#A life for a life. A wraith for a breath. au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

comatosebunny09 · 13 days ago

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and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, reader implied to be femme, reader’s shorter than sylus, slice of life, slow burn, mild language, mentions of blood & injury, mutual pining, cannibalism joke, romantic & sexual tension, jealousy, this part’s a series of flashbacks, period comfort & talk, ~5k wc tracklist: nothing - milena fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 5

“Here?”

He eyed the twins in the rearview mirror through expensive, tinted lenses, lifting a dubious brow from the backseat.

Through years of employing them, he learned to read their silence, having held them closer than anyone else in the syndicate he constructed from blood, corruption, and deceit.

He picked up on every micro-shift of their muscles—the flex of Luke’s fingers on the steering wheel, Kieran’s breath catching like he was holding something in.

They exchanged a look, their intentions hidden behind beaked masks. It was as if they were communicating telepathically, quietly poking at their boss’ plight.

Sylus didn’t need X-ray vision to know they were stifling their laughter.

“Here,” Luke parroted, his amusement as evident as the sky stretched an obnoxious shade of blue overhead.

Kieran turned in the passenger seat, leaning back on the dash and flourishing his fingers like he’d just presented macaroni art to a parent.

That didn’t bode well.

When would he learn to stop letting the twins pick out places for him to lie low?

Sylus had experienced a lot of things in his existence—the worst of men, rot, hellfire. He’d seen more red than a morgue. Was well acquainted with the smell of burning bodies and carbon crowded beneath his nails.

What he wasn’t prepared for were the washed oak fences, the sprawl of vibrant grass, and quaint, polychrome houses huddled together in a neighborhood that was the very definition of suburbia.

Sylus released a slow, steadying breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. The beginning of a migraine crept into his temples.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said more to himself.

This had to be a dream. A nightmare. A joke that he would surely make the twins pay for.

Luke turned, wrist lax on the steering wheel. “C��mon, bossman. You can’t deny it’s the perfect place for someone like you to disappear.”

Kieran nodded his assent over crossed arms.

“No one’d suspect a devil of moving into a Zillow special. I can smell the neighbors baking cookies now.” He whiffed the air, resulting in a nudge and chuckle from his brother.

“I’ll eat them,” Sylus flatly returned. A double entendre that made the twins swallow.

He grabbed the rear door handle, already exhausted as he scanned the window. Steeling himself, he made his grand exit, falling into the cool arms of fall, his coat sleeves fluttering theatrically in the breeze from his shoulders.

The SUV idled at his back.

He looked out of place. A stark cutout of black, expensive textiles and power. He moved over the sidewalk like a wraith, hands stuffed in his pockets.

A bird sang in a maple tree overhead. Somewhere far off, a sprinkler system sprang to life. The scent of cut grass was like a provocation. Nostalgic. Still, it was too bright, too still, deceptively calm where he knew chaos and dread.

Hydrageneas greeted him when he walked up the driveway and onto the floorboards. A weathered bench was next, followed by a welcome mat speckled with leaves and stone vases housing drying plants. A sign reading ‘Stay Awhile But Please Leave By 9 PM’ hung in the middle of the door.

A Facebook Marketplace ad led him here—standing on the porch of a stranger, too tall and intimidating to call this place a temporary home.

Seeking roommate. Preferably male. Smoke-free home. Must be clean and cool with occasional loud music and terrible singing. Rent is cheap. Message me for more details.

He’d lived in fortresses secured with biometrics and enough tech to have NASA knocking at his door. Penthouses with ceiling-high windows, peering out over neon-lit cities. He owned villas in off-grid locales that would put the most notorious drug peddlers to shame.

The most intimidating things here were a wind chime and dogs barking on the horizon.

Rolling out the kinks in his neck, he poised his knuckles over the door, prepared to knock. He wasn’t granted the chance as it crept open like he willed it to.

A Ring camera. Of course.

He glimpsed it with a rigid jaw. He’d have to invest in something more secure—a child could hack one of those things.

Lavender and linen spilled from within, enmeshed with the scent of cooked food. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But when his eyes flit down to take in the home’s owner, it surely wasn’t…you.

You stood halfway in the doorframe, barefoot, a faded sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was swept into something haphazard, and your lashes brushed against lenses that overwhelmed your face. The whole look suited you. The house suited you.

Your smile was cautious. As was your voice. “Hi. Can I help you?”

His chest pulled.

He could crush you. Yet something in the hulls of his psyche wanted to roll you into a ball and tuck you into his coat for safekeeping.

Remembering his purpose, Sylus cleared his throat, taking off his shades and tucking them into his shirt pocket.

He tried not to sound as disinterested as he initially felt. Tried to contain the rough gravel of his voice, figuring it would scare you off. This arrangement was growing more interesting by the second. He wanted to see it through, never one to shy away from a challenge.

“Good afternoon. My associate reached out to you a few days ago about the room you had for rent. Is it still available?”

You squinted up at him. Eyed him warily, sheepishly scratching your cheek. He couldn’t blame you for being suspicious—he didn’t very well scream slow suburban life.

Resigned, you huffed out a nervous laugh. “Sure is. Wanna take a look?”

You pushed the door fully open once he nodded, stepping aside.

Sylus squared his shoulders as if he were about to enter a meeting room teeming with jackals. He shouldered past you, flowing into the house like the steady crawl of smoke.

The aroma of lavender was thicker here. It smelled clean. Looked tidy.

He followed behind you, one of his steps equating to two of yours. He took stock of your home, committing its humble, lived-in layout to memory. Every plant, every frame on the wall. Knowing its setup would come in handy later.

“Sorry,” you said from your shoulder. You gave him your name, apologizing for foregoing formalities. Joked you didn’t usually let strange men into your home, so he wouldn’t have to worry about nightly visitors.

“Hope you don’t get nosebleeds easily.”

You slowed at the foot of wooden steps, patting the handrail. Turned that endearing half-smile on him, expectant. Warmth crept into his chest as he watched you. You were so unintentionally charming that he felt his lips tilting into a smirk.

“Not at all.”

“Good. Follow me. Room’s up top, Mister—”

He fed you his name without much thought. It was too easy to.

It could prove to be a problem in the future. It’s not like you knew you were inviting The Boogeyman into your home—Luke and Kieran assured him they’d done a thorough scrub of your history. The worst you’d gotten was a parking ticket.

He wouldn’t put it past you, but you seemed too oblivious to be well-versed in the inner workings of the underworld.

You’d make a good cover.

“Sylus,” you echoed as if weighing his name on your tongue, disrupting his thoughts. He found himself enjoying the way it sounded on your lips. “You look like a Sylus.”

He should’ve been insulted. Should’ve asked what the hell that meant. But as you led him up the stairs to the second landing, he could only focus on the bow of your shoulders. How your hair curled around your nape. The stale perfume dotted behind your ears. How you shook with that infectious laugh as he responded to your dry humor in kind.

Perhaps the twins hadn’t done such a shoddy job finding a safe house this time around.

He wouldn’t tell them that—their egos were inflated enough.

—

Wordlessly, he slid into the leather seat of the SUV, shutting the door and smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt.

He didn’t need to see behind their masks to know their grins were shit-eating. He turned his eyes to the window, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of being right.

Luke was the first to break the charged silence, shifting the vehicle into drive. “How’s that for low-profile?”

Kieran tilted his beak up at his boss in the rearview, equally smug.

Sylus’ jaw shifted. He perched his elbow on the doorframe, chin in palm, face an impassive mask, your house blurring in and out of focus. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves. I haven’t made a decision yet.”

An embellishment as apparent as the greenery streaking behind the window as Luke eased out of the slumbering neighborhood. Sylus had already made his choice the moment you answered the door, all short and unassuming. He gave you his business email to send the contract to.

The house was in a convenient location—far enough from his manor to conduct business without drawing suspicion. Close enough to the airport for him to disappear if it came down to that.

You living a floor below was a bonus.

—

Sylus knew you were fine. He had Mephisto keeping watch over you in his absence.

So far, the most interesting thing on your plate during his three-day disappearing act was a drunken bout of karaoke in your living room—he had a good chuckle at that as he thumbed blood off his cheek.

Still, you were radio silent at the close of Day 3, where the other two, you bombarded him with memes and videos you swore he’d get a kick out of.

He had an inkling of what was up, having memorized your habits like the deckled pages of a grimoire.

Sylus had your patterns down to a science—the routes you took to and from work. The cafes you frequented during your criminally short lunch breaks. He knew your favorite spots for leisure, knew when you’d come home from a taxing day, and sit in the driveway for a bit to breathe.

In the three months he inhabited your attic, he read you as well as he could disassemble a pistol and reconstruct it blindfolded.

