if you're interested. I thought it might come in handy lighting fires, but I think you could use it," Eddie offers.

"Yes," you say, your voice small. "I think so too."

"If we had some pineapple juice, I would love to make you a Piña Colada. Now that would cheer you up."

"Rum is fine, please."

Eddie doesn't let you suffer. He gets up to grab the rum and passes it to you. You drink it in surprisingly eager glugs, rum running down your neck in shiny rivulets like shooting stars plummeting through a vermillion sky. He needs to help you clean the blood from your throat and face before it dries.

You shudder and pass the rum bottle back to him, looking sicker than sick. "That wasn't bad," you say, eyes squeezed closed. You sound like you've been punched.

Eddie hoots a laugh. He really missed having good company.

—

thank you for reading! reblogs are appreciated, and if you have a request for this au let me know, I’d love to write more of their story!! <3

#eddie zombie!au with shy reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 4 months

Text

Yves (yandere oc)

Tw: stalking, infantilization, obsessive behavior, reader cheating on yves hypothetically, gore

enjouy

Yves is a man who knows how to take care of himself well. Adorning expensive scents, maintaining his hygiene, and diligently attending his regular self-pampering saloon, manicure, and facial treatments. His skin is porcelain, supple, and free of any imperfections. His hair is full, lush, shiny, pitch-dark; soft, and smooth.

He is a man who values the importance of physical fitness, strength, and the sculpting of the body, daily exercise in his modest yet sophisticated home gym is a must. Though he also understands the essence of moderation in training, he has a towering stature with a lean, muscular frame; no one in the right state of mind would ever call him frail or weak. But no one would accuse him of taking performance-enhancing drugs either.

His fashion and mannerisms exude class and elegance. His aesthetic and tastes are nothing to scoff at, very few could meet his standards. Even if they could, it would be close to improbability to keep up.

He presents his best image of himself to the world every day without missing a beat. There is no such thing as 'sloppy' in his vocabulary. All things are done with such precision and care, his rouge immaculately lining his sultry lips. A dusting of bronze eyeshadow accentuated his emerald irises and sensual yet steely, calculating gaze. Clad in quality clothes that usually cover him from the neck down, he moves fluidly with them with such grace; as if it was his second skin. Yves dislikes having anything loud and overwhelming on him, his palettes are of black, white, greys, and neutrals. He does not like to stand out. But he will; in a room filled with commoners. As he seems ethereal.

His money matches his spoiled lifestyle. It is unknown what he does for a living, but what he brings in a night, is more than what a normal, middle-class worker earns in a decade. Yves prefers not to discuss about his line of work, however, all you need to know is that he works remotely; and his hours are extremely flexible. There are times, rare, but possible, that he has to physically travel to someplace. He would be away for days and come back as pristine as ever. However, to the trained eye, he comes back exhausted, irritated, and freshly scarred. Perhaps that is why he loves to conceal. He does it so well.

He loves so obsessively, so consumingly; and he hides it well. Yves notices each and every minute detail about you. From the number of breaths you take when you're calm versus in an agitated state, to the fidgeting between your index finger and thumb behind your back. All of it means something, and goodness, does it help to accurately predict your next move.

Without a doubt, he knows you more than anyone. Even yourself. You don't come even close to the knowledge he gathered on you. He would know what you're feeling before you even realize it. The body works faster than the brain, and the mind gives up before the body, as they say. He observes and appreciates what no one sees or deems important. You are under his constant scrutiny with or without your awareness. Yves knows what you like, he knows what you hate. He knows what you will like; he knows what you will hate; and he is never wrong. Not ever.

Drives upon digital drives of data are stored within his office, graphical statistics, images, annotations, hypotheses, diagrams, conclusions, and many more, of one study subject: You. Not all of them were stored in hardware. Yves has a library, bookshelves upon bookshelves of research-level papers in monstrously thick paper binders with him the sole author. There is a section where his information vault is full of academic papers related to you and your behavior, where he could appropriately draw conclusions and compare his findings with others.

His collection spanned over years, decades, even. He studies you intensively and he enjoys it. He reviews the extensive hoard of dossiers on you to keep his mind sharp, and memory fresh. All while you go on living your life normally, without suspecting something is awry. Everything you do is data. Precious data.

Yves knows what you want at any given moment and your words or awareness aren't necessary.

He orchestrated the ideal meeting sequence. Whether that be a meet-cute at the local cafe, a charming first encounter by picking your fallen papers after you 'accidentally' crashed into him, a flirty exchange that escalated into something more at a lonely bar, having his attractive dating profile appear on your monitor screen, being paired up as a classmate or colleague for a project, being your saving grace from an abusive home or partner, being your "blind" date your friend set you up with, as the religious, alluring man that takes your attention away from the lord at churches, the man who offered his umbrella when you're stuck in the rain, maybe even just starting off with innocent small talk in the elevator that leads to months of brief chatter, but no progress; all of it has one common denominator: it is specially tailored for you and no one else.

And you will inevitably fall for him. Yves knows you but you don't know him. He knows what gets you excited, flustered, giddy, and hot under the collar. Most importantly: he is patient. Like a predator stalking its' prey, his patience knows no bounds. He will not slip up and make a silly mistake because he wants you so badly. He absolutely does, but he is a man of discipline. Yves achieved full control over himself, and that is what made him so menacing. No human has ever done so except him.

Perhaps, you might be suspicious of him. You're pleasantly surprised when he dims the lights that have been irritating you for a while without you saying anything. Then, it happens again; Yves hands you a refreshing bottle of your favorite drink as you're starting to feel thirsty and lethargic. And again; he politely dismissed your friends when you're silently starting to feel sick of socially interacting with others. And again; You're cranky because you received an itchy or painful rash, maybe you live near stagnant water, and mosquitos are common. Yves would almost instantly relieve that by wordlessly applying a special ointment on your skin. He knows what to do.

And again; You're craving seafood, maybe. Then, tonight's date is at an exquisite restaurant that serves only the finest salmon, crabs, lobsters, and whatever else you might want. Lucky guess? And again; he toggles the control panel for the air conditioning unit to cool the room further. You then just realized you're starting to feel a bit too warm for comfort, but you haven't even broken a sweat yet, how did he know? This cannot be a coincidence.

It's delightful, not needing to ask. Not needing to demand or beg someone to make your life easier for you. Having a second 'you' doing the things necessary to keep you comfortable and happy. Having someone to read your mind.

But, then again. Someone is reading your mind. It can make one feel naked and vulnerable. As if, you can't even have the privacy of your own thoughts anymore. All that is visible and invisible is broadcast for everyone to witness. If you're the type to overthink, this could induce some sort of paranoia.

Bold of you to assume that Yves hasn't accounted for that yet.

If his calm, no-nonsense demeanor, reassuring smile, and gentle gaze aren't enough to lull you into a false sense of security; maybe his quiet, baritone, seductive voice with a charismatic coupling of a posh European accent would do the trick? It is quite possible that still wouldn't be able to soothe your nerves. No matter what, Yves always has something under his sleeve to overcome every obstacle in his way.

His body language is outstandingly alluring. He utilizes his looks and his hair, you might catch him leaning forward and playfully twirling a lock of his hair around his slender fingers. He appears to be tremendously interested in you and enamored by you. If that is what you like. Otherwise, he would keep his composure. Have a faint smile on his lips as his eyes are trained on you. Nodding at appropriate times.

Yves has exemplary table manners and etiquette, and his posture is confident and tall. He prefers to listen; of course, he does, as he rests his hands on his knee; his legs are delicately crossed and still. Best be careful of what you say and when you say it; And how you say it. He always remembers.

Yves takes care of you much, much more than he takes care of himself. He is already a marvelous chef with indeterminate years of experience but for certain, more than a decade. Cooking healthy and delicious meals for you and himself. He actually prefers to cook instead of going out, he knows your portions and the nutrients your body truly needs to feel satiated. He knows how you like your eggs done or if you even like eggs at all. He is an expert in making dishes tasty and simultaneously fitting your dietary needs and, or restrictions.

It's only fitting that he lives in a richer neighborhood. However, he isn't swayed by flashy displays of wealth in the form of purchasing mansions, luxury cars, and yachts. Yves owns a modest two-story house with a modern finish. As modest as a billionaire could be. However, it is small enough for Yves to be successful in maintaining the cleanliness and the state of the building himself. He has no hired help, unlike his neighbors. He is responsible for scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom every week. He is responsible for keeping his lawn trimmed and even. All of that, he still has ample time to accompany you everywhere you want him to be, keep up with his self-grooming rituals, and conduct his extensive research. It's almost as if Yves has 72 hours a day instead of the regular 24.

His humble abode follows a modern gothic aesthetic. Dark yet soothing. Unfortunately, he has a very strict set of rules as to how his home should appear to him, you, and others. Fussy about the choice of curtains, floorings, flooring, bathroom towels, and even the cutlery available in the kitchen; he would politely express his displeasure if you were to tamper with anything without his approval. However, he will provide a large room for you to express yourself, Yves will be more than happy to provide whatever you require to make your designated room purely yours.

Although he finds delight in serving your (almost) every verbal or silent request, he isn't spineless. Disrespect and rudeness are unacceptable, he will not entertain you if you're treating him as subhuman. Yves made sure you understand that he is deserving of esteem and dignity as well. He does that by calmly but firmly explaining that he does indeed love you and would do anything to make you happy. But he will not accept unnecessary callousness from you. Hence, it is not at all advisable to take your frustrations out on him.

"I understand you're upset that this happened. I have your best interests at heart, I have been nothing but compassionate to you. Please, do not act cruel towards me." That is what he would have said in such events. His scolding glare, stern body language, and muted yet assertive tone are usually enough to snap anyone out of their anger, retract their hurtful words, and hang their head in shame as they mutter an apology.

Yves will relax, soften his gaze, and fully demonstrate his appreciation for your remorse. The reward for your desired behavior is dependent on your files. It could be as simple as a forehead kiss, or it could be a platter of intricately cut fruits. Regardless, his main priority will always be solving your problems and making you the happiest version of yourself.

Perhaps, to a select few, you're undeterred by him calling you out. Maybe you would amp up your mistreatment towards him. No matter, he knows what to do. He is the master of bending reality by meticulously carrying out his convoluted plans. He could orchestrate the perfect circumstance without you ever suspecting he has any involvement in it, and it will influence you to change your ways, to be kinder towards him. Rest assured, he will never mirror your actions, as he believes it's unnecessary and horrible to treat the love of his life that way.

You could have tried to beat him into a pulp out of the blue and he would have never thought of doing that back. Of course, he will appropriately defend himself and obviously, you will not listen to reason. So he stays eerily silent as he blocks all your hits or restrain your wrists enough to protect himself, but not enough to hurt you. Or he simply walks away. Again, depending on the situation and your personality. Are you going to cause yourself harm? Or will your tantrum stop when he pays no mind and it's all for show?

Could it be that you're having a meltdown out of overwhelm instead? Quite unlikely, Yves would have swiftly eliminated all the factors that can cause a mental or physical overload before it happens. Nonetheless, Yves is not an omnipotent, omnipresent god (but he is close to being one) and you, as a human, are facing constant changes. That is why he has to update his database often for any new observations and review past records regularly.

On the topic of keeping records, his collection indeed includes your medical history. Even that unknown to the hospitals. The number of scrapes and cuts you have gotten, even paper cuts, the time and date you received that minor injury, and how long it takes to heal. Your genome sequence and many reports on your probability of developing certain diseases. Your dental records, your blood work archives, any and every radiological image taken of your being, your prescription details, vaccination history or lack thereof, and many more.

Yves could recite the values on a blood test you took a decade ago by heart. He would accurately and nonchalantly describe the figures on that sheet of paper. As if he was reciting the alphabet.

He will undeniably be the first person to notice that you're falling ill or close to catching a cold. You might think he has a 6th sense that detects your sickness before any symptoms start to arise. But his sharp eyes, nose, ears, and mind already picked up on all the signs that doctors will miss.

You could be his little prince or princess while you're unwell. He would be at your beck and call with no complaints. Yves would fix up a hearty meal, spoon-feed you, and stay up all night comforting you to sleep. He has no problem if you get any mucus, vomit, or other bodily fluids on him. He will settle your situation first, valuing your dignity and feelings of utmost importance before cleaning himself up.

Or, maybe you feel pathetic. Maybe you would very much prefer to continue working or studying and going about with your day. You don't like the feeling of being pitied or pampered just because you're sick. You don't like having your autonomy taken over just because you're temporarily weakened; or permanently disabled. Yves understands that.

Yves allows you to have your cake and eat it too. You may think that he's not watching or caring because he isn't around you. But he always is; and to a certain degree, you knew that. He made sure of it. Yves is always a couple seconds away from helping you. Though, you wouldn't know that a lot of the time, you're living a lie.

The thesis that you're slaving over for months despite your chronic illnesses, sacrificing a few years off your lifespan, you got an outstanding award for it. But your actual thesis is in Yves library; it was abysmal. You would have definitely failed if he hadn't intercepted the network and swapped the file with a wonderfully written one instead. Written by the man himself after he spent as much time studying about your course as you in secret.

It's a miracle you passed your final exams even though all you did in the past month was break down into a messy puddle of tears. Nothing a bit of hush money between your lecturer and your significant other couldn't fix.

The balance sheet that you're supposed to submit to your higher-ups. That would have landed you in jail at worst and fired at best. You did it while you were severely sleep deprived and the numbers were all wrong and there were many missing figures that Yves had to locate. If you pay attention, the red pens in his pencil holder are almost out of ink.

You would have poisoned your customers if he didn't buy the entire ruined batch of bread from your bakery. All this while, you thought Yves was an event manager who chose your business as catering.

You would have killed hundreds of passengers if he didn't sneak into the hangar and tightened that one bolt you missed. Either due to carelessness or otherwise.

He does a very convincing job impersonating a respected doctor at the hospital you work in. He forged the signature as an imposter, legally implying that "he" was the one who administered 100 times the appropriate dosage of insulin. You, as a nurse, mistook 1 unit of insulin for 1 ml. The doctor takes the fall and you get off scot-free. Maybe a bit shaken because you know the truth. At least you will be a lot more careful next time.

You're lucky he is also an expert in all things coding. Yves needs a glasses prescription change after staring at his computer monitor for so long to wipe out the bugs, faulty lines of code, and vulnerabilities. If you were to publish this for the massive corporation that you're working with, lawsuits would come flying right at you like darts.