He was well-versed in how you liked your coffee—he always gave you shit for it, because could it truly be considered espresso with all that cream and sweetener? He knew how you liked your bacon—toeing the line of crispy and soft. Your preferred temperature of the house was practically encoded in his head. That laundry detergent you enjoyed so much? He made sure the cupboard above the dryer remained stocked with it.

The man studied you so much, he even had your cycle down. Filed that away in his mind three weeks into living under the same roof.

It wasn’t weird. Not at all. Call it self-preservation. He knew better than to get between a woman and her favorite confectioneries when Mother Nature came knocking, though he did make a point to eat your ice cream whenever he could.

What? You were lactose intolerant. He was doing you a service.

Was it concerning how well he could deconstruct your life in the short time he was your housemate? Perhaps.

Maybe the background checks on your coworkers and neighbors were a bit excessive. And, yeah, he had to admit having the twins drive through the cul-de-sac twice a day could be considered borderline stalking. But he reasoned those were all precautionary measures. He wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill, blue-collar man. You had been so gracious as to take him into your home, minimal questions, no qualms. The least he could do was protect an asset.

He had to be sure you kept good company. That you were good company.

Sylus grew to value your presence, honestly. He found himself searching for traces of you in every foreign locale he visited for his negotiations. He bought keychains and faux charms from street stalls that reminded him of you. Hoodies from various states he was sure you’d wear to threads. Made a point to snag some native snacks he knew you’d devour in one sitting. Buying you things was second nature.

To him, he was maintaining positive relations. Deep down, you were growing on him. And people rarely grew on Sylus.

Seated in his private jet, he scrutinized his phone with slightly pensive brows as the engines whirred to life and the pilots did their pre-flight checks.

The last message he sent to you, alerting you to his resurgence, remained delivered since last night. Odd, but not uncommon. You had your phone virtually glued to you, unless you were at work. But given the time of the month, the harsh glare of blue light was the last thing you probably wanted to see.

Again, he assured himself you were alright. Didn’t make his blood pump any slower or his jaw any less tight. There was no telling which of his adversaries kept tabs on him from the shadows. He was a master at covering his tracks. Erasing his existence like a fleeting blip on a radar. But an occasional misstep wasn’t impossible.

He inadvertently dragged you into his tumultuous life. You were none the wiser; he’d done an immaculate job shielding you from it thus far. But he would kick himself if anything happened to you under his watch, his protection.

Suffice to say, he’d miss that smile. That snort when you laughed too hard. The way your face scrunched up in concentration while you hunkered over your laptop, parsing through coding for work.

When the co-pilot eased through the aisle towards him, a courteous smile in place, letting him know they were prepared for takeoff, Sylus breathed a little easier.

“Please make it quick,” he pressured, exhaustion threading through his tone.

The co-pilot gave him a curt nod, promptly returning to the cockpit, leaving Sylus to his own devices.

Sylus loomed over his phone, clutched in his palm, watching you flop in a pained heap on your couch via Mephisto perched on a bookshelf.

He’d have to make a pit stop before he made it home.

—

The sun began its descent towards the horizon, bathing the neighborhood in splashes of orange and gold. The soft hush settling over the cul-de-sac was common—not much happened in your sleepy slice of serenity. A spike of urgency still propelled him over the lawn, up the steps, and to the front door.

After scoping out the perimeter of the house, he unlocked the door and cautioned himself inside.

The lights were off, the primary source of illumination bleeding through the slits of the blinds, signaling the day nearing its end.

He toed off his loafers and shrugged out of his coat, neatly positioning them by the door. A telltale black bag rustled at his side as he maneuvered through the house to find you.

For a moment, his stomach dropped, a glacial drip of dread pooling low. You were facedown on the couch cushions, motionless. Mephisto roosted on your head, preening your hair like feathers.

Sylus relinquished a steadying breath from the living room’s threshold. Didn’t know why he was so worked up in the first place. The possibility of someone discovering your affiliation with him always hung overhead like a bloodied veil. It sometimes resided in the back of his mind that he would one day come home to an empty house or your lifeless husk positioned like some cruel marionette on the sofa.

But for now, you were fine. No need to worry. He allowed his lips to tug into the customary cant. Covering what distance remained, he placed the bag on the coffee table as if it were rigged to explode with the slightest pressure.

He knelt beside the couch, shooing Mephisto away with a waggle of his fingers. For a moment, he held his breath, taking in the steady rise and fall of your back.

Still breathing. Good.

You were so dramatic. A mess of hair and limbs, still clad in your work attire. He raised his hand, fingers twitching with an urge to draw your hair back. You groaned, voice muffled by a throw pillow.

“If you’re here to claim my soul, take it.”

Trepidation shot white hot through him. Did…did you know?

“But only if you take my uterus, too. This shit’s busted.”

Ah.

The panic gave way to a warm wash of relief. He flicked the back of your head, evoking a sound of protest.

“Soul-collectors don’t normally bring gifts,” he answered, directing his attention to the table. At least, this one didn’t.

Meticulously, he began unpacking the black bag’s contents, laying them out on the glass top like a breakfast spread—dark chocolate, sushi, magnesium water, Midol, muscle relaxing cream, and ginger tea. The last to emerge was a heating pad, warmed in the car ride from the airport, lavender wafting from within.

He positioned it over the small of your back like a peace offering. You exhaled a relieved sound, body deflating, and you turned your head from the pillow to take him in with a cracked-open eye.

“You’re home early. I take it everything at work went well.”

This time, he did sweep some hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers hovered, but he retracted them. Lips tilted into something playful.

“Sure.” He reached out to poke your forehead center mass. “Had someone been paying attention to her messages, she would’ve noticed I wrapped things up early. But I guess she was too busy being at odds with her uterus.”

You snorted half-heartedly. “You’d understand if you had one. Like, why am I being punished for not being pregnant?”

A silver, humored brow quirked.

You stiffened. Rolled your eyes when you recovered. “Don’t start.”

Shrugging, the spread of his lips still wolfish, he leaned against the couch on the floor. He began opening the bottle of Midol, poking through the foil, and dumped a couple of tabs onto his palm. He uncapped the water bottle next, holding both out for you to take over his shoulder.

After a few beats of silence—you swallowing down gulps of water and sighing like you’d broken through the surface tension of a pool—you sat up slowly. Fully.

Your roommate was occupied with opening the bag of chocolates when you next spoke.

“Do you, like, keep track of my period or something? Because that’s hella psychotic if you do. You always somehow know when I’m bleeding to death.”

Sylus scoffed. If only you knew. Or perhaps you did know more about him than you let on. He had to do a better job of running a tighter ship.

He peered at you from over his shoulder. “You’re usually quiet on the first day. You barely eat. You curl into a pathetic ball, and you bare your claws more than usual. It’s pretty easy to tell when it’s your time of the month.”

You nudged his back with your toe. He didn’t need to look to know you were pouting.

“Am I really that predictable?”

“Like rain.”

“Shut it,” you admonished, crossing your arms.

He joined you on the couch thereafter, handing you the remote and dropping a few cubes of chocolate onto your palm. As you queued up a crime documentary with a suspiciously high male body count, he took his time appraising you.

You were definitely growing on him, taking root in his mind like a stubborn redwood. You were cute, all huffy like that, trying to pretend that his arm slung across the couch’s backrest suspiciously close to your shoulders didn’t make your skin tingle. Trying to act like you didn’t notice him watching you, your eyes fastened to the television screen, the line of your jaw rigid.

The hard lines of his face slackened the slightest bit. His chest felt lighter.

You were the break in the disorder of his life he didn’t know he needed. A reason to tie up loose ends quickly and come back.

And he was completely fine with that.

—

Of the many threatening things Sylus had ever encountered in his life, he found you to be the most dangerous.

This, coming from someone who modified weapons and constructed bombs like Lego sculptures.

It was early evening when you roped him into accompanying you to a Korean market. You only needed a few things, you urged with that chest-tightening little smile. Of course, a few things always turned into a cart full of junk food. And a seemingly harmless endeavor to one place always resulted in you ending up somewhere other than what was initially planned.

He knew how things would conclude. Yet, he always tagged along, anyway. He was starting to enjoy this domestic pocket of monotony. A break from a world that bled red.

Besides, tonight, it was imperative that he join you.

Why?

Because you were dressed to kill in a sundress that boasted the devastation of your body. And he knew, if he were looking, throat constricting as your sandals clicked over gleaming tiles, hips swaying, back bare, he knew someone else was just as shameless.

It was borderline criminal how amazing you looked. Oblivious, you perused the aisles, rattling off things you needed under your breath.

He followed from a comfortable distance, eyes flitting back to the shelves when he caught himself ogling you for too long.

You had to know. Had to know how you wielded seduction like the serrated edge of a blade, and had he known any better, he’d swear you were an assassin sent to bring him to his knees.

Your dress clung to you like snakeskin. Black, sleeveless, a slit up the back—his favorite.