Yves is constantly cleaning up after you without your awareness. Yet you still get all the praise and recognition for it. He is very content with that.

Yves rarely faces any ailments of his own. As reiterated over and over again, he takes care of himself better than most of the world takes care of their children; and his genes are almost invincible. However, as he is still human (even that may sometimes be debatable), he will succumb to an absurdly powerful virus and develop the flu. But you wouldn't know aside from his increased hand washing and his unusual choice to wear two surgical masks around you. He is still carrying himself with grace, fluidity, and with the energy of a healthy, young man.

If the illness is particularly contagious and he knows that it could put a severe toll on your body if you catch it, he will isolate himself and hire someone competent to take care of you from behind the scenes, out of your sight. He worries for you.

There are very few people whom he would trust. He has no family that you know of, he never speaks about his friends; only his associates. Even if you're the most insecure person in the world, only in Yves will you feel secure. He seems to devote all his time to you and more. He is a self-sufficient man who built everything he has from the ground up. It seems unfair that he knows you like he lived in your body twice, yet his last name is unknown to you. Yves said that he does not own a surname, it's a bit hard to believe him but what else could you do? You're not the one with the magnifying glass, he is.

He is a very private person. He does indulge you with information about himself from time to time. Like how he enjoys caviar on toast points, how he prefers buying high quality bags and clothes with discrete logos from obscure yet lavish designers and companies; he is fond of its' meticulous craftmanship and durability. He plays the grand piano and the harp, as evidenced by the presence of a grand piano and a harp in his designated music room; things that you would expect him to like or dislike based on the stereotypes of rich people.

You already made assumptions that he spoke English and French, based on his name and accent. Which was accurate. What came to you as a surprise is that he also spoken fluent Mandarin and Cantonese over the phone before. You were watching a cooking video one day on your smartphone, there was a voice over in Russian. Yves gently rubbed your shoulder to announce his presence before handing you your glass of water. It was a shock to know that he could translate the whole thing effortlessly to English. He even offered to make the food shown for you.

It puzzled you to no end when you caught him leisurely reading a set of papers printed in Hindi Devanagari. He was sipping on his steaming cup of black tea, not needing an ounce of effort to get through the jargon. He told you that he is reading a published journal article about Ayurvedic medicine.

You asked him what other languages he speaks. "الانتظار لمعرفة." He said with a playful wink, he pushes his reading glasses back up. Yves offered you to sit on his lap while he reads his article. You may or may not have accepted the offer, he is fine either way.

He is prone to touching you. Nothing malicious in nature, Yves would always have an arm around your waist, a hand on your shoulder, locking his large, warm and soft hands with yours, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, running your fingers through your locks if you have any, hooking his pinkie fingers with yours and many more. He knows your limits and backs off accordingly, he noted when is the best time and circumstance to give you physical affection if you're the type to like the surprise.

Otherwise, he would whisper if he could give you a kiss on the cheek, forehead and the lips, or a hug. Asking for permission not too frequently and at the appropriate time. You can feel his love is lingering and undying whenever he holds you close to his chest.

Yves doesn't believe in keeping you all to himself, locking you up in a glided cage and clipping your wings. Because your happiness and health is his main priority in life and he is intelligent enough to understand that you need others to fill in roles that he may not be able to fill. Yes, you're allowed to have friends. Yes, you should visit your family, he will come with. Yes, the ones that you love aside from him are welcome into his home. Within limits.

He is, in most aspects of his life: polite, but distant to your friends and family. Yves has a separate database for all of them them somewhere in his shelves for security reasons- to keep them in check and nip any threat at the bud, but they're plainly not as vast as yours. You better hope none of them annoy him, he has access to their private messages, call logs and emails. To his disgust, a lot of them has their own infidelities to hide.

If you have decent parents who were there for most of your life, you would be astonished to see Yves speaking to them so warmly. As if he cares about their existence. His eyes pupils will be dilated as he takes in as much information as possible. It's unnerving, even you had the vibe that this relationship between him and your parents is that of researchers and lab rats.

Yves recognizes that your parents or guardians are a treasure trove of information revolving around you. Now, he understands that their memories of you may not be the most reliable, but the data is still as precious. The knowledge that your friends have of you is useless, as Yves already possesses a more accurate and objective version of it. But information from the people who raised you or taught you (I.e., teachers), he may not have them in his logs yet.

What did you like as a child? What were you like as a child? Any strange fixations you had that could better explain some of your behaviors and preferences now? Any verbal tics? If so, when did it occur? What were your "bad behaviors" and were they a reaction to unpleasant stimuli? What did you tell them about your schooling life? How much did you tell them about your life? What were the values passed down from their generation to yours? When you were a toddler, did they notice what made you cry the most? Who made you cry the most? What media did you consume, cartoons? Live action? Specifically, which ones? How did you punish bad behavior, any lasting effect on your innate reflexes? Any repetitive habits? Where did you look when spoken to, straight into the eyes, away from the eyes, downcast, or past the speaker entirely? Did you prefer your nails long or cut? Did you fit in? Did you enjoy playing 'house' with the other children? Or did you prefer to play alone? The list is not exhaustive.

The barrage of questions was carefully worded and strategically sprinkled into the conversation. His social intellect is unmatched, he could easily obtain the necessary voice recordings in three meetings without your parents feeling overwhelmed or perturbed. With his unbelievable charm, your parents instantly fell in love with him too, thinking that he's the best fit for an attentive, loving, and dependable partner.

It doesn't matter if your parents were conservatives who may be offended by how he presents himself with modest makeup as an androgynous man. No one can deny that he looks stunning in every angle. He will win them over without compromising on his identity too much. Knowledge is power and Yves is the most powerful one out there.

You might or might not find it strange that he defies the common trope of hating his in-laws. Yves gets along with your parents well, maybe a bit too well. There is an 'off' aura to each interaction; he also makes a beeline to his office when he gets back home, claiming that he was contacted for work.

Obviously, he was transcribing what was recorded and organizing them, to improve his predictive algorithm.

One thing that you may be worried about, would he secretly judge you for liking this one thing, for doing a particular activity your own special way, and disliking something he likes? No. Yves is humble, who is he to pass judgment? He is lucid enough to know that he's not at all normal. Nothing about you irks him, data is data. You may have dated before him. Maybe during with him. But he remains neutral, it just means some hypotheses are either proven or disproven. Does that mean he will not get jealous? No, he can turn into a green-eyed monster of envy. However, he has full control over all aspects of his life, even his feelings. It may not be easy, but he is fully capable.

He does consider cheating as a major betrayal and disrespect, as he ensures that the both of you had the talk, discussing what is considered acceptable and what isn't. But he never let his emotions take him over. Yves remains cold and calculating as ever. Depending on your personality, he could either confront you and come to a compromise- and update your records, or he could simply eradicate the nuisance- and update your records. Yves is a strong believer that your actions were bad, but it does not mean that you are a bad person, And you could grow from it. He words his thoughts very carefully here, guaranteeing that he doesn't label your entire being as evil. Your actions are separate from your inherent value.

Everything he does is according to your nature and what works most effectively. His goal is never to punish you for wrongdoing, it's always to love you unconditionally while advocating for himself.

Even if he has tears rolling down his cheeks upon setting sights on the surveillance camera footage that confirms your adultery.

He would be badly hurt, the pain searing through every unit of life in his body. However, Yves would still love you the same and care for you to the best of his abilities. He just needs you to understand that it is not acceptable.

If it takes brutally dismembering your lover in front of you to teach you that lesson, so be it. Let the filth smear his expensive clothes. Let the blood paint his lips even redder. Let his tears wash the smear of viscera away from his face.

Your screams will be data to him. Your hyperventilation, heart rate, and blood pressure shall be the baseline wherein you're experiencing an extremely traumatic event. It will improve his prediction.

When that's all done and over with, he will assess the situation. Have you learned anything? Do you feel regret or remorse? Will you do it again? Will you break his faith once more by outing his crimes to the public?

Once Yves is satisfied with the outcome, he will give you a tight, comforting hug. Thanking you for enduring that and appreciating your genuine apologies. This is only if he is absolutely sure he achieved what he wanted.

But thankfully, that is unlikely to happen. As you wouldn't cheat, correct? You know better. You know very well that isn't a good idea to cheat on your personal mind reader.

As long as you're kind, in line, and faithful, you will have a wonderful, fulfilling life with Yves. All the ugly, unsightly parts of him will remain hidden in the shadows. He will conceal his eyes, giving you that sense of normalcy in day-to-day life while monitoring your every step and breath. Like a magic trick, the magic lies in not knowing how the trick works.

But unlike knowing the ruses of a magic trick, you will be horrified to learn about Yves's clandestine machinations.

Don't ruin a good thing for yourself.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #tw gore #tw blood #tw yandere #tw infantilization #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #tw reader cheating #oc yves

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creative-caramel-coffee · 8 months

Text

The Ebony Wings of Hydra - CH 1

Pairings: Wanda x R

Word count: 3.7K

Summary: Hydra has been all you have ever known. But one day when the base you live in is attacked you escape. What will the real world be like for you. The avengers are happy to take you in but there are so many questions. You however are special. You have powers. Ones hydra wants back. Love, Drama, Romance (but not spicy), Illness, Injury, and trauma; What will win?

TW: Past trauma, fainting, flinching? Kidnapping, torture (mentioned), malnourishment, dehydration, medical shit, canon-typical violence

A/n i think this will be a series so stay tuned lol

The alarms were going off. Soon many guards ran past your cell towards what sounded like explosions. They rocked the floor with force and you watched in awe as the vibrations shattered the lock to your cell. You froze. This place was awful but it was all you had ever known. It was home. In a heartbeat you decided.

Waiting until the sound of footsteps disappeared, you carefully slipped from the cell. Once you had cleared the halls you took off into the surrounding woods. There was a trail of destruction leading west. You kept to the edge of it following the track for a half mile before something glinted up ahead. It was huge and looked very expensive. Your legs were shaking and the edges of your vision began to dim. After all you had just run a mile on an empty stomach. It wasn’t like hydra gave you five star meals or meals at all unless you were on the brink of death. Knowing you would regret it later you needed somewhere to crash. Maybe whoever owned this would be nice enough to let you leave once they found you. Carefully you stepped onboard. You had barely taken five steps before your knees buckled and your vision dipped entirely. Your body went sprawling and you fell to the floor. The world was dark and you were out cold. And that’s how they at found you when they came back.

***********************

“So shawarma?” Tony asked as they began walking back. A collective groan sounded

“Tony we had shawarma after the last six missions.” Natasha said placing her gun back in its holster.

“I can order us a pizza?” Wanda posed and frowned as she realised the jet was open to the woods.

“Hey Tony-?”

“Yeah I see it.” He said putting down the Ironman mask again. “Friday scan for heat signatures.”

“One heat signature detected inside.” Friday responded. “Shit. Ok guys stay behind me.” He said. Wanda ignored him and stepped cautiously into the jet.

“Umm Nat you may wanna come see this.” She called.

“Coming.” Nat said and tony followed behind her. The entered to see Wanda crouched by your side. Still out cold. Wanda’s fingers were on the slow steady pulse of your neck.

“She’s alive” Wanda said.

“Friday run threat analysis.” Tony said.

“Enhanced abilities detected. However she seems to be malnourished and dehydrated. She has extensive scarring across her body. No persons found to match her in government records.”

“Right … ok” tony said. “Thoughts guys? Come on this was suppose to be an easy mission.”

“I say we take her in. She obviously has nowhere else to go. Treat her as friendly until she threatens us. Standard medical care. From the sounds of it she’ll be out for a while yet. We can have Bruce look over her back at base and when she wakes up we’ll go from there.” Nat said.

“Do you think she’s from the base.” Wanda asked still crouched beside you.

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” Nat said. “Make sure she’s secure. I’m going to get us out of here.”

“Got it.” Wanda nodded and tony wandered off to alert fury of a mission update. Wanda sat against the bench in the jet, gently pulling your head into her lap so she could make sure you weren’t uncomfortable and so you wouldn’t go flying when the jet took off. The engine hummed to life and the jet took off. Wanda brushed the small curls from your eyes. As she sat studying you face she wondered what colour your eyes were. Probably blue or green. After a few hours bay carefully set the jet down and tony went to debrief while Nat picked your unconscious form from Wanda’s lap. Carrying you bridal style with Wanda trailing behind.

“You know I’ve got this I don’t need an escort.” nat said.

“Um I wanted to come along. If that’s alright. Just to make sure she’s doing ok.” Wanda said hesitantly and Nat nodded as they silently made their way to the medical wing.

Carefully setting you down on the bed Wanda came and sat beside you and took your hand. She felt like she knew you somehow. It was odd but your aura that her magic picked up on seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it. Bruce came in a moment later checking a few things and placing an IV before giving Nat a quick update. Wanda listened from her chair.

“She’s malnourished and dehydrated. I have given her an IV but I’m hesitant to give a feeding tube before she wakes up. We don’t know her history and i don’t want to do anything wrong. When she wakes up give her something to eat. Keep her calm, from what I can tell she’s been through something traumatic based off the amount of scarring alone on her arms and legs. I’ll get you a change of clothes for her. I’m expecting her to wake up in the next couple of hours.” He said before nodding to Wanda and leaving.

“Thanks Bruce.” Nat called after him as he went back to his lab.

“I’m gonna go clean up. Are you ok to stay with her?” Nat asked. Wanda nodded she wasn’t very dirty her magic kept her hands clean so she didn’t need a shower imminently like Nat did.

“Ok get Friday to call me if she wakes up.” Nat said and left to shower. Wanda studied your face again trying to place where she knew you from.

You began to stir. Two women’s voices seemed to be nearby and it took all your training not to stiffen. Where were you? Were you back there again? Despite your primal need to find out more or if you were safe you drifted back out of consciousness again.

The next time you woke your eyes fluttered open before you promptly shut them again. It was too bright. Much different to the darkness of your cell. You heard shuffling beside you and realised there was a hand in yours. You stiffened and the weight beside you lessened.

“Nat?” A voice called softly. You heard another persons, Nat supposedly stir on your left side. You were surrounded.

“Hmm?” A sleep voice hummed.

“I think she’s coming around.” The voice from earlier said and you stiffened as you felt a hand brush the curls from your face. Internally cursing yourself for reacting.

“Actually scratch that. I think she’s already awake. You can open your eyes sweetheart.” The voice said and hesitantly you did hearing the voice chuckle. But it was odd. It wasn’t the cruel chuckle you heard when they beat you. No this one seemed softer. Safer. Familiar. You looked at the two women who sat beside you. Both had red hair. Both had green eyes. The one holding your hand was the one who had spoken earlier. Noticing you observing them Wanda cleared her throat and you flinched slightly.

“Sorry.” She said seeming concerned by your reaction while Nat just raised a brow. “I’m Wanda and this is Natasha but you can call her Nat.” She said. You nodded slowly.

“Where am I?” You whispered quietly. Wanda visibly softened at your tone.

“You’re safe. You’re at the avengers compound in New York.” Wanda replied

“America?” You asked.

“Yes.” Nat said. You nodded again slowly.

“What do you need me for?” You asked softly. Wanda looked confused.

“Need you for?” She asked. Her nose scrunching.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” You said softly.

“Oh honey no. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. This isn’t hydra. You are safe here.” Wanda said understanding now.

“I’m… free?” You asked softly.

“Yes. And we have a few questions but we can save them for later when you’re better. In the meantime eat this.” Nat said handing you a Nutella sandwich. You frowned at it. Taking it and studying it closely.

“What is it?” You asked not used to anything otero than the grey porridge you rarely got.

Wanda gasped. “You’ve never had a sandwich before?” She said. Suddenly feeling embarrassed you shook you head slightly. Letting a quiet “no” pass your lips.

“Try it.” Wanda said. And you looked at it again before deciding it was worth the risk. Biting into it flavours you had never tasted burst on your taste buds. You hummed quietly to yourself in content and your shoulders relaxed as you let yourself indulge. After eating half of it you felt full and slightly nauseous. Carefully you set it down on the plate in your lap.

“Done already?” Wanda asked and your cheeks burned with shame. Wanting to appease her for some unknown reason you picked it up again lifting it to your mouth when a hand stopped you. You flinched slightly and dropped the sandwich. The hand withdrew quickly.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Wanda said not meaning to scare you. “I just wanted to stop you and tell you you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you’re done with true sandwich that’s fine. You don’t need to eat more to appease me.” She said. Softly and you nodded.

“Do you think you could answer some questions for us?” Wanda asked carefully. You stiffened but nodded. Wanda hummed and decided to proceed.

“What’s your name kid?” Nat said.

“Subject 65798” you said softly.

“Jeez we need to call you something better than that.” She smiled softly. You exposed your left wrist to them and their eyes widening at the numbers tattooed on your wrist.

“But my brother called me y/n” you said quietly.

“You have a brother?” Wanda asked

“Had” you corrected.

“I’m sorry.” Wanda said.

“Don’t be it’s not your fault.” You said avoiding their eyes and picking at the bedsheets.

“Next question.” Nat said sensing your discomfort. “How old are you?”

“I’m not sure.” You replied honestly.

“Ok that’s ok. You look to be an adult but we can have Bruce do some tests fo find out.” You froze. Your breathing speeding up at the word tests. You knew tests. Tests hurt. Tests killed. It was Wanda’s voice that brought your back. Her concerned face was looking at you and both your hands were being squeezed in hers.

“Breathe y/n breathe it’s ok. You’re not there anymore. It’s ok. There we go, are you back with us sweetheart?” She asked softly. You nodded swallowing the shame you felt for breaking down.

“If you want to stop for today we can”. Nat offered.

“No it’s ok.” You said shaking you head. Wanda dropped you hands and you mourned the loss of contact. To say you were touch starved was an understatement.

“How long were you at hydra y/n?” Wanda asked.

“As long as I can remember.” You whispered.

“Do you have any powers we should know about?” She asked knowing you did but not knowing what they were.

“No.” You shook your head. If they didn’t know maybe they would let you stay you thought. Wanda sighed.

“We know you have powers y/n but I was hoping you would tell us yourself.” Wanda said

You stiffened. “Then why ask?”

“To see if you trusted us.” Nat said

“It’s a bit hard to trust when you spent your entire life in a cell.” You snapped and immediately felt bad as Wanda’s face fell.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not good with people.” You whispered.

“It’s ok.” Wanda said smiling again.

“It’s easier to show you rather than explain it. When I have some more energy I can do a demo if you’d like?” You said and Wanda smiled and nodded. Nat hesitated weighing the risks before agreeing.

“No. Not happening” a voice said from the door and you flinched. There was a man standing there with his arms crossed. You curled into yourself. You were defenceless in the bed and he stood blocking the only exit. Your heart quickened and you felt your breaths shorten.

“Tony not now. We would be with her the whole time. Not much can go wrong.” Nat said and they began arguing. Wanda watched before turning back to you and seeing you shaking as tears fell down your cheeks. She carefully put her hands over your ears sushing you as you flinched.

“Guys knock it off. Tony leave us be.” Wanda said with authority waiting for tony to leave before taking her hands from your ears. Instead she held you hand and helped you steady your breathing again.

“It’s ok.” Wanda said as she shifted to sit on the bed next to you. She hadn’t expected it but you threw yourself into her side. She gave you a comfort you hadn’t felt before. She was shocked stilling for a second before wrapping you in her arms. She petted your hair and whispered quiet words to you as you shook quietly.

“It’s ok. You’re safe now.” She said and pressed a featherlight kiss to the crown of your head. Your body relaxed and you drifted to sleep in her arms.

The next time you awoke you were still wrapped in her arms. However the room was different. She must have carried you here while you slept. The room was clean. A couple posters on the wall and a cold hot chocolate by the bed. You are curled in her lap as she read a book and ran her fingers through your hair. It felt amazing. You yawned and stretched like a cat. Wanda chuckled.

“You know you remind me of a puppy when you’re tired.” She said. You nodded still sleepy after getting more rest than you normally would.

“Where’s Nat?” You asked

“She’s training. She’ll be back later.” Wanda said setting down her book.

“I made a hot chocolate for you but it’s gone cold”

“I’m happy to drink it cold.” You said not wanting to waste her efforts.

“You don’t have to do that y/n” she said and you waved her off eyes wide ping as you brought the mug to your lips. The taste was amazing. Wanda chuckled at your expression.

“It’s even better when it’s warm.”

“I gets better?!” You asked and Wanda laughed at the chocolate on your nose. Using her finger she wiped it off celebrating internally as you didn’t flinch at the touch.

“If you want to come with me to the kitchen I can heat it up.”

“No it’s ok. They’re something I think I’m ready to show you now.”

“What is it”

“My powers.” You said softly.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. You… you make me feel safe.” You said and Wanda beamed.

Wanda was confused as you led her to the roof. Her confusion turning to worry as you grew closer to the edge.

“Y/n wait! You could fall!” She said trying to rush to your side. You simply turned grinning and giving a mock salute before falling backwards with your arms spread.

“Y/N!” Wanda yelled rushing to the edge and peering over. Just then you whooped and shot upwards. Two ebony black wings spanning out from just below your shoulder blades. Wanda sat back in awe. You spun and dipped grinning wildly. You rarely ever got this much freedom to use your wings and they were stiff from lack of use. The wind in them felt amazing. You smiled and used your hands to create a ball of magic like Wanda’s except black. You grinned at Wanda’s shocked expression and made the magic disappear before carefully leaning back on the roof. Your black wings folded behind you and retreated into two black lines that ran down your back looking just like they were drawn on with a pen. The wings were now gone. You smiled and Wanda tan over to you.

“That was Awesome but never do that again I thought you were going to die.” Wanda gushed and your grin faltered.

“Amazing though. I’m honestly impressed. But u have one question.”

“Sure?” You asked feeling more confident now.

“Do I know you?” She said quickly. You turn disappeared. You were hoping she wouldn’t ask.

“You had the cell next to me in hydra.” You said sadly. “Only you escaped and I didn’t. But it’s ok. I never blamed you.” You said softly and Wanda pulled you into a hug.

“I’m so sorry y/n” she said running her hands through your hair.

“It’s ok Wanda.” You said.

“No it’s not. We left you … I left you.”

“And I never blamed you.” You said taking her hands. “If anything I should thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“It was you and your powers that gave me my magic.” You grinned.

“So you can do what I do?”

“Yep just my magic is black and I have wings because of the extra years of testing after you escaped.”

“Y/n I’m sorry” Wanda said and you held up a hands.

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t blame you and i never will.” You said softening and giving her a big hug.

“What did i miss?” Nat said walking onto the roof.

“Y/n has-“ Wanda started but you clamped a hand over her mouth. She stopped before you quickly pulled your hand away.

“EW Wanda … why?” You said cradling your hand and then wiping it on your black jeans. She had licked you. Wanda doubled over laughing while nat watched looking amused.

“Something you want to tell me y/n?” Nat asked again. You grinned at her before running and leaping off the edge of the building. You heard nat cry out and then gasp as you shot back up with your wings out stretched.

when you landed she cautiously ran a hand through the black feathers which felt softer than powdered snow.

“They’re beautiful.” She said in awe and you blushed slightly. When she removed her hand you folded them away again and they once more disappeared into your back. You made the two of them promise not to tell the team until you were ready and they agreed. But assured you the team would love them. You sighed and walked back inside with the two following you.

“Y/n? Isn’t it cold for you out there?” Wanda asked and you shrugged. It was nearing winter and you were in ripped black skinny jeans and an faded black AC/DC singlet with the sides deep enough your black sports bra showed. Your lace up black high top converse were double knotted and there was a small lesbian pride bead on the lace. Wanda had gone to the trouble of finding an outfit you would like and Friday had promptly gotten it delivered. You had a silver ring on your left pointer finger with a small skull on it and a black leather bracelet on the same wrist. Your hair was done in a half up half down braid that left locks falling part way down your back and shoulders.

“Its not bad. My body is used to extreme conditions so they don’t effect me as much as they used to.” You stated simply. Wanda looked sad and you quickly changed the topic not wanting to bring up memories for her either.

“Is there any chance i would be able to…” you trailed off realising you had almost asked for something.

“To what y/n?” Nat asked.

“Oh nothing.” You waved her off but nat persisted

“Y/n you can tell us anything.”

“I kinda … really need some more stuff. I don’t have well … anything so i need more clothes and some … other things. I mean i would love some art supplies it was kind of all i could do in the cell. But i don’t need them and i don’t want to waste any of your money.” You were rambling now. Wanda cut you off placing her hands on your shoulders.

“Y/n you can have whatever you like. Tony is rich as all hell and i could use a shopping spree. I’d love to help you find new clothes and I’m sure Steve can recommend some good art supplies. He draws right nat?” Wanda said looked over her shoulder at nat who smiled nodded.

You felt tears prick your eyes.

“Oh sweetheart its ok. I’d be happy to make you happy. And if you need anything at all i want us to be the ones to give it to you. Anything you want or need just tell us and we’ll make sure you have it. Honey your life has been hard and we just want to make it better.” She said pulling you in from arms length into her chest as small sobs wracked your body. You were so grateful. Wanda shushed you and gently ran her fingers through the ends of your hair. You were mildly surprised to feel another strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind as Nat sandwiched you between her body and Wanda’s. You let out a content sigh, wishing the moment would never end.

“How about i make us some lunch then we can go explore amazon” she said and winked “i have Tony’s login.” Which made Nat laugh. You simply looked confused

“Amazon? Like the rainforest?” You asked and Wanda looked you you with a grin.

“No its like an online shopping website. You order the stuff and it gets sent to you in the mail.” She chuckled and you felt the tips of your ears go pink.

“Damn i think even Steve might be more adapted than you at this point.” Nat said and bumped shoulders with you. She grabbed your hand and began leading you to the kitchen following Wanda.

MASTERLIST

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ghostsvacuumcleaner · 10 months

Text

Shades of Red - Chapter II | 4k

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three ao3 | masterlist ✦ Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you’ll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won’t. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;

✦ Chapter TW: slightly obsessive behavior hehe.., just a hint yet; mentions of trauma and violence

A/N: Dropping chapter two because I'm excited to start the real deal of this story! Also, chapter three might take a little while to come out cause I'm working on a request I received; hope y'all enjoy! If anyone's interested in getting into a tagslist just lemme know!

Chapter 02 - Survivor

The hospital room you were in was pleasantly cozy. A large bed in the center, a considerably large television right in front of it and the big window to the left, whose blinds were closed for the time being. There were a few empty chairs next to the bed - you were sure that at some point in the last hours, someone was sitting there, as there was a small vase of flowers resting on one of the chairs. Although you could not see the world out there, you knew it was raining by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window; the sound echoed through your ears in an almost hypnotic intonation as you dissociated.

Your daydreaming was abruptly cut off when someone opened the door to your room. A lady, a nurse, whose name tag said Doris. You shook your head and quickly looked in her direction, your eyes no longer as confusing as before, but equally expressive.

“You’re awake, finally.” She pointed, as she approached her bed with some caution. “You’ve been sleeping for at least fifteen hours since you came here. I was starting to worry,” she said, sounding somewhat caring.

You raised your eyebrows briefly.

“Fifteen hours? Fuck my life…” You whispered, and her face turned into a little grimace in response.

“Language, lady.” she joked, as her hands caringly wrapped your nearest arm and began to remove the tapes that covered your venous access. “How are you feeling?” She asked in a murmur. “I don’t expect you to say ‘well,’ for God’s sake.” she pleaded.

“Well, I’m not feeling any pain at least.” you said. For the first time in those twenty-four hours in which you were silent, your mouth bitter in the metallic taste of blood and the horrible feeling of a cake in your throat, you began to speak. There was still a lot you wish you could say, but felt like you might never get to do it. You could never take the weight you felt on your back, the unsaid words, the pain that grew restless in your mind.

“That 's good. Means the medication is working; you hurt yourself pretty bad let me say,” she commented, still trying to sound as caring as possible. The care that emanated from her made you feel a little better, you had to admit. “but you will be fine. Can you move your leg?” She finally asked, finishing by skillfully exchanging your access without causing further pain.

You looked into your legs, and felt that bitter taste invading your mouth again. Fuck. You didn’t stop to think about it: that wound on your leg, previously partially buried by concrete, was well, very extensive.

After breathing deeply, you concentrated your energies into the hurt leg. Your face shrugged in a strenuous expression, you were giving your best; your leg began to tremble and the rest of your body too, by the effort. It was as if that concrete block was still there, preventing its movement, causing you to suffer in stuckness.