Earlier, you’d been out with a few of your friends, shopping and catching up over lunch. You didn’t think to change when you came home and guilt-tripped him with those puppy eyes, coaxing him out of the house.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve brought a coat to cover you. It was five months into your acquaintanceship, and he was already fretting over your state of dress like an overbearing father. Mainly because he was a man, and he knew exactly how other men thought.

Gratefully, the store was barren, save for the occasional older woman shuffling by with her cart.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for when you bent down in the canned vegetable aisle, your dress riding up and boasting the backs of your knees before him. He straightened, a strained sound rending from his throat.

To you, it was innocent as you reached towards the back of the shelf for a jar of kimchi. To him, you were temptation on legs, and had he not been a man of principle, of maddening patience, he would’ve done much more than appreciated the view.

Sylus cleared his throat, preparing to admonish you for being so clueless. But then, he felt them—heard them. Three men at the opposite side of the aisle, punks in their twenties, whispering, smirking, elbowing each other with less than savory thoughts on their breath.

He didn’t need to utter a word. He never was one to yell. Never one to beat on his chest, to gnash his teeth. Instead, he positioned himself between you and your greasy admirers, blotting out your frame with his larger one.

He faced them with a hand stuffed in his pocket, stance lax, yet exuding a wordless threat. He wore an emotionless mask, yet his eyes gleamed like heated steel as he stared them all down.

Their leers melted away, replaced by apprehension. Sylus didn’t flinch. He knew how to silence a room with a look alone. Three punks with their heads up their asses didn’t startle him in the slightest bit.

Sensing their impending demise, the men scattered, comically shoving against each other to be free of that iron-clad stare.

You turned as the last of them fled from the aisle, a question between your brows. Just in time for Sylus to face you, peering down into those round eyes, studying those puckered lips, the alluring slope of your neck.

“Are we finished here?” he pressed, plucking the jar from betwixt your fingers, and depositing it into the handbasket dangling from your wrist.

“Almost. Why? In a hurry?”

Your smile was ruinous. You were ruinous with your hands on your hips like that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, shutting his eyes as if a headache was building on the horizon.

He pressed past you, taking the basket with him, the curl of your perfume like knockout gas to his already crowded sense.

“Because I’d rather not fight everyone here for you,” he muttered.

You toddled curiously behind, still in that dress, still on those wedges. Still igniting every possessive synapse in his brain. Still slowly dismantling the steel wall built around the reservoir of his self-control.

He’d burn that dress when you made it home.

—

Laundry day.

You offered to wash a few of your roommate’s things after he returned from another real estate conference—one day, you’d fully catch on. You were already asking why he hadn’t consulted HR about how inconvenient these things were becoming.

As much as he insisted on handling his clothes himself, you pushed right back.

He looked like shit, eyes rimmed purple, shoulders coiled. You reasoned it was the least you could do to help lighten his load. He discovered it difficult to refuse—you were more tenacious than a man at the edge of his life, begging Sylus to spare it.

Rounding the kitchen, he padded into the laundry room, the last article of clothing for wash slung over his shoulder. He stilled in the threshold, stifling a chuckle amid the scent of sun-dried linen and the soft rock of the dryer.

You were on tippy-toe, fingers barely grazing the edge of the overhead cabinet. A glance inside revealed a box of dryer sheets just out of reach. You caught his amusement from your shoulder, eyes pleading, annoyed, calves straining.

“You just gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna help?”

He was behind you without much prompting. Close enough for static to prickle, for the sweep of your hair to barb his collarbones. You exuded warmth, the fragrance of your body wash wafting off your skin.

A hand perched on the dryer’s edge precariously close to your hip, Sylus plucked the box down, setting it on the dryer’s surface. He tensed when he realized he was caging you between the hot press of his body and warmed metal.

Sylus stood there longer than necessary, his mind short-circuiting. Of course you wore one of those oversized sweaters, a sleeve spilling off your shoulder, bearing pretty skin beneath. His mouth watered, lids shuttering. It would’ve taken nothing to press a little closer, to angle himself down, and to blister the nook of your neck with a kiss. It’s not like he hadn’t entertained the idea before.

You cautiously turned in the breath of space between your bodies. Static spiked, electrifying the hairs littering your bodies.

Your mouth spilled slightly open. You propped your hands on the dryer behind you, so achingly close to his. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, shrouded by bowed lashes, and he mirrored you. The world shaved itself down to this tense, pheromone-fueled point of time, the sounds attributed to your home fading into obscurity.

He discovered himself panning in, tempted to feel the suppleness of your mouth beneath his. You drew him to you like the gravity of an accretion disk surrounding a black hole. He was sinking past your event horizon, threatening to be swallowed in your vantablack abyss and rended to atoms at your singularity.

It didn’t help that you weren’t fighting him. Weren’t shoving against his chest, not working your mouth into an excuse, not pleading for space with your eyes.

With but an exhale of space between your quivering mouths, the universe reminded you of its existence.

It swelled back in like a tidal wave in the form of your Roomba chiming that obnoxious sound and startling to life.

You both eyed it with varying degrees of surprise as it mechanically swept over the tiled floor, unaware of the moment it dispelled. Sylus would have to modify it again. The thing had infuriating timing.

As if remembering yourselves, the pair of you sprang apart, excuses sloping off your tongue. You swept shaky hands over your hair, lips pulling into something anxious, and Sylus stepped back to ground himself.

“Sorry,” he rasped, swiping his tongue over his lips.

He threw the last of his clothes into the washer while you fought to bring your pulse down. Retreating from the laundry room, his skin still hummed from the pressure of your body so close. From the prospect of him almost kissing you.

He didn’t want to stop. And from the looks of it, neither did you. Tension was piling between you lately like a powdery blanket of snow.

For now, he couldn’t afford to let go. Not yet. Not until he was sure he could keep you safe and blind to the world he erected himself, brick by bloodied brick.

tags: @secretkiseki @beesin03 @animecrazy76 @blessdunrest @peascribbles @thirstblogforaparchedgirl @raginginferno267 @dyeinsomniadontwake @satansdaughter123 @nerezzaworlds-blog

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kortac-sweetheart · 4 months ago

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pt2/finale traitor!tf141 au

cw: some angst, hurt with lots of comfort, can be read as platonic or romantic, flashbacks to past torture, mentions of violence, military inaccuracies, reader tears 141 a new one (we all cheered), we're overcoming hedgehog's dilemma with this one boys (four times you saved them, one (and a half) time(s) they saved you) realllllly fckn long

(it's the finale part yay! i don't have any more ideas to continue this au, but asks abt it are always open)

in the months since you've joined kortac, you quickly cemented yourself as efficient, capable, and reliable in their eyes. as fundamental to the team as the very foundation of a home. your hard work in the field even earned you a new call sign, one gifted by könig himself.

wraith.

a harbinger of death, the final phantasmal apparition any enemy would have the misfortune to see. sweeping, practically dancing, through swaths of men, leaving them dropping like flies in your wake.

but if that was true, the why were you back under intensive care in the med bay again?

the latest mission had gone sideways. a simple recon mission that had went belly up due to an enemy ambush. reconnaissance turned into rescue instead. and kortac's new target?

you.

it wasn't pretty. the way they tore through the field to reach you, nearly trampling over friend and foe alike, guns blazing all the while. leaving nothing but blood and carnage in their wake, blood lust only temporarily abated before they realized the state you were in.

on the verge of passing out, bound and bloodied, battered and bruised all over again. you had certainly looked like your callsign then, pale from exhaustion and the fabric of your very being fraying once more. despite the strength of your bonds and your faith in them, doubt still gnawed at the edges of your psyche. the pain from the physical beating imposed by your captors was nothing compared to your own mental flogging.

will they come?

i hope they do.

they shouldn't come.

it's not worth it.

the mission is compromised.

i'm sorry.

the sight of könig kicking down the locked door and the feeling of someone gently bundling you into his arms was the last thing you remembered before passing out.

they came.

despite your ceaseless tears and aches, there was a small smile on your face, too.

waiting for you to wake up again was agonizing.

the four of them, huddled around your bed in the base's med bay, with only the incessant ticking of the clock and your steady breaths to break the silence. they couldn't focus on any paperwork they had brought either, too agitated, too restless, too worried, to focus on mindless bureaucracy.

horangi sat at your bedside, bent over from exhaustion and boredom, his hand clasped with yours. he remembers how you used to be, those few months ago. quiet but strong, withdrawn but not entirely cold, he could sense the smallest flicker of warmth--wanting in all your movements. despite it, you hadn't uttered a word to him at all, barely met his eyes, carrying yourself admirably, independently in action.

he remembers it as if it were yesterday, when you first spoke to him.

he was too caught up in the heat of battle, tunnel visioned whilst carving a path into enemy territory and leading the charge with you as support. you had felt the chilling, piercing gaze before you ever saw them, all but shoving horangi's head down and missing the sniper's bullet aimed for him. he had looked at you, bewildered, before you summoned the strength to speak.

"enemy sniper in the vicinity. watch your six, horangi." your comm headset then crackled to life as you relayed the message to the team.

in the grand scheme of things, it was a small gesture. a teammate saving another's life is common place on the field, but horangi still felt grateful all the same. your sharp senses, your quick thinking, your presence and the safety it brought only emboldened him on the field, knowing that you'd be there to drag him out of harm's way.

outside the field, he knew that even if you couldn't express it fully aloud, you still cared for them very much. one day incidentally, you had noticed horangi picking at his food, dissatisfied with grey slop from the mess hall. (and you were too, to be quite honest.)

eventually, you found yourself and your team stationed off base for once, waiting around in temporary housing for the start of the mission. it seemed like the perfect time to have something other than MREs.

it was a very simple meal, grilled meat, storebought kimchi, savory steamed eggs and some freshly cooked rice. but when you called them in for lunch, horangi nearly dropped to his knees and proposed to you on the spot. he had to hold himself back from positively bear hugging you into his arms, instead eagerly complimenting the meal you prepared and squeezing your hand in appreciation.

"did you like the meal hong-jin?" he could barely hear you over the running faucet of the sink whilst he helped with the dishes, but he still beamed at you regardless. (he thought that meek voice of yours asking for approval was downright adorable.)

"of course i did! thank you. i really appreciate it." he couldn't remember the last time he felt so... content. so cared for and seen. it made him feel warm inside, heart full and fuzzy and soft around the edges from your quiet attentiveness.

that's why, when you all return to base and he spots you in the early morning light, sipping on coffee all alone—he joins you without a second thought. settling down next to you on the bench in the rec room with his own cup, no words exchanged but it's warm and comforting all the same.

you don't bat an eye at his presence, as if he was always meant to be there. you carefully lean into him, your shoulder's a hair's breadth from touching his. one hand holds your steaming cup and the other gingerly fiddles with his own free hand.

(you can sense his gaze too, burning into you and hong-jin as he watched from the hallway. mactavish. burning up with jealously, regret, remorse, as he watched you two.

watched the way you slowly scooted closer to hong-jin, leaning into his side as he casually swung his arm up and around your shoulder. watched as the tension bled from your body and left you utterly relaxed and open.

he couldn't remember the last time he saw you like that. if ever. he couldn't stomach the sight anymore, stomping away from the rec room with clenched fists and a deep scowl on his face.

that should've been him.)

(whether hong-jin sensed him too, he didn't say. if he did, or if he didn't, hong-jin didn't give a shit either way. all that mattered was being in the moment with you.)

krueger sighed as he glanced at the wall clock again, only five infernal minutes since last he checked it. he then glanced over to horangi, who was now soundly snoring in his seat, his head resting in his arms. then, a shadow of a smile graced his own face as he looked at you.

he remembers how the roles were reversed before, that time you went out of your way to save him. he remembers it clear as day.

the first ever mission where you two had been assigned as partners. he had respected you immensely, your silent intensity and lack of fluff, efficient, strong, a damn good partner. the mission had went off without a hitch, until the end of it.

you didn't know how to turned out like this. one moment the building was eerily quiet and still, and the next it was a raging inferno. just moments before, you had been separated from krueger looking for the documents. and now you were running, panting as you made it outside. but, something was off when you looked around.

where was krueger?

you hesitated only for a split second before running back in, while your teammates all shouted for you to stop. but you tuned them out, focusing, clearing your mind and remembering the layout of the building, where krueger said he was headed.

you found him in the hallway leading to the security room, crawling along the floor, his leg injured in the blast. clutching the documents with one hand, and using the other to drag himself forward.

when the smoke had parted to reveal you, he thought he was already dead. your silhouette blurry and grainy around the edges, the roaring fire illuminating your face in an ominous orange. an angel of death. he felt you take the documents from his hand, resignation filling him as he thought you'd turn and run.

he didn't resent you for it. not at all, take the documents, focus on the mission, leave the baggage behind. but you didn't. you didn't leave him there. you hauled him up single-handedly, adrenaline pumping through you as you fought to remain calm and steady, whilst rushing him and yourself out of there.

you spoke to him just loud enough to hear, keeping him awake and alert.

"c'mon krueger, i'm getting you out of here."

"keep moving, this is no place to die."

"you can sleep when we're safely back on base."

"i'm not leaving without you."

and he couldn't help but wonder, why?

for a man like him, one you barely knew beyond being teammates.

why? as you two narrowly escaped the building as it completely collapsed.

why? as you dragged his half unconscious body to the evac point, as you waited with him, patching up his wounds with what meager medical supplies you had on you.

why? as you fitted the oxygen mask over his face in the helicopter. his vision fading to black from exhaustion.

you sat with him as he laid in med bay, waiting for him to wake up. you remember what it felt like, to wake up all alone with no one around. how harrowing and disorienting it was, near tears when one of your old teammates had finally gone to check on you. through his (quite insincere) apologies, you sensed his piss poor excuses.

"oh, you're awake... apologies. we were busy." he didn't look physically exhausted at all, no sweat or sign of training.

paperwork, you realized.

they were too busy doing paperwork to stay by your bedside. when it sunk in, you had merely swallowed, staring at your bandaged hands.

"it's ok." you managed to mutter, after a beat there was a small click of the door. and the sterile room faded into suffocating silence once more as his footsteps led him away.

krueger, now awake, studied your face as you glared at the wall opposite you, hands clasped together and lost in thought. watching your tired eyes growing glassy with unshed tears, he decided enough was enough.

you startled slightly when he waved his hand in your line of sight, immediately snapped out of your trance. looking to him a concerned look that crossed your face, you murmured, "how're you holding up?"

"could be worse off... thanks. for saving me back there." he can see how you melt, a little less guarded with a small smile crossing your face. even under the sterile med bay lights, eyes tired and skin a little dull, you still looked like an angel. his saving angel.

he doesn't care why you did it. all it matters is that you did, he didn't need to know why when it was written all over your face. your actions, your presence besides him spoke more than words could.

(garrick had noticed you from the hallway, watching you intently.

green with envy as you tried to stifle your giggles before breaking into a real, honest to god, belly laugh. watched as you held onto krueger's hand so you wouldn't keel over in your seat from laughter.

watched as you wiped away happy tears-- so different compared to the terrified ones he remembers you shedding before. watched as your guarded demeanor melted into something softer, full of big smiles and genuine laughs you shared with krueger.

not him. it should've been him.)

(yes, krueger noticed him. didn't see him directly but he could tell in your eyes. how your laughter flickered and dimmed slightly as you glanced at something-- someone, before he redirected you back to himself. making you laugh at his jokes, and forgetting all about garrick. good. garrick could go to hell for all he cares.)

even when krueger was able to get up and walk around, you still stuck by him. doing work in his med bay room and telling you when and where you'd leave to. whether by pure happenstance or good fortune, krueger had been awake one morning just before you'd leave for coffee.

"oh, good morning, seb! i'm going to go have coffee with horan-- er, hong-jin..." a brief nervous pause, you were considering something.

"do you... do you want to join us?" asked with such tender hope in your eyes that he couldn't possibly say no. (frankly if you told him to jump he wouldn't even say "how high" he'd just do it.)

despite the sudden appearance of sebastian, hong-jin didn't look surprised in the slightest. they shared one look with each other and they immediately understood; watching as you happily prepared coffee, humming beneath your breath with your back turned to them. that morning, and for the following mornings after that; you enjoyed your coffee happily squished between the both of them.

back in your temporary room in med bay, sebastian had now drifted off in his chair. lulled to dreams by the quiet room and pleasant memories you shared.

nikto had elected to lean on the far wall of the room, opposite your bed. muttered something about being able to see the whole room for safety. but he now surveyed the tranquil room, seeing both krueger and horangi asleep in their chairs, and you, hopefully peacefully asleep too. his eyes lingered on the teddy bear that sat dutifully at your side, as if to protect you from night terrors. the teddy bear that he got you.

it was supposed to be like any other sleepless night, awoken from fitful slumber by nightmares both real and imagined, past and present.

rest would not visit them again tonight it seems.

with practiced ease they had made their way to the base's rec room, searching for tranquility in the stillness of night. peace, away from his restless mind. sitting quietly down at the table, waiting out the night until you happened to stumble in.

there hadn't been many words exchanged between you before. but there was mutual respect-- anyone would always appreciate a hard worker like you. but now he watched quietly as you tottered over to the empty seat besides him in the rec room, attempting to muffle quiet sobs as you slumped in the chair. they weren't the only ones to have bad dreams tonight it seems.

nikto didn't know what overcame him, they shouldn't of pried. everyone on base has their struggles, but between you, it felt different; his body overcome with the urge to help, to comfort.

he spoke quietly. "night terrors?" the question hung in the air for a bit before you sniffled, and nodded. he didn't ask about what aloud, but the offer was there. there was no judgement in his gaze, but understanding. even if he didn't cry, even if his own nightmares came night after night, he understood deeply.

they sighed, standing up and went to get a pot of coffee going; if he was going to stay up all night, might as well enjoy it. but after they set a fresh cup of coffee in front of you, the dam inside of you broke and you spilled everything, with nikto and the night as your only witnesses.

sobbing into your hands and sleeves about what they put you through. how they slashed so painfully at you, spat at you, how they imprinted themselves deep into your psyche.

you told nikto you despised looking in the mirror because it reminds you too much of them and what they did to you. how you can feel the phantom edge of riley's blade glide up your face, or how mactavish punched you so hard you nearly blacked out.

how you can still feel garrick's hand gripping your wrist, holding it still as his knife comes down on your pinky, severing it with no remorse.

nikto's care for you wins out against their new found contempt for task force 141 in the end. he gets up from his chair across you, and sits besides you instead. a single palm, placed soothingly on your back.