“It’s okay, you can stop now.” she said, but you were negative and shaken your head with all the strength you could, small tears forming on your red face as you tried to move.

“No. I can do it.” you grumbled between your teeths and closed your eyes.

“Dear, no-” she tried to say, but nothing seemed to be able to change your mind right now.

A little move was all you got, and then the relief. Your breath accelerated, exasperated and relieved by victory, but still concerned by the fact that all you could achieve was almost equivalent to a spasm. Doris sighed.

“Why can’t I move straight?” You asked, your eyes ran into hers with some despair and impatience. "Will I lose my leg’s movements? Will I need to amputate?” You asked anxiously.

“God, girl. No!” She assured you, striking with her head and placing a new tape on your arm. Doris then walked to the end of your bed. “No one will amputate anything. Just see, well,” she started, and pulled the blankets that covered you from the waist down.

Your expression relaxed, perplexed as you looked at the scarring on your leg. Almost like a crack, in your thigh — it started near your hip, and went up to almost half your thigh in a diagonal angle. It was a red, ugly wound, a crack in your now imperfected shell. It was sewn with the help of so many stitches that you could barely count. “you hit a nerve. It didn’t break, of course, or could barely move this leg, but it hurt and badly. It will take some time for you to recover from it. But you will.” she said.

“It’s horrible,” you whispered, your eyebrows scratched in a sad expression. “I’m horrible.”

Doris looked at you, to the tears that formed in your tired eyes. Her lips were compressed in a line.

“Oh, dear... You’d never be awful, don’t say that,” she whispered. “A scar won’t make you any less beautiful. Got it? It’s your survival mark.” she said, trying to encourage you a little.

You wanted to curse her. You felt angry at the kindness she offered you, for trying to make everything seem less heavy than it really was, but it didn’t seem fair. You knew that this should be some reaction of your mind poisoned by the depression you felt now.

It would not be fair to discount your frustrations on the only person who had offered you some comfort so far, would it?

No.

Your face formed a smile so weak that maybe it only made her more worried than she was already, but that was all you could do for now. Doris covered you again, fitting the blankets around your body in a very comfortable way.

“I’ll bring your lunch. You’ll need to eat enough to get some energy for your recovery now.” she commented quietly by changing the IV from the support over you. Your eyes followed the whole process attentively.

Although you were grateful for the treatment you were receiving from the hospital, there was only one thing surrounding your mind. The Ghost.

The man in the skull mask who had saved your life. He was nowhere to be seen, you knew that you might possibly never see him again, but the idea that you didn’t even have time to thank him correctly tormented your mind. He was in your dreams while you were unconscious, standing there looking at you, glaring at you with those dark eyes of his. The curiosity of what was hidden behind the mask was hitting you hard this time, the need to see something human in him; the way his eyes seemed to present him as nothing but a machine. He seemed unbeatable, but when he took you in his arms, gently as he could be, like he was holding porcelain - you could only see a human being. And you wanted to see it, you craved for confirmation, that there was a human beneath the mask and that this human was just the way you pictured him to be. Or perhaps the complete opposite. You liked surprises, and fairly - you just wanted to see him.

“Where are the soldiers? You know, those who took me out of the building.” You curiously asked, cleaning your throat. The nurse's eyes wandered around the room in search of the small window that turned out to the hallway, she could not see anyone there, a confirmation that they might have been there before but not anymore at the moment. “I didn’t have time to thank him.” you whispered.

“Ah yes. Of course. Captain Price said he would call you when you were feeling a little better. Do you want me to give them a call?” Doris asked kindly.

“Yes, please,” you agreed.

━ ⟡ ━

Soap was watching the news on TV in the town hall of the headquarters. His eyes were attentive, his ears well opened; he heard the television reciting for the thirteenth time that day those words that echoed in his mind, "hundred and two dead." The news anchor was saying something about the intelligence’s inability to detect the terrorist threat before the bombing occurred. Massive criticism of the military staff responsible for national security; people were in panic. How would you feel safe after that?

After the 141 left the building back to the headquarters, the British intelligence team searched the ruins of the disaster looking for any indication of association of some terrorist group known to the incident. At first, nothing. Bombers usually leave no traces but a blast of blood and human flesh everywhere.

But then, an agent left the building with a piece of semi-destructed cloth in his hands. It was almost incomprehensible but soon they discovered a symbol in it. And to the most absolute disappointment of all, no soul even recognized the symbol in question. A new terrorist group.

Fuck.

While the population was hiding in fear, the press was rendering a disgrace to society and introducing even more chaos by spreading information that should be confidential. Soap was too distracted with their babbling to even listen to Price and Ghost’s conversation in the background.

“She will need physiotherapy, and a good time to recover.” said the captain, releasing some smoke from his cigarette into the air. “She apparently suffered a nerve injury.”

Ghost had his arms crossed, resting on the wall behind himself, facing Price. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as if he was thinking of something.

“I can imagine.” he whispered, with a head nod. “I hope it goes well. What these guys did there...” he closed his eyes and snorted, seeming nervous.

“Yeah... The press won’t give anyone no peace now. I get nervous just to think.” he grumbled as he threw his cigarette butt into the ashes. Ghost only shook his head negatively, in disapproval; in accordance with the captain’s speech.

The silence that followed Price’s last words did not last more than five seconds before he spoke again.

“She asked about you.” he said, raising his eyes to Ghost. He was looking back at him this time. It was as if his words had caught his attention now. “Said she wanted to thank you personally.”

“She doesn’t need to. I just did my job.” he argued, pulling his back off the wall and pulling one of the available chairs around. As he sat down, he grabbed a piece of a disassembled rifle that rested on the table, and went on with his work to clean it.

“I know that, but work sometimes involves accepting a bit of gratitude from other people for what you did for them, Riley. In this situation specifically.” Price raised his eyebrows, and watched the gun as Ghost cleaned it, his concentration quickly diverted from the conversation to the work he was doing. “You should go see her.”

“With all due respect, captain, I think the job of talking to the victims is anyone else's but mine.” he replied almost instantly.

“Maybe, maybe. But she wants to talk to you.” Price insisted.

Ghost released an annoyed, almost annoyed breath.

“She doesn’t have to thank me. I know she’s grateful,” he tried to argue again, but the captain seemed irreducible for the moment. “Bloody hell, Price, hire a psychologist for once. She needs help, not to talk to me.” he continued, receiving nothing but silence in response.

“She wants you.” Price said, simply, unfazed by his upset behavior.

Ghost immediately stopped what he was doing and left the gun aside, the hand

supported on his knee, once again an uncomfortable breathing leaving his nostrils in a surely irritated mood now.

They would not understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you; there would be no reason for it, no. Ghost didn’t want to see you again. He followed the whole moment the ambulance left you in the hospital along with the rest of his crew, was informed of your situation, and like all other soldiers, he was discharged after that.

His job was to rescue the victims who survived the attack. Not to talk to a victim, sketch some sort of feeling – even if it is false. He would need to say something, comfort you, or at least try to look positive. He would have to face the idea that getting in touch with your trauma could remind him some more of himself, could bring back past memories he wanted to bury. There was no good in it, no. He wasn’t a therapist, wasn’t built for it.

Although he wanted to, he couldn’t feel compassion for you. He couldn’t feel sorry – He thought it was an extremely illegitimating, invalid feeling. Affirming that someone was worthy of pity was almost like treating someone like garbage, no; he would rather die than have others pitying him, why would it be different with the people around him? He wasn’t the right person for that.

As if the universe laughed at his face, the moment the conversation between the two became silent and he raised his eyes to the television, the image of the building's debris was replaced by one of the only survivor of the attack; a recent photo you had taken in London, two months ago. You were smiling, you could still do that at that time. The screen displayed your name, while the reporter was now talking about you.

“It’s her; poor girl.” Soap said, turning a little to observe them, and turned up the volume. The news said something about your success in keeping yourself alive: you were treated as a great achievement, called a ‘miracle girl'; they were talking about you as a poor little girl, about how clever you were, in college studying to become a prestigious doctor. Ghost squeezed his jaw, his teeth gritted in a bitter taste inside his mouth. There was no miracle in what happened to you.

You were lucky. You were in the right place, at the right time.

Two hundred people did not have the same luck.

A hundred and two people, men, women and children, were now dead. You had eternal marks engraved on your skin and soul. A miracle? He felt offended as if he were with himself — as if they were calling him a miracle for having survived all the painful events he had experienced so far.

“How dare they say this kind of thing?” he grumbled lowly. The other two shrugged their heads in denial, in disagreement.

“Fucking vultures.” it was Price’s turn to complain.

━ ⟡ ━

You had turned off the TV the moment you heard your own name. There was no reason you’d want to know, to to hear what they had to say about you. You didn’t want to hear them treat you as a mere victim of an incident, acting as if that disaster was all about you that mattered. You hated the way everything seemed to be reduced to that now: the attack.

The survivor. The only survivor. Your name didn’t matter anymore – you had become a martyr, and everyone treated you with caution, as if you were made of glass, as though it was impossible to get close to you without the risk of breaking it.

Since the silence established itself in the environment when you turned off the TV, all you heard was the static silence floating in the air, sound of little drops that flowed through your veins. Your mind had become vague, your thoughts made room for your imagination, you slowly fell asleep. There was a long time after you felt unconscious - you weren’t sure of how much exactly. Maybe two, maybe three hours. You had asked Doris to open the window before she let you rest alone in your room, and the wind was hitting your skin, still sensitive due to the excess of meds; the subtle cold you were feeling was making you feel alive.

The lights were off, and as soon as it became dark, the lights of the city reflecting through the window were no longer enough to light up the room belongings.

In that intense darkness and in the most absolute silence possible, the ghost that haunted your dreams was standing, tall as always, at the end of your bed. Haunting you. Silent like a snake approaching a possible victim, even his breath seemed to be controlled enough not to make a noise. His eyes, behind the mask, fixed on you; you slept quietly in a heavy sleep that was obviously the result of the strong medicines you were taking. He approached the bed a little, your hand was laying in your body side by the bed. So small.

Drop.

The sound of the drops of IV falling through the bag invaded the environment as if it were the sounds of a giant walking. The big night silence had this effect on small sounds – it enlarged them. You heard the sound of the window closing inside your dreams, but that didn’t seem to wake you up. The cold wind no longer hit your skin, and you began to warm up.

How long has passed since the sound of the curtains closed you could not say; but what awakened you knew: it was the sounds of the door opening. You instinctively frightened and adjusted your posture in bed a bit abruptly, until you realized that the man who was entering — now unarmed though still dressed in his combat suit — was him. The Ghost.

He watched you in silence for a few seconds before shaking his head.

“Did I wake you?” He asked, the same serious and rough voice, the loaded British accent, different from your American one. “Forgive me.”

“You’re all right.” was all you could think of answering in the first moments. His eyes looked at you altogether; he was so tall that only his presence there made you feel intimidated, even if that was not his goal. “Don’t you want to sit?”

“I don’t intend to delay myself much.” He responded quickly, getting a little closer to the bed and sitting on one of the chairs next to him just to match your heights a little, imagining it should be uncomfortable for you, bending your neck to look at him standing. “Do you need something?”

“No. I’m fine now,” you whispered, sitting down. “I just wanted to thank you personally. I didn’t have time before, I- I just don’t think I was in good senses for it.” you admitted, holding your hands together on your lap.

“I just did my job.” he nodded, a serious air to his words. Ghost seemed like a man of few words, of few feelings too. His tone was monotone, always serious, seemingly stern sometimes. Made you feel like it was perhaps due to his habit of giving orders; he was a tenant, as Price told you. You knew little about the military hierarchy you had to admit, but the little knowledge was enough for you to know he did give orders.

“I know, but... What you call ‘job’, to me was saving my life.” you seemed to try to remind him as if it was something obvious. “If I have any way to reward you for that, please tell me.”

Ghost closed his eyes for a moment and stretched his neck, shooking negatively.

“Again, I just did my job. You don’t have to reward me for that.” he said, looking at the flower vase that rested on the headboard table for a moment.

Simon noted that although there were thousands of gifts and tickets on the outside, sent by ordinary citizens in support of your situation - there were no balloons or any indication of a family or friendly gift inside your room. Only those flowers.

They were addressed to Anthony Miller. He assumed it would be your boyfriend.

“You don’t get it, Ghost. It’s not about needing, it’s just something I want to do. It doesn’t have to be right now, you can tell me in the future if you need a favor or something like that.”

“I don’t usually need favors.” he assured, snorting at your insistence, but trying to stay as polite and friendly as possible. He didn’t want to end up making you worse, did he? You were already sad enough.

“Everyone needs favors. I also used to not need many before yesterday’s events.” You admitted, raising your eyebrows quickly and turning your gaze away.

“I didn’t do you a favor. I helped you, those are completely different things.” He shook negatively, irreducibly. “Any other decent soldier would do the same. You owe me nothing.”

“Yes, but it was you. If it had been someone else then I’d like to thank this person.” you argued, and your stubbornness began to irritate him; he gave in compassion to your state and only sighed deeply.

“That’s all you have to treat with me, miss?” He asked, turning his head a little, and you corrected him; do not call me lady, you murmured, and instructed him to call you by your name.

You watched him in silence for a few seconds, before breathing deeply.

“Actually no. I have a request.” you said, in a whisper, and he shrugged his head as if giving you a positive one. “Can I see the face behind your mask?” You asked curiously.

“Negative.” He answered, almost immediately, without even giving you a chance to try to refute or argue. “I can’t show my face, and if it relieves you if anything, it’s not a nice image to look at,” he continued, rising up.

You were a little desperate for his sudden rising, hoping he would stay a little longer. Of all those people with whom you had talked so far — Price, Doris; he remained the one who seemed to please you into a conversation the most. You wanted to talk to him, because, unlike others, Ghost did not treat you like a porcelain doll.

He was treating you like any other person.

“No, wait — you think you’re ugly, is that so? I don’t care.” you assured. “I doubt you’re ugly, to be honest.”

“I didn’t say that,” he raised an eyebrow, seeming to have your commentary somewhat amusing. You raised an eyebrow in response and laid your body on the pillows behind you.

“Wouldn’t you open an exception for me?” You asked, and he shook negatively. You closed your eyes, in a frustrated but accepting sigh.

“Well- you get well soon. Hear me, girl?” Ghost gently said, and walked a little further to the door, and stopped in his steps before leaving. He looked at you for a moment. “Are you here alone?”