"allow us to show you something." their hands reach their mask and, they slowly, unhurriedly undo all the buckles and belts that secure it. methodically laying piece by piece of their mask down on the table, carefully, as to not startle you. the last piece of nikto's mask comes off and you're granted a front row view of his face.

they easily read your expression, no surprise, no disgust, no pity either. they see recognition in your eyes, familiarity. it's different from all the other looks they've gotten. you don't scream or cry (anymore), nor do you try to run away, instead you sit quietly memorizing their face.

for once, they feel as if they don't hate their own face either.

"the past comes for us night after night. but we cannot allow ourselves to wallow in it anymore. what's done has been done, the best any of us can do is simply move on... and keep living." the words settled into your mind.

nikto is right.

you can't allow the 141 to rob you of your life more than they already have. you want to thank him. for his advice, for his trust in you, and you tell him to wait for a moment.

he's left alone in the dark again, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore. even he didn't know the weight they were carrying until it was gone. although your presence is momentarily absent, he-- they trust that you will return.

and you do. they note you look a little embarrassed, but you move to sit down next to him again before handing them a little well loved teddy bear. it's plastic eyes a bit scratched and cloudy, the ribbon around the neck is loose, and the stuffing a bit lumpy. well adored.

"here." you start. he takes a moment to give it a soft squeeze, and he doesn't know why but his heart sinks and soars at the same time.

"i always hug my bear when the nightmares are too much. it makes me feel better when i hold him... so i.. i want you to have it. so that he can help you too." you can't help but feel a little childish, fiddling with your fingers as you await his reply, but no such chiding or scoff ever resounds from them.

instead, a soft "thank you. we will cherish it." falls from their lips, and that's all it takes for you to truly relax. they expect you to return to your room but you don't, staying put and keeping them company through the silent night. sometimes you talk some more, sometimes it's just your breathing that's audible, they listen intently either way.

but they watch as your eyelids grow heavier, your words slurred and drowsy, and before you can fall asleep on the hard table; nikto tucks your body into their side instead. a warm arm and a strong chest keep you securely in place, blissfully asleep.

(nikto does not move an inch the whole night. not while you're still peacefully asleep, nor when the light of dawn illuminates the room and chases away the dark, and most certainly not when a certain lieutenant walks into the rec room.

the certain someone doesn't notice you peacefully sleeping in nikto's arms until he turns around and is greeted with the sight of your peacefully sleeping face. blissfully unaware to who was in the room besides you and nikto. he looks confounded, envious even, and nikto can sense he's itching to say something. but he sends the lieutenant an icy glare, lifting a finger to his lips.

the man doth protest too much, they think. making a talking motion with his hand, before pointing at him and then making an ominous throat slitting motion with their thumb. he seems to get the memo the second time around, quickly exiting the rec room with only a single final fleeting glance towards your peaceful face.)

(your sleepy visage belies your awareness to his presence. even in sleep your body still remembers, subtly awakening when he entered the room, feeling his burning gaze lingering on you despite being in nikto's arms.)

the second visitors to the rec room are much more welcomed ones. hong-jin and seb were surprised to see nikto there, but more importantly with you curled up peacefully in his arms.

any surprise is quickly replaced with adoration as they watch you peacefully snooze for a few more moments, before they sadly have to wake you. a simple "wakey wakey sleepyhead" and a small shake from hong-jin is all that's required to wake you. (nikto and seb do give him a teasing side eye for that.)

their hearts collectively squeeze as you gradually come to, looking at all of them with a fond glint in your sleepy gaze, a soft yawn and an even softer smile.

you now share your mornings with hong-jin, seb, and andre after that. the more the merrier after all. sometimes they fight over who gets to sit next to you, and the loser of three way rock paper scissors always sulks a little, but the smile you give all of them makes up for it.

in the quiet room nikto can feel his head nodding, drowsy with sleep, so he leaves the wall. laying down, horizontal to the foot of your bed to sleep.

(rest may not so easily visit nikto, but rest is within reach wherever you are. whether that may be right next to him, or a just few feet away in your room.

he had also gone and gifted you another teddy bear. after you so graciously gifted him yours, similar but not quite the same. with big round eyes, and cute ears and a neat bow that he tied himself, along with a little heart in one paw.)

when könig looked up from his paperwork to check if you woke up yet he was met with sound of soft snores in the room. looking around, he sees his trusted teammates sleeping peacefully and lets out an amused hum.

he feels his focus slip away, paperwork long forgotten when he stares at you.

he always liked you. long before you even joined kortac, when you were still with them. he saw himself in parts of you, like how it was so hard for you to connect with your team, and how you opted to close yourself off. he liked your tenacity, your readiness to work, it was a shame that they had gotten to you first.

which is why the 141's biggest blunder was the greatest thing they ever inadvertently did for him.

he almost pitied them, those fools. they did what they did, they chose to do it, and made the biggest mistake of their lives. no where did it ever say that he couldn't benefit from their self inflicted misery.

welcoming you to kortac was one of the best days of his life. you took to the new work like fish to water, always offering to pick up the slack whenever necessary. always finishing more paperwork than required of you, training the new recruits, you ran around non stop to help others. but he didn't like how you overdid it, even when you were on the verge of collapsing asleep in the hallway you still trudged on.

he remembers being up at ungodly hours doing work when you knocked on his office door and requested for more paperwork to do, despite the bags under your eyes protesting otherwise. when he questioned you, all you could respond with was a stilted "can't sleep." and that was that. he'll let you do paperwork until you tired and then he'd return you to your room.

but he watched in abject horror as you sat there long past him, completing reports and filing things away. and you were STILL awake and doing things even after he went to bed and woke up again. (he did place you on bed rest for a few days after that, as much as you silently complained about it.)

when this behavior continued, he knew that he had to question you about it. and so he waited until your brain was a little fuzzy from exhaustion, you inhibitions giving way to the more primal parts of your psyche. when your guard was down and you could be a little more honest.

"lieutenant." his voice broke the ambience of his still office, cutting through the sound of flitting paper and scribbling pens.

you head snapped towards his immediately, despite the way your eyes fought to stay open.

"may i ask why you work so hard? you do realize you don't need to go above and beyond, ja? you're only exhausting yourself doing this."

a pregnant pause lingered in the air as you stared at the floor under his feet. your grip tightened on your pen, and he thought that you'd get up and leave entirely.

"if you don't want to answer you don't have to. i won't force you--" his sentence was cut off abruptly when you looked directly at him.

"because i have to." your voice, despite being a whisper was more akin to a bomb. he was confused, going to question further but you then continued.

"if i'm not useful anymore. then i'll be discarded again like before." your voice was the weakest he's ever heard it, vulnerable and scared. your eyes were downcast again, avoiding his piercing gaze whilst unshed tears built in your own.

the sight of your tears glimmering under the warm lamp lights quickly roused him to comfort you. corralling your shaking and sobbing body into his arms, holding you tight as you sobbed your heart out.

he didn't tell you to stop, only letting you continue emptying your emotions where it was safe. one arm around the back of your neck and the other soothing up and down your back, "it's ok, sweetheart. it's ok. i promise you will never go through that again. so long as i live, i'll be right beside you. they won't ever touch you ever again, i'll make sure of it."

right there, in that cramped office of his during a frigid night, being consoled and comforted by your colonel, what else could you do but believe him? he sounded so self assured, his tone kept soft and low, cradling you against him until you fell asleep.

(price wasn't envious of könig at all, he was the man that put you into that position in the first place. executing that god forsaken order that ruined your life and theirs.

so why couldn't he will himself to walk away when he heard the two of you talking?

hell, he could hear your sobs being muffled into könig's chest. could hear you murmur the smallest "thank you"s towards him too. but no, he was most certainly not envious of könig at all.

how silly would that be.)