“Yeah, I am. Why is it?” You asked curiously.

“Because your IV is running out, and without those pain meds, let me tell you...” he raised his eyebrows quickly. “Should I call your boyfriend or a nurse?” He asked, glaring at you.

“Wait- my boyfriend?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows for a moment, and he remained silent. His hand stood up and pointed to the flowers next to the bed, as if he mentioned that the person who sent them should be your boyfriend. You eyed the flowers and let out a soft laugh.

“Ah, that... No, it’s not from a boyfriend.” You explained.

“Well, I’ll call some nurse then.” he said, his hand leaned on the door knocker and his fingers danced in unison, in a thoughtful expression. He looked at you again. “Stay safe.” he said, before his huge, broad figure disappeared through the door and the long hallway of the hospital leaving you once again lost to your thoughts, and alone.

Your eyes looked at your own hands for a few seconds, and you realized that they were pleasantly warm. You looked out the window, closed.

How strange was the fact that you didn’t remember having closed the window, thought to yourself.

It could have been Doris. But your intuition said no.

#simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ghost cod #ghost x f!reader #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #shades of red

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whumpshaped · 6 months

Note

For when you're looking for a prompt, can we get more pet recovery whump?

A former pet just brought to Caretaker's home to be rehabilitated? Maybe with the help of another former pet who's been there longer and made more progress? Someone for them to cling to and to help them feel marginally safer until, with their help, they can come to start trusting that their new Caretaker won't abuse them?

anon i have the perfect people for this. zeddy, mari, meera, and dr pax belong to me, lucky and the other pets belong to @hidden-dreamland :)

tw pet whump, past trauma

Lucky had no idea who his new owner would be. If he was being perfectly honest... he didn't really want to leave the guaranteed security of the hospital for something uncertain and possibly dangerous. Dr. Pax had told him that it would be fine, that Meera's men ran extensive background checks on every person who'd volunteered to help pets reintegrate, but...

All too soon, the two of them were standing in front of a big house, and the doctor was lifting a hand to knock. Lucky was staring at the ground, taking deep breaths, just like he'd been taught.

It's fine. Dr. Pax wouldn't betray you. He even gave you a name. Your new owner won't be calling you mutt... probably.

Lucky heard the turn of a key in the lock, then a soft click as the man opened. And oh, dear. He was... big, and imposing, and intimidating, and part of Lucky wanted to make a run for it immediately. He wasn't a small pet by any means, but he was weak, and he knew how easy it was to overpower him, hold him down, hit him–

"Lucky, this is Zed Hansley, one of our most trusted friends," Pax said, gesturing to the man. He gave Lucky a sheepish smile and a wave, which he returned through great effort. Scary. Scary, scary, scary. "And Zeddy, this is Lucky."

"Hi, buddy," he tried softly, and Lucky attempted to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Hello, sir."

"I'll go ahead and fetch the rest of the family while you guys make yourselves comfortable in the living room. Pax already knows where everything is."

Mr. Hansley disappeared into the house, and Lucky could soon hear him calling names that reminded him a lot of other pets' he'd met while staying with his previous owner. Dr. Pax seemed to read his thoughts perfectly. "He's adopted three pets before you. I thought it'd be beneficial for you if you could see how happy and healthy they all were, not to mention all the experience he has dealing with rescues." He nodded towards the door with a soft smile. "Shall we?"

Lucky willed himself to take a few steps forward, crossing the threshold and committing to giving this process a chance. He wanted a kind owner. He just wasn't sure whether that was something he deserved at all. Whether life would get in the way. Twenty years as a neglected, borderline unwanted pet had taught him nothing but fear, and he had no reason to believe that if he wasn't good enough at twenty, someone would suddenly decide to care for him now that he was forty. Pets his age... there weren't many pets his age.

Dr. Pax sat down on the couch, and Lucky settled on the floor by his feet. He watched nervously as Mr. Hansley ushered everyone in: three pets, just like the doctor had said, and a beautiful woman he introduced as his wife, Mariama. Mari, as everyone apparently called her.

The pets looked... alright. As in, unhurt. All their scars looked old and faded, and while one of them was missing a couple parts, their prosthetics seemed like the nice, expensive kind. They actually looked quite happy.

They introduced themselves one after the other, and Lucky tried to keep up with all the names and tidbits of information. Berry, Cupcake, Spots... Spots was the newest of the bunch, and they already seemed to be getting along quite well with everyone.

Lucky found himself wishing he could experience that too.

"So," Mr. Hansley started, and he quickly looked away from the pets, back up at him, "this is the family you'd be joining. Now, I know what you're thinking– Here's this huge guy with arms thicker than my torso, how could this ever work out in my favour? Or, well, some pets have said that. But I can assure you, if you decide to come live with us, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and happy."

"I will, too," Mrs. Hansley added with a smile. "And we both mean it. We're very passionate about helping people in need."

"I'm a pet," Lucky said timidly. Her smile didn't waver.

"Pets and people. Anyone we can help, we try to help."

Lucky glanced at the other pets again, and all three of them gave him nothing but encouraging grins and nods. Berry even did a thumbs-up. "Um..."

"You can ask questions," Dr. Pax prompted. "You don't have to, of course, since you can call me at any time if this house isn't the right fit for you, but it might be nice."

"I, I'm just wondering... I don't... I don't know why you'd want to help a mutt like me. All the others... they seem..." Sweeter. Bubblier. Better. "I'm not sure I can be of any use to you, sir."

Mr. Hansley hummed thoughtfully. "Believe it or not, all the others had the very same doubts. I'll tell you what I told them, yeah? I just want to help. This community has helped me more than I can ever explain, and now that I have the means, I want to give back. Besides, the house is too big for just Mari and I."

Lucky shifted on his knees. It hurt to kneel. "I see," he muttered.

"You should tell Lucky about your job," Cupcake suggested, and Mr. Hansley's face lit up.

"Oh, I have the best job. My wife and I run a little soap business, and we handmake a lot of the stuff. There's always a DIY project in at least one room in the house, if you ever feel like you want to unleash some creativity." He stood up from the couch and walked over to the table, picking up something Lucky had assumed was a decoration. It was very pretty, soft pink and shaped like a rose. "This is my latest obsession. Ever since I learned how to make flowers like this, I've been making dozens every day."

"Is, is that what smells so nice?" he asked, and Mr. Hansley handed the soap to him with a grin.

"You tell me."

It was the soap. It was the most gorgeous scent, rich but delicate at the same time. Lucky thought he would like to stay in this home for sure, if only to have access to something to amazing on the regular.

"What was that last one? The last big era?" Spots asked quietly.

"The swirly ones," Berry chimed in. "Swirly and striped. Everything was swirly and striped."

"Oh, right! All of them looked so tasty."

"You're not eating soap, are you?" Dr. Pax asked with all the concern of a well-intentioned doctor.

"Zeddy makes me edible soap now!" they clarified, and it made Mrs. Hansley chuckle.

It all seemed... so innocent. Even Mr. Hansley seemed less threatening like this, chatting away about scented soaps. Lucky handed him the rose to he could put it back on the table, then glanced at Dr. Pax for confirmation that he really was allowed to stay here.

"It's your choice," the doctor said softly. "And it's not permanent, if you don't want it to be. I'm always just a call away."

Lucky looked back at his potential owners, and all the new friends he would gain by agreeing to this. The new life he could live, so far removed from dingy basements and cattle prods.

"I think... I think I'd like to try, sir."

When the pets erupted in cheers and excited clapping, Lucky dared hope that their joy was honest.

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan @2in1whump @lthrboy @justletmereadmywhump @florissimps @anonymous-tiangou @whump-kitty

#whump #whump drabble #comfort #recovery fic #past trauma #pet whump

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valphorien · 9 months

Text

more than love or pleasure, there is Truth

An Elucien Regency AU (one-shot for now?)

Read on AO3!

Rating: Explicit Word count: ~5,000 TWs: None Summary:

She could not trust anything a Vanserra said. And Lucien was, she now realized, far more dangerous than the rest; his words were sweet honey and his gaze was deadly steel. He saw her too clearly, clear enough that he might pierce the veil she’d so carefully arranged over her soul. - Behind closed doors, their families negotiate unsavory business. Elain and Lucien, who've both been deemed too soft for such dealings, find common ground with each other.

Elain was certain she could throw a spectacular dinner party, if only she had more to work with.

A lack of funds, of course, was not the issue, nor did she want for an impressive venue–though if she could have her pick, she would not have chosen to host in her brother-in-law’s ancestral estate. Some dour grandsire of Rhysand’s had designed it centuries ago to be like the venerable cathedrals at Canterbury and Westminster, less as a comfortable home and more as a place folk went to pay homage to a higher power. Newcomers were always charmed by its stained glass in narrow, arched windows, calling it “grand” and “stately” and, if they were bold, “antique.”

Yet dark as it was, the estate Elain now called home was not the reason her parties had all the cheer and charm of a wake. Fresh-picked lilies of complementary reds and oranges arranged in porcelain vases set atop the finest silk cloths all amounted to nothing, because there was only so much one could do with guests such as she’d been given lately.

It provided her some small comfort, as she watched the chandelier’s light glint in the facets of her crystal glass, to consider that this particular gathering had been doomed from the start.

It was, like all the Archeron gatherings these days, more of a business meeting than a dinner party. What sort of business that was, Elain had never been explicitly told; instead, she received nervous platitudes from Feyre and “never-you-minds” from Nesta. But Elain was not blind. She’d been there when Feyre had planned the emerald heist against her ex-fiancé–using the extensive resources of her now-husband. Elain had not been interested then, had not considered that it would actually come to fruition; but she had no delusions about what sort of illicit ventures had finally pulled them from their financial misfortunes.

Tonight’s venture featured the current source of Elain’s disappointment: ruthless crime family and dreary party guests, the Vanserra brothers.

Dinner had all the appearances of a polite affair, so long as one did not linger on the retorts that cut a bit too sharp. No one had any complaints about the food, at least, which meant Elain had achieved the bare minimum of her duty. But coaxing conversation from their guests proved to be an arduous task. Her efforts were met with suspicious frowns and one-word responses, and she gave up almost immediately. Many of their dinners relating to the business started out this way, with people who were accustomed to hiding behind their walls until trust or at least an understanding had been established. Sometimes, Elain was able to break them down. She could tell right away that she’d have no such success with the Vanserra sons.

She settled for observing them in turn with each sip from her gold-rimmed glass. There was a hierarchy among them, with the eldest at the top, though perhaps not solely due to age. For all the barbs they sank into Feyre and Rhys’s company, they turned just as often on each other, like a pack of starving dogs–all save one, who they did not give the dignity of an attack.

His name was Lucien, and he was the youngest brother, according to the briefing Feyre had given her yesterday. He seemed to favor the outdoors more than the rest, judging by his darker skin. The black eyepatch did not fully mask the brown scar that cut a jagged path down through his eye. Elain would’ve expected such a scar to upset her, to agitate her stomach in the way that the darker glimpses of these dealings sometimes did. Yet the scarring did not chill her as a bloodied dagger would, or the screams she might hear if she walked the wrong hallway at the wrong time of night. The scar was neither shield nor warning–it was history.

She’d felt a stab of guilt at first for the challenge she’d forced upon him–someone had to sit next to Nesta–but from her surreptitious glances around the table, their corner had less of that miasma of tension that seemed to hover throughout the dining room. She even saw Nesta crack a smirk or two.

When he caught one of Elain’s glances, she did not jerk her gaze away; what was the point, when she’d already been caught? Instead, she offered him a polite smile. His scarred brow quirked slightly, and he lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Feyre rose from the table first, Rhys immediately following–a unified force, as always. “Gentlemen,” she said, “if you would join us in the study.”

They all stood and quit the dining room. Normally, this is when Elain would retreat to the drawing room for some embroidery until the business in the study had concluded. Tonight, though–something ignited in her chest that made her hold her chin high. With a steadying breath, she fell in line behind the group, towards the study–

Until a broad chest blocked her way.

“Dinner was lovely, Miss Archeron, as always,” came the quiet voice of Azriel, Feyre’s brother-in-law and associate. A frown of concern marred his handsome face, but his voice held no trace of apology. “You must be tired from all the planning. Feyre can bid the guests goodnight, if you wish to retire.”

With that, he joined the others in the study. It was as perfectly respectable as one could be when shutting a door in her face.

She allowed herself a scowl and a sharp exhale. She whirled around, readying to return to the dining room and, quite needlessly, oversee the servants. She was sure she’d be calm by the time she crossed the hallway.

Except she didn’t anticipate having company.

Elain barely managed to stifle a gasp at the sight of Lucien leaning against the dining room doorway, adjusting his cufflinks and watching her. With only a blink, she regained her composure. Clasping her gloved hands in front of her, she took a few steps forward–just close enough to politely engage in conversation. She had been introduced to all of the brothers at the start of the evening, but they were both unmarried and without a chaperone, which gave her pause.

And, she supposed, he was part of a vicious criminal family. That really ought to give her pause.

She lifted a hand to gesture to the study door behind her. “Shall I knock? I am sure you do not wish to miss the discussions.”

“On the contrary, my lady, I am quite content to miss them.” He did not smile, but the suggestion of it lurked in his russet eye.

“Oh?” Her already foul mood, goaded by his seeming indifference, tugged her towards cynicism. “I suppose when one has attended so many important meetings, they must seem rather dull.”

There was nothing overtly insulting about the glance he gave, down to her feet and back up again–except that it made her feel like some prize animal being scrutinized. Elain wondered what he saw with that quick, keen eye. Would he notice her dress–its perfect fit, the fine material, the twinkling gems on the skirt and sleeve, the violet so dark she could be mistaken for a mourning widow? She’d chosen it to match Nesta’s deep crimson and Feyre’s midnight blue. She wondered if Lucien saw what she’d seen in the mirror: an ill-fitting costume. Only the spite simmering in her throat stopped her from looking away.

Though his gaze pierced as sharply as a knife, his voice was not unkind. “You mistake me, my lady. I remain here at my brother’s insistence.”

Elain could not keep the surprise from her face. Caution remained, tingling at the back of her neck; but curiosity was stronger. Her sisters would have wanted her to demure, make an excuse to leave. She took a few steps closer. “Were you not the liaison between your family and mine? Surely that earns you a seat at the discussions.”

Lucien pushed off from the doorway. Placing his hands behind his straightened back, he said, “Flattered as I am by your estimation of my importance, I must disavow you of the notion. Though my family does admit that I am the most approachable, which makes me a decent liaison.”

“Then why bring you to dinner at all?” She knew the answer: to put the Archerons at ease, to hope that a familiar face might soften their defenses. But she wondered how he might spin his purpose.

“Oh, I am only here to steal the good silver. We are thieves, after all, and I do have an eye for it.”

Elain gave a small tsk. “Then I am afraid you have dallied too long.” She gestured to the dining room behind him, cleared of all but a few bouquets, which were now being carried away. “Our staff is quite efficient, as you can see.”

“Dallied, my lady? At the scene of the crime, perhaps.” As he spoke, he reached into his jacket, and something silver flashed between his long fingers. He held it out to her: a soup spoon, from the very first course. “But I suppose it is a sorry prize, separated from its fellows. I only hope that returning it will grant me mercy from the lady of the house.”

She brought her hand up to muffle her laugh, the silk of her glove pressing into her lips. “I would not rob you of your spoils, sir. I daresay you earned it.” Straightening her shoulders, she lowered her hands to clasp again at her stomach. “As for mercy, you would have to ask my sister. I am not the lady of the house.”

Lucien tilted his head; loose strands of hair fell across his brow. He kept it unfashionably long, tied neatly at the nape of his neck. She did not blame him for wanting to keep so much of it. Its copper shades danced in the candlelight with all the glow of the sun setting behind an autumn forest. “No, but are you not its mistress?” When Elain responded with only furrowed brows, he continued, “Was it not you who orchestrated tonight’s dinner? You who selected the flowers in the exact colors of our family heraldry and brought out your finest silver?”

It was no great observance on his part–Feyre had declared her compliments to Elain at the start of the evening for arranging the dinner–but no one else had mentioned the colors. Her heart fluttered, floated up to her throat and blocked all speech. Lucien’s voice softened. “The flowers are beautiful, by the way.” They matched his hair. The ancient oak tree behind her garden would match his eye, come autumn. “Feyre told me you grow them yourself.”

“Yes,” she said, or tried to–it came out as little more than a croak. She cleared her throat and dipped her chin, the picture of modesty she’d practiced all her life to maintain. “Yes, I keep a small garden.” Whatever had caused her heart to flit up her chest had mingled with the anger lurking there, turned it into something light enough to lift her off the ground. Before the sensation had a chance to flee, she blurted out, “Would you like to see it?”

It was a ridiculous offer; the sun had long since set. Surely he knew that. Surely– “I would be delighted.”

His quick reply hurtled her back down to the earth. What a foolish idea! And dangerous, too–she could not trust anything a Vanserra said. And Lucien was, she now realized, far more dangerous than the rest; his words were sweet honey and his gaze was deadly steel. He saw her too clearly, clear enough that he might pierce the veil she’d so carefully arranged over her soul.

He offered his elbow. It was not too late. She’d feigned a sudden headache for far less than this. She need not even resort to lies, if she wished–they still had no chaperone. It was not proper. Her sisters would be horrified.

Elain took his elbow and led him outside.

—

She was only too glad to show off her garden, normally. But as she led Lucien from the gravel path and onto the grass beneath the iron archway draped in jasmine vines, she felt strangely shy. It was as if she was about to lay down a piece of her soul to be judged at Heaven’s gate.

She’d done very little weeding and pruning this summer, finding herself enchanted by the unruly sprawl that had resulted. The sweet peas were in bloom, dots of delicate pastels creeping up their wooden trellis, and the pale green buds atop the stalks of goldenrod indicated they were not far behind. Her pink roses were still producing, as were the lilies she’d harvested this morning; but it was September now, and those pinks and oranges felt like a sunset. Most of the other plants had finished blooming. Seeds nestled in spent flower heads or clinging to delicate white hairs awaited a windy day to carry them off.

All those details were but memories from the afternoon. Elain’s heart sank as she realized that Lucien could see none of it in the late twilight. The pinks were white, the oranges grey, and the seedpods only shadows in the light of the nearest lamppost.

He did try, though, leaning close to each plant, lifting his hand occasionally, as if he might touch them before thinking better of it. He got enough of a lay of the scene to comment on it, “I would not have expected to find such a garden on the grounds of that house.” He nodded back at the estate, its stone saints armed with tall spears standing atop ornately carved battlements. Most of the windows were dark, and the stained glass viewed from outside at this hour seemed like a cage for shapeless monsters.

“What would you expect instead?” she asked.

Lucien peered at her out of the corner of his eye, and Elain knew he was judging whether to be honest. His small smile set butterflies loose in her stomach. “A haunted cemetery, perhaps.”

The laugh burst from her before she had a chance to stifle it. She lowered her gaze to the well-trodden grass. “The nearest cemetery is far from here, and if any ghosts haunt these grounds, they’ve not made themselves known to me.”

His attention had caught on the potted shrub in one corner of the garden, set far enough from the hedge that it escaped most of the shade. A single flower remained, standing bold amidst the broad, dark leaves: five round petals, a vivid red at the center that bled out into pale pink. Lucien tilted his head. “I’m not familiar with this one. Is it from the Americas?”

“Asia,” she corrected. “It’s a hibiscus. Feyre bought it for me after–” After Elain had overheard a particularly dreadful interrogation session; Feyre had discovered her pale and trembling, and the plant had arrived the next evening. It had come from a steamy greenhouse in London, where Elain had commented on its beauty the previous winter. She drew in a deep, silent breath through her nose before continuing, “It’s a tropical plant.”

She could stop there. She might have, if Lucien did not watch her silently with curiosity simmering in his gaze. “It won’t survive the winter. It cannot withstand the frost.”

“Could it be moved inside?”

“In that house?” Dry and drafty, with its best windows facing east? “I’m afraid it would do little good. It may survive, but it would not thrive. A greenhouse would serve it far better.”

Lucien frowned. “Does your sister know she gifted you a doomed plant?”

“I would not trouble her with something so trivial.”

“Are your plants trivial to you, then?” There was a challenge in his voice. A dare. He wanted to watch her as she lied.

She smiled instead, a placid gesture that did not reach her eyes. “Feyre has sacrificed so much for this family. She would have been well within her right to leave us to rot in the streets. Instead, she allowed us into her husband’s home. I will not ask more of her than I already have. Because I know that she would do it. She would grant me anything, if it lay in her power to do so.”

“Anything except a seat in that study.”

He’d seen, then. Seen how they’d shut the door in her face. Elain lifted her chin. “She knows I find it distasteful.”

“Then why seek to join them?”

Her shoulders tensed, and she felt like a cat with raised hackles backed against a wall. She was well within her rights to walk away, to warn the staff of this guest who was too curious for his own good, to retire to her rooms where she was safe from uncomfortable questions. But he’d drawn too much out of her already, and she would not let him win that insight without a fight. Because she did have reasons. It was not mere petulance; it was being pulled down a path she’d not chosen, a fate that had been decided for her. It was feeling alone in a room full of people. “I am a part of this family. I should be allowed to help.”

“Or be allowed the choice to decline.”

She didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure she could, with the weight of his perception upon her. She felt at once small and far, far too visible.

Lucien sighed and looked away. “My family thinks I am soft. That I do not possess the hardened heart that is often required for their line of work. My place is to arrange meetings but not to participate. I am given as little information as possible, lest guilt or sympathy loosen my tongue and put everything at risk.” He met her shocked gaze with a small bow of his head.

He’d broken into a small corner of her soul, and in recompense had offered up a piece of his own.

“And is your family right about you?” she asked.

He drew his finger along the underside of the hibiscus flower. “In a sense, yes. But if I am too soft for their dirty work, I am also too cowardly to break away from it. It makes me the worst of them.”

Elain joined him beside the hibiscus. She wondered if the plant knew its death was so near. If it could, would it crawl on desperate roots like some fairytale tree back to the jungles of its ancestors? Or would it wait in its pot, certain that someone would come along and fix the world around it, keep the frost at bay until spring?

Elain shrugged. “We could always report them to the authorities.”

Lucien heaved a sigh. “Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. Your brother-in-law has bribed or blackmailed half of Parliament, and my family has the rest.”

“Establish our own rival crime syndicate, then?”

“Now there’s an idea. Why, with you in charge, we’d need not resort to anything either of us find distasteful.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He came no closer, but the slice of his cunning smile sent a spear of heat down her spine. “You’d need only bat your eyelashes at the right people, and you could walk home with the crown jewels and not a drop of blood spilled.”

“You flatter me, sir, but you do exaggerate.” As she spoke, she ran her gloved fingers along the top of her bodice. The stays beneath felt suddenly far too constricting–like that house, like the role she played in it.

“A test, then. Try it on me. Ask me to do something unwise. Something I ought to refuse.”

“Have I not already done that?” She’d meant to say the words with cheek and charm; but they came out hushed. “Unwed and unchaperoned, and yet you followed me into this garden.”

“Followed?” The smile faded from his lips but remained sparking in his eyes. “I rather thought I was led here.”

Blood pounded in her ears as she tried to summon fear or even the barest shreds of caution. But he was not the hunter. He was not the one luring prey. He’d only walked into the trap with eyes wide open.

Lucien advanced on her, and she backed away, their steps in sync as if it were a dance. Elain let a smile tease at her lips to coax him forward even as she retreated slowly, methodically, into the darkest corner of the garden and the bench that waited there.

She stopped beside the bench. “Won’t you sit awhile, sir?”

He lowered his face until it was level with hers. “How could I refuse such hospitality?”

She lifted her hand. Through the glove she felt the warmth of his lips upon her knuckles, lingering far longer than was proper. But it was dark, and this was her garden, and no one would tell her what was proper here.

Lucien did not release her hand as he sat on the bench. He pulled, but she was already falling. She dropped into his lap, and she barely had the chance to gasp before he seized the back of her head and kissed her.

Elain clutched his vest and tugged, as if she could bring him any closer. His tongue pushed at the seam of her lips, and she yielded with a moan. Nails scraped her scalp, sending a shudder down her spine. He clenched his hand in her hair and yanked her head back, tearing their lips apart, and she moaned again at the loss; but he’d moved instead to her neck, wet heat lapping at the tender skin where her pulse raged. She could do no more than grasp at too many layers of fabric separating her from his hard chest, whimpering when his teeth pulled at her earlobe.

When he returned his lips to hers at last, she panted against them. Her hands wandered low enough to feel his cock straining between them, trapped within his tight breeches. Elain sucked his lower lip into her mouth as she loosed the buttons of his breeches to let his cock jump free. She seized his shaft and squeezed.

A sharp breath hissed between Lucien’s teeth. He gathered her skirts up at her back, and he drew his free hand to her bottom so hard and quick that a vulgar slap filled the night air. Elain gasped. Some small part of her, still fretting and pouting in the back of her mind, thought that she should be affronted that he would touch her so roughly. Instead, the sound sent liquid heat pooling between her widespread thighs.

In the moonlight and distant lamps’ glow, she saw Lucien flash a smirk. He squeezed her bottom, murmuring, “Has anyone touched you like this before?”

It was easy to dismiss it as male pride, but through the haughty smile, she also heard the question beneath it. It wasn’t a question she wanted to linger on, but she understood why he’d asked. “Not like this.” Not with her perched atop strong thighs, not with her clothes and her gloves on, not with eyes so open. She leaned forward, his cock still firm in her grip, and she pressed it against her stomach as she whispered into his ear, “Never like this.” She shifted her hips and pushed his cock down, so she could drag her wet slit along the length of him.

A guttural groan rumbled in his throat. He kissed her again as he pulled her bodice down, exposing her breasts to the chill night air, and circled her nipple with his thumb. She arched into the touch, still rolling her clit against his throbbing cock. He was thick, and she was wet, and as exquisite as this felt, she wanted more. She wanted.

Lucien gripped her hip to hold her still as he slipped a finger between them. Elain sucked in a sharp breath as his finger curled inside her. She rose onto her knees to give him better access, rose because she felt untethered from the ground. It had been so long. She’d not even realized it before now, that she’d not even touched herself in weeks for want of any desire.

“How shall I repay your hospitality, my lady?” His words blew hot against her ear as he pushed another finger into her.

Elain whined and thrust against him. Grasping his arm, she felt his bicep flex with each pulse of his hand. Though she throbbed around him, could’ve easily pumped on his fingers until she found her release, she forced herself still, long enough to hold his gaze as she breathed, “Fuck me.”

His response was little more than a growl. He drew his fingers out, and she cried out at the loss–but the cry dissolved into a shuddering sob of relief when he pulled her hips down and thrust his own up, filling her with his cock.

“God,” she gasped, her head rolling back.

Her hands on his shoulders, Elain allowed herself to rise and fall slowly along his length, savoring the feel of him once, twice. Lucien groaned and squeezed her ass. She leaned forward to bite his ear, to run her gloved fingers through his hair. She smiled at the mess she’d made of it. “Is this to your liking, my lord?”

She felt the barest scrape of teeth at her neck before he spoke, “Your work is ruthless, lady.”

“Work? Is this–” Her own cry cut her off–his thumb had found her clit. “Is this work to you, then?”

“No,” he replied with a sonorous chuckle. His free hand took her chin and tilted it so he could whisper in her ear, “It is torture.” She felt his smile as he pressed his lips to her neck. “Did you want me to fuck you? Or did you want to only give me a taste and watch me starve?” His thumb had quickened, worked her mercilessly. “I am not greedy, of course. So long as I can watch you come.”

Elain realized she’d gone still beneath his touch, senseless against him rubbing her clit even as he filled her, making the night spin around her. Even this was too much sensation; she feared how completely she’d come undone if she went further.

She squeezed his shoulders and jerked her hips, moaning as she began to ride him. Her breasts bounced atop her bodice. Lucien slapped her ass again, then kept his hand there, matching the rhythm of her hips as he squeezed and pulled her down forcefully onto him.

“That's it,” he rasped, his eye locked onto her face with a predator’s focus, “let me see you come.”

Elain leaned back, bracing herself on his muscled thighs, giving him better access to her clit. She couldn’t speak, could only let out an unbroken moan that changed in pitch each time she dropped onto him. She was a wanton fool, out here with her breasts thrust up to the open sky, bouncing on a stranger's cock. A reckless fool. She’d never felt such ecstasy.

Lucien said her name, murmured it like it was a sacred thing, and she screamed to the stars as she came.