(könig had most certainly known that price was outside. if not for his footsteps breaking the still night, then most certainly the camera recording would've told him. bastard just doesn't know when to stop does he. god, if you weren't positively sobbing yourself into exhaustion in his arms he would've stomped outside to tell him to go fuck himself.)

a few days after you confessed your troubles to him he awoke with a sigh, needing to talk to horangi. but he wasn't in his room. and neither was krueger. or nikto for that matter. and when he checked your room, you weren't there either. it left him scratching his head as he wandered through base in the morning until eventually stumbling into the rec room.

there you all were, on the rec room bench, bathed in the glow of early morning all sharing quiet conversation. his heart lurched in his chest at the sight of you, so happy you were practically glowing, squished between horangi and nikto.

when he was about to turn heel and flee you noticed him, calling out to him and so politely asking him to join. he froze before stiffly turning around and tottering over to an empty seat near you.

"so... this is where you all are in the mornings?" he spoke quietly, trying not to break the relaxed atmosphere.

and you piped up from your comfy place on the bench before anyone else could. "yeah! we're all here every morning. why don't you just join us from now on könig? i'm so sorry we didn't say anything earlier, you we're just really busy all the time and i ah... i guess i didn't want to bother you."

his eyes widened a fraction while his hands tensed around his coffee cup, taking a moment to mull it over. "sure. why not."

the bright grin you gave him in response rivaled the sun.

but he quickly woke from his reverie when he heard you sob. the sound still haunts him in his nightmares, blind and deaf he would still be able to tell when you were crying. the four of them snapping to attention as you contorted painfully on the bed.

you were back in that godforsaken interrogation room again.

where the lights blinded you in the darkness, where the cold nipped at your fingers and nose, where the ropes bound your body and where fear and hunger made themselves uninvited companions to your misery.

what would they take from you this time? hacking away at you more and more and more until nothing was left. your body, your mind, your pride, your soul, all fit to be chopped up and tossed aside.

what had you done this time? spoke too loudly, too much? didn't speak enough? looked at someone wrong? stood out too much? or did you try and fade into the background? it didn't matter anyway, they would hammer you down like a bent nail until it wasn't even visible on the wood's surface anymore, with only a crater left in it's wake.

oh, look. ol' skipper is here too this time. what a party it is now! the more the merrier of course, yes, why not allow price to blindly stick you with pins as if it were a mere birthday game?

what's the matter cap'n? got jealous just watching from the sidelines and wanted to join in on the fun now too? there's more than enough to play with and to discard before you get bored.

look at all the fun toys you have at your disposal! used syringes with mysterious unknown liquid, rusty pliers and nails, broken glass, a hot branding iron, and whatever other indistinguishable horrors lay on that table!

what fun will we have together today?

"sweet--" what? what was that? that didn't sound like any of them.

"sweetheart-- sweetheart wake up" were they talking to you? who was talking to you?

it was as if the ropes had melted away with no resistance when you stood up, stumbling your way to the door with warm light behind it. the torturous room falling away into the white void behind you with each further step you took.

"wake up sweetheart." the voice was coming from behind the door. with little hesitance you turned the knob on the door and with a gasp you awoke with a start. you were safe.

warm and safe. safe and warm. far, far away from that room. far away from them.

they had all deflated like a balloon, rife with heartache when you finally woke up from the nightmare. your panting and whimpers of "help" and "stop" and "please" had distressed them, watching you flail around haplessly made them want to cry. it was only when könig started to utter "sweetheart" to you that you calmed for a bit, then finally rousing from that horrid memory.

when you had registered that they were all there, at your bed, waiting for you, you nearly burst into tears again. a small wobbly smile gracing your face as you pulled them all into a tight hug.

"i'm happy. i'm so happy to see you all again. i love you all so much. thank you for waiting for me." they melted into your touch, your hug, until you pulled away and wiped at your eyes.

you muttered what had happened without any prompting from them, all too shaken up from the dream to keep quiet. "i saw them again. in my dream. i was in that room again. i think something will happen soon. it.... it felt different this time. my captain was there, too. he's usually never present in them."

they had made sure to be hyper vigilant around you that week. nearly pouncing on any of the 141 whenever they got too close or looked at you for too long. barring their teeth and snapping their jaws, before ushering you far and away from them.

but even the most hyper vigilant of hounds can't protect all the time.

it happened after you went to the bathroom during dinner. one way in, one way out, no where for you to run. at first it was mactavish, of fucking course it was mactavish. cornering you in that hallway to beg for your forgiveness, asking for you to return. what emboldened them so much this time around? oh you definitely knew. seeing you happy, oh so happy without them.

they knew their window to get you to return to them was closing, and fast. but they hadn't realized that it closed a long, long time ago. instead, your tolerance for them was dwindling, slowly, slowly draining until you'd finally explode.

mactavish just wouldn't let you go, kept sputtering on and on about how sorry he was until garrick and riley had showed up as reinforcement. at least garrick had enough balls to look you in the eyes as he begged you to return. riley didn't even look at you, staring at the tile above your head instead. allowed mactavish and garrick to do all the talking for him, the despicable bastard.

as if it wasn't bad enough to be hounded by the three of them, their ring leader had finally showed up too. strutting onto the scene with a stride far too casual to be appropriate. the man who you saw like a father, the one who tossed you to the dark without a second thought, the one who was too cowardly to show up and do the dirty work himself.

you didn't want to say anything. didn't want to give them the satisfaction of your reactions, your emotions, anymore of your life that they'd taken from you without remorse. but you had more than enough.

"don't you know when to take a fucking hint? haven't you done enough already?! when the hell did i ever say i wanted to return? what sort of message did you manage to delude yourselves into thinking was real?" you barked at them. they had looked taken aback, not expecting your outburst.

"but-- bonnie, i promise this time we'll be better! we promise! we'll take care of you--" if looks could kill, frankly, mactavish would've been a pile of ash on the floor.

"what makes you think you can take better care of me better than my own team can? where was this attitude when i first joined, huh? where was it? you don't even feel bad about what you did to me! you're just saying sorry to absolve yourselves from the guilt of what you did. like doing that could fix anything you did to me. you don't actually care and you never did! just-- all of you can go fuck yourselves."

mactavish looked like a kicked puppy but you couldn't care less at all. until price spoke up, just had to open his fucking gob didn't he.

"ye don't mean that." he muttered as you attempted to leave.

you turned abruptly to level him a nasty glare.

"oh i'm sorry. did you become a mind reader all of a sudden, price? what the hell do you even know about intention anyway? i'm pretty sure you didn't give any second thought to whether i actually intended to "betray" you all, now did you? well listen to me when i say this, if you ever try to pull this fucking stunt again i intent to make sure that no one would've ever even heard of you. i will make damn sure, that it was like you never even existed in the first place."

you had been gone for suspiciously long, their food trays abandoned without second thought as they went to look for you. rounding a corner near the bathroom they saw you muttering something to price.

they all watched as your eyes lit up when you saw your team, eagerly scampering over to them. horangi had pulled you into a hug, asking if you were ok, if they touched you all the while glaring at them. from the corner of you eye you could still see them, standing still as if you couldn't.

"what the hell are you all still standing there for? either use the bathroom or leave already, jesus christ."

as they were leaving, now, now riley thought it was a good idea to finally speak. the gall of these men is ridiculous.

"sergeant--" he started.

"that's lieutenant to you, riley." you barely spared him a glance before you turned to talk to könig once more.

"lieutenant.. we just--" could they seriously not take a hint? it's not even a hint, it's as obvious as a stop sign.

"are you that dense? do i need to sound it out for you? leave. me. the. fuck. alone. riley." he stood stock still for a few moments, looking at and searching for something on your face.

"you heard them, leutnant." he didn't even bother to look at könig, only shaking his head as he drifted down the hall.

you let out a deep sigh when they were all finally out of sight. practically collapsing boneless against könig's chest as he rocked back and forth soothingly. he patted your hair adoringly, cooing at you as they led you away, back to their barracks.

they lay you on top of konig's chest, with krueger and horangi holding you from each side, whilst nikto lies on top of you like a weighted blanket.

squished between all of them, you've never felt more content and loved. the 141 had their chance, but with you in their hands now? kortac would never, ever let you go.

one man's trash is another man's treasure after all.

taglist: @erintaro @trulovekay @rainingkatzen @blackcats-and-witchcraft @callsofthesky

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jincapableoflove · 3 months ago

Text

Bloodstained Oath | One-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre: immortal knight! jungkook x vampire queen! reader, vampire au, fantasy, dark romance, SMUT, angst.

Summary: You are untouchable. Feared and worshipped by all. And he's the knight who has sworn himself to you. When you finally call him to your chambers, he offers everything, his blood, devotion, and his very being. After all, you are no ordinary woman. You are a creature of the night, and Jungkook has longed to be yours.

Word count: 5.6k+

Warnings: unprotected sex, bloodplay, biting, devotion/worship, oral (m receiving), dom/sub, jungkook is a sub, edging, slight pain play, marking/claiming, overstimulation, light breathplay. (lmk if I missed smth)

MOODBOARD

A/N: minors dni. count how many times I used the word 'devotion' in this fic lmaoo

Slash.

Your blade cuts through flesh like a knife through wet parchment. The soldier barely has time to gasp before crumpling at your feet, eyes wide in shock as the life drains from them. You don’t stop to watch them fall. Another comes at you, sword raised in a desperate arc, but it’s slow. Clumsy. Predictable.

A flick of your wrist, and your steel pierces their throat.

The battlefield reeks of smoke, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of fresh blood. The cries of the dying mix with the clash of steel. The sky above is thick with storm clouds, swirling dark and furious as if the heavens themselves bear witness to this slaughter.

And beside you, he fights.

Jungkook moves like a wraith through the carnage, every strike precise, every motion an extension of his unwavering devotion. His sword is slick with the blood of your enemies, his armor streaked with crimson, but his expression remains unreadable. He never falters. Never hesitates. If you turn, he is there. If you advance, he follows. He is as much a part of your being as the dark and endless power that flows beneath your skin.

And the battle is over before it truly begins.

The last of the opposing army collapses under the weight of your might. Those still standing are stripped of their weapons forced to their knees in the mud. Their leaders are dragged forward, their bodies shaking in fear. The field is silent now, save for the ragged breathing of the survivors and the occasional pained groan of the wounded who still cling to life.

Victory is yours.

It had been inevitable the moment your secret was exposed. Only your inner court knew the truth of what you were. Someone had let the secret slip. Someone had turned the kingdom against you. Whispers of the Queen’s unnatural longevity, of her insatiable hunger, of the power lurking in her veins were well spread now.

At first, they had dismissed it as a myth. But then the whispers turned to fear. And fear breeds rebellion.

So they rose against you, gathering armies under banners of righteousness. They spun tales of salvation, of freeing the land from the “monster” who sat upon the throne.

And now, they kneel. Trembling and waiting for judgment.

Jungkook stands at your side, as he always does. The blood-splattered sword still clutched in his hand, his breathing steady despite the massacre. His hair is damp with sweat, dark strands sticking to his forehead, but his posture remains unshaken.

And even now, with bodies strewn across the battlefield, with the scent of death thick in the air, he looks at you as if you are a goddess.

The captured traitors kneel before you, their wrists bound and heads bowed in fear. They know what is coming. Some weep. Some pray to whatever gods they believe in. None will be heard.

“Please have mercy,” one dares to whisper, voice hoarse.

Mercy? You smile cruelly. “Let this serve as a lesson.”

With a tilt of your head, Jungkook moves. And one by one, the betrayers fall beneath his blade.

His movements are precise, methodical. There is no hesitation, no wasted motion. A sword raised and then a clean, effortless beheading. Blood spills into the soil, pooling at your feet. He does not flinch, does not falter. He has done this before. He will do it again.

Your most loyal knight. A perfect executioner.

But still, you watch him closely. His hands are steady. His gaze never wavers. But would they tremble if he knew you were watching him the way he watches them?

When the last head rolls, silence falls over the battlefield. Your remaining army stands at attention, waiting. The air is heavy, thick with expectation.

Jungkook turns to you then, falling to one knee. His sword rests at your feet, and then his dark eyes flicker upwards to meet yours.

You notice his hands twitch at his sides. Always ready. Always waiting.

A thought takes root in your mind, one that has lingered for far too long. You tilt your head, voice low, teasing.

"Tell me, my knight. Does your devotion extend beyond the battlefield?"

Jungkook does not hesitate.

He bows his head, breathes the words like an oath.

“My Queen, I am yours.”

The air in the palace is thick with the scent of burning incense curling in slow tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere beyond these walls, the echoes of victory can be heard, laughter spilling from drunken lips, the rhythmic pounding of drums, the distant sound of celebration as your court feasts in your honor.

Yet here, within the throne room, there is only silence.

You sit upon your throne, fingers tracing absent patterns against the cool metal of your crown. It is a symbol of power and dominance, showcasing the centuries you have ruled. But at this moment, it is nothing more than cold weight against your skin.

Victory should be satisfying. It should be absolute. And yet… something lingers. Something unfinished.

You know what it is.

With a flick of your wrist, you summon him. The guards bow, disappearing into the halls to retrieve your knight.

Jungkook.

Your most devoted, your most trusted. And yet, the one who has unsettled something within you for longer than you care to admit.

The wait is not long. It never is with him.

He enters without hesitation. His steps are disciplined each movement precise and controlled. He bows low, but his eyes never leave you.

His armor gleams under the dim candlelight, polished as if to erase the evidence of battle. Yet traces remain. Stubborn stains on his gauntlets, dark smudges along the edges of his breastplate, the last remnants of war clinging to him like a shadow that refuses to fade.

There is no fear in his gaze. No hesitation. No uncertainty.

He stands before you as he always has, as if he has always known you would call for him.

His devotion is unquestionable.

But as you watch him, as you take in the quiet intensity of his stare, the way his hands remain at his sides yet never truly still… you wonder if he even knws the depth of his own obedience.

You rise from your throne, slow and deliberate. The faint clink of your jewelry is the only sound as you step forward, circling him like a predator sizing up prey.

Jungkook does not move. His posture remains impeccable, his shoulders squared, and his chin lifted not in defiance but in unwavering submission. His expression is unreadable, but you know him well enough to sense what lingers beneath the surface.

Tension. Restraint. A quiet anticipation that vibrates in the air between you.

You test him. Fingers grazing his jaw, tilting his chin up just enough to force his gaze to yours. A lesser man would flinch, would shy away from your touch, uncertain whether it is a gift or a warning.

Jungkook does neither.

He remains perfectly still, his breath measured and controlled. But you feel the unspoken war raging beneath his calm exterior. His hunger is not for power, not for freedom.

No, it is something far more primal. Far more dangerous.

You wonder if he has spent centuries waiting for this moment. Waiting for you to look at him, not as a knight, not as a tool, but as something more.

He has given you everything including his blade, his loyalty, his blood.

But is that truly all he desires?

You do not grant him what he seeks so easily. That would be too simple. Too merciful. Instead, you test him. A test with words.

“Would you give me anything I desire, Jungkook?”

His answer comes without hesitation. “Yes, my Queen.”

His answer is steady and certain. But is it instinct, or something deeper?

You step closer, close enough that the candlelight flickers in his dark eyes. His breath remains even, his shoulders squared, but you know him too well. You see the slightest tension in his throat, the way his fingers flex before stilling at his sides.

“You have given me everything,” you murmur. “Your loyalty. Your strength. But do you give it freely?”

For the first time, there is a pause. So brief, so fleeting, it might have gone unnoticed if you weren’t watching him so intently.

Then, reverently, he answers.

“What is freedom to a man who has only ever lived for you?”

Satisfaction hums through you at his reply. It is the answer you expected, the answer you demanded, and yet it still pleases you to hear it fall from his lips.

Without another word, you turn, stepping past him, knowing he will follow.

He does.

Your steps are slow, deliberate, echoing through the dimly lit corridors as you lead him toward your chambers. You do not look back, yet you feel his presence. There is no hesitation in his footsteps, no question of where this night will lead.

When you finally reach your doors, you pause only to push them open, stepping inside without waiting. He follows as if drawn by an unseen force, as if this is inevitable.

The heavy doors shut behind him, the iron lock sliding into place with a finality that seems to settle between you both.

Jungkook stands before you, shoulders squared, gaze steady. No surprise lingers on his face, no uncertainty. If anything, there is something else in his dark eyes, something like quiet acceptance.

Almost as if he had been waiting for this. Expecting it.

You tilt your head, watching him, searching for any sign of fear. You find none. Lifting a hand, you trace your fingers along the collar of his armor, feeling the warm metal beneath your touch. Then, softer now, more dangerous, you ask,

"Will you give me your body, your blood? Would you let me consume you?"

His breath shudders, but his answer does not waver.

"Yes. Anything."

That’s all it takes before you pull him toward you, baring your fangs.

Your hands move with urgency, pushing aside the heavy layers of armor that shield him. The breastplate clatters to the ground, followed by the straps and clasps of his pauldrons. Beneath the steel, his tunic clings to his skin, damp with the heat of battle, the lingering scent of blood still fresh on him.

Jungkook does not resist. He never does.