She hardly noticed herself falling, maybe because his hand at her back kept her from striking the ground too hard, maybe because his cock was still inside her. He was above her now, all composure on his face chased away by feral hunger. He seized her hips and pounded into her throbbing cunt, and she didn’t know if the pulses of lightning pleasure were all the same orgasm or if he was coaxing them out, one after the other.

With a low groan, he pulled out of her to spill his seed onto the soil. Elain went limp, as if she, too, could sink into the earth.

Lucien tilted his head back, breathing deeply of the cool night air, and his thumb idly traced circles on her bare thigh. Fear shot through her like an icy blade. She was a scant minute removed from fucking him on a garden bench, but that simple movement of his fingers running gently over her skin felt too intimate, exposed them both in a way she’d not prepared for when she’d drawn him into this quiet corner.

As if sensing her thoughts, or perhaps the sudden tension in her limbs, Lucien pulled his hand away. He stood and averted his eyes as she pulled the fabric back over her breasts–both of them pretending that he'd not been the one to yank them free in the first place.

He offered a hand to help her up; perfectly acceptable, as if he was helping her exit a carriage. She did not take his arm as they walked in silence back inside.

Not a moment too soon, either–they entered the main hall just as the study door clicked open.

They were near enough to a staircase that Elain could slip away. No one would look for her anyway.

“I thank you for the company, Lady Archeron,” Lucien murmured.

“This cannot happen again,” was Elain’s whispered reply. The words came out in a rush before she had time to consider them; she had to be quick, else the fluttering in her chest might have reached her lips and been made tangible. It was better this way, she told herself. Let this night become ephemera, mere sensation drifting through her dreams only to vanish with the sunrise, never to trouble her with what might be.

Glancing sidelong, she could not quite gauge his reaction; the half of his face she could see had his scarred eye, which revealed nothing beneath its patch. There was tension in his lips, in the flex of his jaw.

But his voice was even, polite. Emotionless. “Good night, my lady.”

Elain scurried into the shadows but did not run upstairs, as she’d intended. She peered around the corner as Lucien stepped forward to meet his brothers and bid farewell to the others. Before any of them noticed his approach, he paused beside a table that held austere marble busts of Rhysand’s ancestors, and without a sound placed the silver spoon there.

The eldest, Eris, met Lucien's gaze and jerked his head to indicate their departure. Lucien followed and did not look back.

“Did you swipe their cutlery?” Eris asked, loud enough for all to hear.

Lucien shrugged. “I decided the quality was not worth the effort. It seems they keep their greatest treasures locked away.”

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction

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dilfiam-afton · 11 months

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Altschmerz

Squidnuudel!William Afton x Reader

^ reference picture at the bottom end of story!

William thought he had left the insecurity about his looks in the past..

Tw; mention of masturbation, non-sexual nudity

GENDER NEUTRAL

William had always put a lot of effort into his looks; hair well styled, body hair trimmed and shaved, fancy outfits, manicures, hell, this man even polishes his shoes! You, however had made the mistake of chalking all of his extensive self-care up to vanity or perhaps even arrogance. If only you knew how wrong you were.

You were once again watching your lover promptly standing in front of the big mirror in your shared masterbedroom, closely eyeing himself up and down. He scrunched his face upon looking at his body, slowly lifting his chin, revealing the scars on his neck. The pained look on his face turned into a charismatic smirk as he saw you in the reflection. Giggling, you approached the older man, holding him from behind, letting your head rest on his broad back. "What's wrong, princess? Is your under-eye concealer creasing again?" you joked before pressing a kiss to his back, earning an off-sounding sigh from William. For a mere second you peeked into the mirror from behind his back, and felt your heart sink as you realized he wasn't looking at himself endearingly but sorrowful.

The man chuckled deeply before replying "oh I wish." He brought a hand up to his face, tugging down on his cheek to temporarily rid himself of the wrinkles under his eye and now, more whispered than properly repeated "I wish."

And oh how it pained you to see him like that. "William?" "Yeah?" you now stood next to him, getting on your tippy-toes to cradle his face in your hands "I love you", pressing gentle kisses all over his aged face as your thumbs caressed his cheeks. "I love you so much.." you whispered to him over, and over and over again. William let out a little chuckle "sure don't hear this on the daily" he simply replied. Did it hurt your feelings? Yes, yes it did. But you knew your dearest wasn't the best at expressing his feelings. And yet you found yourself giggling once again as he leaned over to press a firm kiss to your nose. You cheered him up, if only temporarily.

~ Timeskip, 5 days later ~

William had just returned from work, and per usual he had hurried off to the bathroom for his daily after-work shower. You had found yourself rather needy for affection today so why not join him, you thought. Like the sneaky little thing you were, you quickly made your way to the bathroom as well, now standing in front of your large walk-in shower like god had made you.

For a rather long second you were debating now on if you ACTUALLY wanted to join your beloved, as you suspected he was...let's say enjoying himself. William was facing you with his back, head tilted downwards, one hand running up and down himself and letting out soft sighs every now and then. Eh, fuck it you stepped in, running a single finger up his spine. William turned around as quickly as ever but to your surprise it wasn't his erect member in his hands, no. It was a roll of belly-chub! Come to think of it, his eyes and nose looked red and puffy. Has he...been crying? Oh yes he definetely had. "What a lovely surprise." He quickly spoke, trying to hide his tears by tilting his head back under the shower head, letting water run down his face. "What's wrong?" the man sighed. "I'm just not who I used to be. Already grey at the roots, not a single hair spared. Heck, I even debated botox for my wrinkles!" he let out and awkward laugh "and as for the rest of me? I have gained quite some fluff, don't you think?" well, yea..he did. But you weren't gonna tell him that!

"Matter of fact I find you very attractive." "Nonsense." You felt helpless, what were you supposed to do?? "You'd be stunned if only you knew how many young women fawn over old men as long as they posess a little wealth." Being helpless now turned into absolute disbelief. "You can't seriously accuse me of using you for money." panick rising within you, afraid he'll leave you because of a false assumption he had made, deciding he'd rather die alone than with someone who only wants him for his money. "William I-" a sob escapting your throat, cutting you off. "Why would you ever think that?" "Why now Y/N we both know I'm not attractive, never was. And we're also both very well aware that I'm not of the best character either. Actually developing feelings for me is simply-" he paused for a brief second "very unlikely to say the least." and that's when it hit you- Your William wasn't some arrogant snob just trying to look as posh as possible, he was insecure! "That's not true! Please William, I do love you!" your voice was trembling. The older man let out a defeated sigh "I wish I could believe you my Darling. I really wish I could." he pulled you in for a hug. You immidiately started running one hand up and down his back whilst letting the other gently caress his happy-trail. You earned another sigh from William as he pressed his lips against your forehead. His voice now a faint whisper "I love you so much, Y/N. Please let it be true." You nodded as you wrapped your arms around his neck, practically forcing him into a kiss.

After your shower you both had gone to bed early, falling asleep snuggled up in eachothers arms.

Picture like promised!! The art belongs to @6simp_nuudel9 on instagram!

#fnaf x reader #william afton #william afton x reader #fnaf #fnaf fanfic #fnaf imagines #dilfiam afton #fnaf william afton #peepaw willy

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shiigures-a · 10 months

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EXTENSIVE SCAR RELATED PROMPTS

( accepting )

@sozokami said: ❝ you don’t have to tell me how you got it. i just wanted to see. ❞ from zoro.

Cleaning swords had made it impossible for Tashigi to use the gloves she chose to wear on a daily basis and the marine had to remove them to properly handle the hilt while making sure the blade didn't move against any exposed skin.

However, that made it so that the scars on her hands, especially the one that gripped Shigure all the time, appear. Something that Tashigi herself weren't too happy with as these were mainly due to her being clumsy with the swords when the marine was in her younger years or the countless times Tashigi had fallen down stairs by accident, the sharp edges of wood accidently grazing her unprotected hands.

Namely, these were not warrior wounds or tales of adventures. It was her failures of the self and not paying attention. Frankly embarrassing and Tashigi wanted to keep it that way, especially to a certain mosshead.

But fate wasn't that kind and Zoro had wandered up to the marine during the cleaning process and stared directly at the girl's hands, zeroing in on them like a display or something. The nonverbal cue irked her to no end. Puffing up a little, clearly upset and flustered by anyone appearing while she was a little vulnerable, Tashigi quickly went into defense mode.

"It's not like I would had told you anyways Roronoa. My hands aren't that fascinating for you to stare at them like that. More importantly, are you lost? Is that why you are looking at me in the first place? If so, I'll help you out, just let me finish up here and put my gloves back on".

Still, even when Tashigi was trying to hurry up, Zoro kept staring at her hands. Waiting for her to talk about it? Yeah, out of the question for now.

#sorry not sorry about the stairs thing but Tashigi is immune to stairs; it's canon;;#long post tw #long post cw #scars cw #scars tw #also she shy about this zoro xD #of course she isn't gonna tell you;;#sozokami #sozokami; zoro;;#girl is very clearly upset at herself about being clumsy;;#this is one of those occasions;;#EXTENSIVE SCAR RELATED PROMPTS meme;;#[ so you want to know about swords do you? ANSWERED ASK ]

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gazs-blue-hat · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 3: “Make it stop” (Kyle Garrick x Reader)

Summary: After being considered MIA for three weeks, the 141 receives a CD, where Kyle must face his worst nightmare.

Word Count: 1,084

Tw: Mentions of torture, Brainwashing, Emotional Abuse (LMK if I missed any)

Gaz was beside himself with anger when the rookie told him that you had been left behind. It was a simple mission, not even the most dangerous one you’ve been on! But the rookie was spooked and saw you get shot in the vest and fall. They had run to exfil and said you were lost.

Your radio still worked and there was a whole slurry of messages left by you after the exfil team had left. Because of one stupid mistake of a rookie too fresh for the field, you were now considered MIA.

When he had gone to the place you said you would be, there was the note. It was scribbled in poor English but the message was clear enough.

“Five hundred thousand Euros or she dies.” There was a written on the bottom of the page, a bank account they could wire the money to. Of course…141 doesn’t make deals with terrorists, much less petty pirates. They trusted you to escape them.

Big mistake.

141 wasn’t the only group they had messaged. AQ units were more than happy to pay the pirates their ransom for a great prize such as yourself. A member of 141 and someone they knew helped put down their old leader, Hadir.

They worked as quickly as they could to find you, calling in favors and pulling on threads. It was week three of you missing that the CD came to base. There was no address on it, no clear sign of where it had come from, but it was clear WHO it came from.

The team all knew what was on the disk. It was pretty clear what horrific thing was etched on that little silver circle.

Price brought everybody into his office, the monitors turned around to face the room. A small ‘play’ button was etched on the screen. Kyle felt his heart drop into his stomach.

No…not his star. Not his shooting star.

These videos were reserved for political figures and tragic prisoners of war. Not…you.

“Kyle…you don’t have to be here for this son.” Price said in the most gentle voice 141 had heard from him. Kyle shook his head, he had to be there. He had to see you. Just…one last time.

Simon put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t even have to. Kyle understood what the man from Manchester was trying to say. He understood, what it was like to watch someone you love fade away. He would stand with Kyle until Kyle couldn’t anymore.

Simon squeezed gently on his shoulder as Kyle took a deep breath and pressed the play button.

The video was done with startling quality. Cinematic lighting illuminated your face and Kyle had to take a step back at the sight.

Your face was bruised and broken so badly it didn’t even look like you anymore. One of your eyes was swollen completely shut and your nose looked more like someone had smushed ground beef on your face.

“141…Captain Price. I never expected one of your pets to be caught so easily. I also never expected you to NOT want them back. Usually, masters are protective over pets as well as they are. The Spectre…almost as good as having the Ghost, no?” The voice was automated, sent through a scrambler to warp and shift the voice. However, the Russian accent was clearly understood even through the tech.

Kyle was trembling, his fists balled at his side. He could see how weak you were, how much they had hurt you. Scabs and half-healed scars covered your exposed body, marking it so deeply that hardly any of your original skin color was visible.

The skin he loves to touch, to caress, and to kiss. Skin he once marked with hickeys and love bites where nobody else could see. It broke him deep inside to see various marks on your body that would look like the ones you begged HIM to give you.

Your torture had been extensive.

“Well…any last words for your companions?” The voice warbled behind you. You firmly clamped your jaw shut and it was obviously out of place.

“Kyle…” Johnny’s voice, another hand on his shoulder. Kyle didn’t move, didn’t look away from the screen. He had to watch. He had to.

“They could have made it stop…” The words spoken from your mouth were slurred and exhausted. You looked utterly broken, tired, and done.

“That’s right Angel. They could have made it stop. But they didn’t, and for that…you’ll make them pay..” there was a shift in your demeanor then, a loosening in your body as a shadowed figure came behind you, running their hands over your weary shoulders.

Kyle bit his cheek so hard he tasted copper. Simon’s hand tightened on his shoulder as Kyle shook with hardly-contained rage. He had his brothers next to him, he would be able to get through this.

“Son…if you want to step out, nobody is going to “

“I have to, Sir. I owe it to them…” The response came out sharper than he intended it to but Price didn’t comment on it. He knew about the relationship he had with you, and he knew how Kyle needed this experience no matter how much it was going to hurt.

It was then that you looked up at the camera and started to blink. It seemed rather nonsensical at first but after a while, he was able to make sense of it.

“They’re…blinking in Morse…” he said softly. Price nodded, already writing down your message.

“Murmansk. Facility in the ice. Brainwashing.” Before Price could continue, Johnny had already stormed out of the room, making a verbal list of all the materials he would need to ‘blow that place sky high’.

The shadowy figure caressed your shoulders, pressing kisses along your neck. Kyle felt his nails pierce his palms. He didn’t like anybody looking at you, much less TOUCHING you.

“Easy…they’re still talking…” Simon grumbled in his ear. Kyle looked up at the screen and his caramel eyes met yours.

“Love you. See you soon, K.G.G.”

That name made butterflies flutter in Kyle’s torso. You weren’t broken, you were just pretending to be. He could see the fire burning in your eyes and that fire sparked his own.

He would get you back. He would get you back and remind you how much he loved you.

He was coming, and you knew he would get you.

He always came to get you.

#whumptober #kyle gaz garrick x reader #call of duty

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acosmicdisappointment · 2 months

Text

— enzo.

is that EMILIO SAKRAYA? oh, no, that’s LORENZO "ENZO" PERNAS, a TWENTY-SIX year old PERSONAL TRAINER AT GIMNASIO O2 AIRE who uses HE/HIM pronouns. they currently live in LAS TIERRAS DEL SOL IN QUILPUÈ, and the character they identify with most is THOR ODINSON FROM THE MCU. hopefully they find their own little paradise here in el país de los poetas!

BASICS.

FULL NAME. lorenzo pernas NICKNAME(S). enzo, zolo, lorry (ONLY by his mother) AGE/BIRTHDAY/ZODIAC. 26 / august 16th / leo SEXUALITY. bicurious BIRTHPLACE. berlin, germany HEIGHT. 6'1" EYE COLOR. dark brown ILLNESSES/CONDITIONS. a charismatic manipulative asshole TATTOOS/PIERCINGS/SCARS. eyebrow piercing (left), chest tattoos, minor scars from boxing (faint scar near his left eyebrow now covered by a piercing; facial scar (right side), knuckle scars, large scar from his right shoulder across his back now covered by tattoos) FC. emilio sakraya

PERSONALITY.

fiercely protective brave charismatic loud insensitive arrogant

HISTORY.

tw: manipulation, parental neglect if you will, body image — Enzo was a product of yet another forbidden romance between a wealthy married businessman and a singer/waitress. His father was a well-known charismatic yet manipulative public figure while his mother was a simple and humble individual. At that time, his mother wasn't aware of his father's other family (or that they were the other family) — He witnessed firsthand the power of manipulation. His father used guilt trips, gaslighting, and emotional blackmail to control those around him. He kept telling her that he would leave his family for them but he really wouldn’t. — As a child, Enzo became adept at reading people, understanding their vulnerabilities, and exploiting them to his advantage. This early exposure to manipulation shaped Enzo's worldview, leading him to believe that manipulating others was a necessary skill for survival (yikes) — Enzo constantly fought for affection and attention from his father. This struggle has left him with a deep-seated need for control and validation. — Moving to Valparaiso made it harder for Enzo to win his father's favor. The good boy act obviously didn’t work so he did the total opposite. — Enzo became a little reckless and he found out he thrived on attention. He enjoyed the thrill of keeping people guessing about his intentions, often blurring the lines between friendship and something more. Enzo was skilled at creating a sense of intimacy without ever truly committing, leaving those around him unsure of where they stood. — Enzo's inability to be clear about his boundaries left his partners feeling uncertain about where they stood, leading to misunderstandings and heartache (hi luna) — Somewhere in the middle of all that, Enzo found his love for fitness. The work he does for his body is an extension of his mask. He learned that if he works hard enough, he can use that appearance as leverage to get what he wants and he can use that to further whatever serves his narrative.

EXTRAS.

to read to see to listen

HEADCANONS.

— almost ALWAYS loses his keys (don’t ask him why) — would be the type to randomly challenge you to a fight (literally anywhere and anytime) — absolutely LOVES TO EAT (gym bod who?) — but is allergic to shrimp (the maximum he can eat is 6 pieces) — knows how to sing and play the guitar (y’know boy's down bad when he serenades his partner) — a big attention whore (srsly give him attention and you automatically got him hooked) — often goes shirtless (a way for him to show his bod, he's cocky like that i hate him) — just got back from Germany (he's still trying to get his father's attention poor boy)

WANTED CONNECTIONS/PLOTS.

tortured man club — a little group chat of men who strive to be better both as a partner and a person (or not who knows) enemies — sigh hello to the members of the 'enlozers (enzo is a loser) club™' make him your villain idc ride or die — enzo's a great friend if you give him a chance more tbd! you can definitely slide into my dms to plot

#valpohqintro #➷ — enzo: not so prince charming #enlozers (enzo is a loser) club™

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aldbooks · 1 year

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helloI stopped by to say hello and ask you for a scene from Lucien and Elain.Whatever you want to share ❤️❤️ If it's about love, much better 😂😂😜I love how you write ❤️❤️❤️

You were probably hoping for some fluff but…. It’s me.

TW: depictions of anxiety/PTSD, SA

—-

Elain pushed through the crowd of half drunk faeries searching desperately for an escape from the overly friendly male who was, even now, dogging her heels, like a blood hound on the scent of it's prey.

He had approached her where she stood in a corner of the dancefloor, observing the couples that spun and twirled across the room in a sea of sparkling color, smiling to herself. He stepped far too close to be considered appropriate for a stranger she'd not even been introduced to, placing a proprietary hand on her back as he asked if she'd like to dance. When she had tried to demure, sidling out of his touch, he'd followed, seemingly unperturbed by her reticence. In fact, it only seem to encourage him and he continued to press his suit until she, quite literally, ran from him. Even then, he had followed, though his words and his tone had turned decidedly menacing as he spat curses and insults at her for 'daring to deny him'. This only pushed her feet faster.

As she moved through the crowd, she looked around for someone to intervene. The swirling darkness she had expected to appear not long after the male had first appeared had never come and she'd eventually spotted Azriel on the opposite side of the room. He looked to be in a quiet but heated argument with a red haired female in priestess robes. Alright, so the Shadowsinger, and apparently his shadows, were both distracted. No help from that quarter.

Rhysand and Cassian were both fully wrapped up in their mates, so neither they nor her sisters would be of any help as she was sure they were all oblivious to the world around them, or even that there were other people in it. Amren was perched in Varian's lap, dangerously close to making a public spectacle and Mor... was nowhere to be seen.

Interspersed among the crowd she saw a few familiar faces, random courtiers and warriors, even Helion, though she didn't know any of them well enough to hope for their intervention.

She could feel the male behind her growing increasingly belligerent as he attempted to close the gap between them and, just when she'd begun to despair of finding any help, she caught a glimpse of familiar red, just before she nearly slammed into his massive body.

Her racing heart stuttered in her chest as large, warm hands wrapped around her arms, steadying her, and she blinked up into the most beautiful face she'd ever seen, the features so starkly handsome, even the ragged scar through his left eye could not detract from their appeal.

"Elain?" auburn brows pushed together in concern as Lucien looked down at her. She could feel it through the bond, the urge to protect that he so ruthlessly kept in check. Normally, she appreciated his restraint, but right now...

She heard the male approaching behind her, his words so filthy, they drew gasps from those around him. She saw Lucien glance up and and behind her in surprise and- well, when asked about it later, she could not have said what made her do it, but suddenly her hands were wrapped around the lapels of his jacket, drawing his attention back to her as she muttered an apology and then.... she kissed him.

---

Lucien felt the insistent tug, both on his person and through the ties that bound them together and felt his body respond to her call before he could process what was happening. The moment her lips touched his, he froze.

It was, perhaps, the strangest feeling he'd ever encountered, and not even his extensive vocabulary seemed able to find the words to describe it. One part of him, the part that was bound to her, rejoiced, urging him to meet her demand, to take her in his arms and devour her.

Another part, one that, perhaps, had not healed as thoroughly as he'd thought- or rather, the part of him that had opted to forget rather than process the memories that haunted him, surged forward in a torrent of vicious emotion. Anger, disgust, self-loathing. This was not happening. Not again. She could not have him again.

She's dead. Some voice in the back of his mind rushed to say. It is not her, she's gone. You're safe. She will never touch you again. He could still hear the sickening crush of bone and flesh as the rock smashed her hand...

Still, he could not stop his mind's reaction as it fought to overpower the demands of his body. Ice crept through his veins, extinguishing the fire and he fought a wave of sickness.

Some other, small part of him was miraculously aware of his surroundings as it tried to process what was happening and why. He felt his left eye scanning his surroundings until it honed in on a male standing a few feet behind her. The one he'd seen only a moment ago, striding up behind her in a black rage. He'd recognized the look on his face, had seen it more than he'd cared to on his father's face when he'd come for his mother. Slowly, anger swept through him, replacing both the lust and the dread, as he began to piece together what had led them to this moment.

His hands, seemingly of their own accord, had made their way to her waist and he forced himself into a relaxed appearance, as though he had expected her, while he waited for the male to leave. As soon as he had, Lucien stepped back, hastily releasing her.

Elain seemed to stumble forward slightly, blinking up at him with a dazed expression. "Wha-?" The half finished word sounded more like a breathless exhale and he desperately tried to compose himself, refusing to let himself touch her again, despite the yearning in his chest. He could barely look at her as shame at his remembered humiliation warred in him, heating the skin of his neck to a flush.

"He's gone," he managed to rasp, feeling bile burn the back of his throat. He felt himself scanning the room for the quickest exit. He needed to get out. Now.

"What?" she repeated. He braved a quick glance at her, seeing her eyes clear as she blinked at him in confusion.

"The male who was following you. He's gone."

"Oh!" She started, glancing behind her as though she'd forgotten why she'd run to him in the first place. He could not even contemplate at the moment why she had run to him of all people and not one of her sisters, or the Shadowsinger she seemed so fond of. Truthfully, he couldn't contemplate much of anything right now beyond a hasty retreat. "Thank you."

Her words drew his attention briefly back to her as she frowned up at him. Whether it was concern, or something else, he didn't bother to find out. Years of training and good breeding allowed him to bow and offer a brief 'happy to be of service', before he turned on his heel and fled. At least his manners had not failed him in that.

He thought he might have heard her say something else, might have heard his name, but he paid it no mind as he stumbled out into the night air, the memories he'd managed to hold at bay before, now flooded him as he fell against a tree. The moment his hands touched the bark, he was no longer in the Night Court, but in the forests of Spring. Hands bound by the cursed blue stone, chained to the trunk of a tree, unable to free himself, helpless to do anything but watch as she smiled at him, the curve of her lips feline as she prowled closer, intent on having her way once again...

---

Once more, Elain found herself pushing through the crowd on a chase, only this time, she was not the one being pursued.

The moment their lips had met, she'd been overwhelmed by a desperate need unlike any she'd ever felt before. It had taken her by surprise and she'd nearly not been able to control herself as she felt the fierce tug of the bond, pulling her towards him. Some other sense, however, had managed to clear the fog in her mind enough to register that, not only was he not kissing her back, but he'd gone completely rigid.

She'd felt his hands on her waist, and had felt his body rearrange itself into a casual stance, but she'd still felt the tension radiating through him. Had felt the odd mix of emotions that were practically blasting through the bond. Lust, fear, want, anger, desire, disgust- shame.

He'd let her go so abruptly, she nearly stumbled into him again but he made no move to right her this time. She blinked up at him, trying to clear the mess of thoughts in her mind as she tried to process his mood, it was still a jumble she could not interpret, nor was his demeanor. To anyone else, he would have appeared utterly unfazed, coolly detached even. But she could see the tightness in his jaw, the paleness of his skin, even as a blush tried to overtake his features. She noticed that he would not look at her as she felt a steady pulse of shame from him. Like he'd done something wrong and feared her judgment. It made her heart ache.

Before she could even begin to guess why he felt that way, he'd excused himself, making a beeline for the door. Without thought, she followed him.

Outside, she watched with growing concern as his body weaved back and forth, his gait unsteady. When he stumbled into a tree, her steps sped up into a run as he all but crashed to his knees, retching in the grass.

She dropped to his side, reaching for him and nearly yelped when he flinched away from her so violently he nearly knocked her over. He scrambled away from her, his back pressing against the tree, which he clung to. "No," he snarled, the words half pleading. His eyes though... they seemed to look right through her, as though they weren't seeing her at all.

When she reached for him again, she felt a heavy wave of magic roll over her. She did not even have time to feel fear or panic at the return of the power she'd thought was dormant, before a vision overtook her, more clear than anything she'd seen before.

She was in another forest, greener, lusher, warmer. She could feel the rough scrape of bark against her back as she struggled against something. Glancing down, she saw blue stone cuffs at her wrist, attached to a thick chain lashed to the tree at her back, meant to keep her in place. Could feel the foul magic that pulsed from them, snuffing out her own power and making her feel, sick, empty.

A lilting, feminine voice spoke nearby and she looked up into the face of a startlingly beautiful woman with clear blue eyes and thick blond hair that spilled from beneath the hood of her robe, but beauty held no desire for her. All she felt was disgust as she reached out, running her hand on Elain's body only- it wasn't her body. As she looked down again, she saw the tips of flaming red hair, the flat, muscled planes of her chest where her shirt was undone, saw the laces of her pants already undone, the female's second hand attempting to tug them free.

"No," the words left her mouth on a deep, masculine, rasp and nausea rolled though her as she understood, with startling clarity, that what she was seeing was not a vision of the future, but a memory of the past. Lucien's memory.

Nausea churned her gut as she was forced to watch, as she felt the fear and humiliation that suffocated his frantic mind. Felt the utter degradation of a male so strong, brought low in an instant, his body no longer his own, the control entirely out of his hands. He was powerless.

She could hear the words he said to her, his desperate attempts to stop what now seemed inevitable. "I'm a mated male now." Those words had meant something to him, even then, even when he hadn't known her.

The rest came in fragments. The relief when Feyre had appeared, followed swiftly by oily shame. The horror laced with a hint of satisfaction as Feyre had punished the female. The dawning realization of just how much power Rhysand had once held over him- what someone with that power might have made him do...

She felt his disgust as he recounted his prior interactions with Ianthe, the way he tried to justify what had happened, tried to make it easier for himself to process the wrongness of it.

"Please don't tell Elain."

Mercifully, the memory released her then, in truth, she felt like she'd been thrust back into her own body to find her cheeks wet with tears and a sour taste in her mouth. Lucien still stared at her, pale and trembling slightly, but he seemed to have calmed somewhat, seemed to be present once more as he watched her warily, waiting for her reaction. She wasn't sure how he knew what she'd seen, maybe it was obvious on her face.

Slowly, so slowly, she inched forward. He held himself very still but did not flinch this time as she reached for him, softly brushing her fingers over his cheek.

"Lucien." His name was a uneven breath. A broken sigh of sympathy as she began to add more pieces to the puzzle that was her mate.

For a long, quiet moment, neither of them said anything as he reached back for her and she, for once, allowed him to hold her, allowed them both to take comfort in the thread that tied them both together and she reflected on what she knew of him.

It disturbed her to find so much of herself reflected in him- this strong, steady male who ached to be loved and accepted just as she did. To not be alone even when surrounded by others.To be seen and understood.

Another broken dreamer.

#elucien #elain x lucien #elain and lucien #anon ask #tw: sa

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