His chest rises and falls, controlled but uneven, as you tilt his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat. The skin there is marred with old scars, remnants of wars fought in your name. Yet, he offers it freely, tilting into your touch, showing is full submission.

And then, you strike.

Your teeth sink into his neck, piercing skin and flesh, and a gasp wrenches from his throat. His body tenses, then melts into you as though he was made for this. Made for you.

You feed slowly at first, savoring the way he trembles, the shudder that rolls through his frame. He does not pull away. If anything, he leans into it, his hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into you as if to anchor himself.

The act is unmistakably intimate. Erotic.

His breaths come in shallow pants, growing heavier as you drink from him, your fangs buried deep in his flesh. The wet, sinful sound of blood sliding over your tongue fills the space between you. You feel the way his pulse flutters beneath your lips, how his body tenses when you drink a little faster.

The hunger in you stirs, insatiable. The blood seeps from the wound, trailing down his throat, and you press your tongue against it, lapping at the warm liquid before soothing the punctures with a slow, deliberate drag.

A shudder wracks his body, a breathless sound spilling from his lips, raw and wanting.

And still he does not pull away.

By now, his arousal is undeniable, straining against the confines of his pants. The evidence of his desire presses against the fabric, aching nd desperate, but he says nothing. He wouldn’t dare.

Your hand drifts downward, fingers trailing along his abdomen before slipping lower, cupping the rigid length of him through the thick material. Even through the fabric, he is burning, his cock heavy and throbbing in your palm.

Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath, his body going rigid for a moment before he exhales, shuddering. His hips twitch ever so slightly, barely perceptible but you notice.

His need is palpable, almost suffocating in the way he holds himself back, trembling beneath your touch, yet refusing to beg. He wants more. more friction, more of you but he knows he has no right to ask for it.

So he takes what you give him, whimpering when you press your palm harder against him, dragging slow, deliberate strokes over his length. The friction is both a relief and a torment, not nearly enough to satisfy, yet too much to bear in silence.

A strangled moan catches in his throat, and his fingers tighten around your waist. He wonders how you haven’t reprimanded him for touching you, how you allow his hands to rest upon you so freely. The thought only makes his restraint waver further.

He wants to explore. To let his hands roam, to feel the curves of your body beneath his fingers, to worship you in ways he has only imagined for centuries. But he does not dare.

So he remains still, trembling, waiting, hoping.

You are pleased with his reactions, the way he trembles under your touch yet holds himself back, waiting for your command.

So you decide to be merciful just a little.

“Undress,” you say, voice smooth and commanding. “Lay yourself bare for me.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. His hands move with practiced efficiency, unfastening the ties of his tunic and pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The fabric falls to the floor, revealing the expanse of his chest, skin scattered withth scars from healed wounds.

His fingers work at the laces of his pants next, undoing them swiftly. There is no shame in his movements, only purpose. He is shedding more than just clothing; he is offering himself to you, wholly, completely.

The moment he tugs down his undergarments, his cock springs free, hard and eager, flushed at the tip.

Your eyes trail down, taking in the sight of him. The length is impressive, thick enough to stretch, with prominent veins running along the shaft. A bead of precum gathers at the tip, glistening under the candlelight.

It almost makes your mouth water.

Jungkook lies himself down on the massive bed, his body tense with anticipation. His chest rises and falls with slow, controlled breaths, but you can feel the heat radiating from him, the barely restrained need coursing through his veins. He is waiting for you to take what is yours.

But you are not so kind as to grant him relief so easily.

You climb atop him, your body pressing flush against his, your weight a deliberate reminder of his submission. His cock twitches against his abdomen, but you ignore it, focusing instead on the way his lips part ever so slightly as you lean in.

Then you kiss him hard.

Jungkook gasps into your mouth, and you take advantage, deepening the kiss, your tongue claiming him in a way he has only ever dreamed of. He tastes of devotion, of longing, and you drink him in, reveling in the way he trembles beneath you.

Your fangs descend, sharp and eager, and you sink them into his lower lip, puncturing the soft flesh. A sharp inhale—his body stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. Warm, coppery blood floods your mouth, rich and intoxicating, and you moan as you suck at the wound, savoring every drop.

Jungkook’s hands hover beside you, uncertain. He has fantasized about this moment for centuries, imagined all the ways he might worship you if ever given the chance. And yet now, with you consuming him, he doesn’t know what to do.

But one thing he knows for certain: he must not defy you.

Jungkook waits patiently, his hands hovering just shy of your body as if he dares not touch without permission. You revel in his obedience, but you are not yet satisfied. You lean in, pressing your lips to his ear, whispering dark, sinful things, watching for the cracks in his restraint.

His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, but he does not break.

Not yet.

His hands finally come to rest against your body, ghosting over the fine fabric of your royal robes. The heavy garment is embroidered with intricate gold patterns, the deep crimson fabric flowing like blood with every movement. It drapes over your shoulders, cinched at the waist with delicate chains, leaving only hints of skin visible. It feels like a barrier he is not yet worthy of removing.

You pull away from the kiss at last, leaving him breathless. His lips are swollen, slick with the remnants of his own blood. His head spins slightly, whether from the loss of blood or the sheer intensity of your presence, he does not know.

You sit up, bringing him with you, guiding him to move as you wish. His hands find their place on your body, worshipful, mapping the curves and dips of your form as if committing you to memory.

Then, he hesitates slightlyhis gaze flickering up to meet yours, seeking permission.

You offer him the barest nod.

Emboldened, his hands cup your breasts through the fabric, molding around them, squeezing slightly. His thumbs graze over your nipples, teasing through the layers of silk and embroidery, but you offer him no further mercy.

You watch as frustration flickers in his darkened gaze. He wants to feel your skin beneath his hands, to see you bared before him. But he knows better than to demand.

He will have to earn it.

Your hand trails downward, fingers wrapping around the thick length of his cock, the heat of him burning against your palm. His breath stutters as you stroke him slowly, teasingly, letting your fingers glide over the flushed tip where precum beads and drips onto your skin.

You spread the slickness down his shaft, your grip firm but agonizingly measured. He groans, hips twitching into your touch, though he restrains himself from outright thrusting into your palm.

"Already so desperate," you murmur, watching the way his muscles tense beneath you. "And I’ve barely even touched you."

A moan escapes him when you finally lower your head, lips brushing over the sensitive tip before you take him into your mouth in one smooth motion.

His fingers clutch at the sheets before moving to the back of your head, hesitant at first, then bolder when you don’t stop him. His grip tightens as you suck harder, tongue tracing every vein, every ridge.

Your pace quickens, the obscene sounds of your mouth working him over filling the chamber. His control begins to slip, hiip stuttering forward, his need overcoming his restraint. He starts to fuck into your mouth, his groans raw, breath ragged.

But just as he nears the edge, just as his thighs tremble and his grip turns bruising, you pull away.

His cock slips from your lips with a wet pop, slick and throbbing, denied the release he so desperately craves.

Jungkook lets out a frustrated, needy whine, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are dazed, his lips parted, his expression utterly wrecked.

You simply smile, dragging a finger across your swollen lips before tilting your head.

“Are you pouting, my knight?” you tease. “How unseemly.”

You lean back once again, taking your time, unfastening each clasp, each layer of fabric that conceals your body from his desperate gaze. Your fingers move with deliberate slowness, teasing the anticipation that already has him trembling.

The first thing to go is the heavy outer robe, the rich fabric slipping down your shoulders, pooling at your feet like discarded silk. Next, the delicate material covering your torso, barely shielding the bare skin beneath. You tug it down, exposing the soft swell of your breasts, but you not fully, just enough to torment him, to watch the way his cock twitches in response.

His breathing grows uneven, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you.

“You’re holding back,” you observe, amused.

Jungkook swallows hard, his jaw tightening. “I have to.”

You hum in approval and continue, letting each remaining piece of clothing slide down your form, revealing inch by inch of bare skin. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with hunger.

And then, as you shift slightly on the bed, his gaze catches on something else. The faint, glistening stain beneath you, the proof of your arousal soaking into the sheets.

His breath hitches.

You smirk, tilting your head. “See what you do to me?”

His cock twitches again, the need in his expression almost unbearable. But he still does not touch. He waits because you have not given him permission.

You spread your legs for him, your fingers trailing downward, parting your slick folds with a slow, deliberate motion. The tiny pink pearl at the center of your arousal glistens in the dim candlelight, and Jungkook gasps, his hands flexing at his sides as if physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his voice hoarse with longing. “May I…?” He hesitates, swallowing. “Do I have the luxury of tasting you, my Queen?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses his features, but he does not argue. He wouldn’t dare.

“This is your reward,” you remind him, tilting his chin up so he meets your gaze. “For fighting so fearlessly beside me. For all those centuries of devotion.”

His breath shudders as he exhales, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him as if to ground himself.You spread yourself wider, letting him see every glistening inch of what he’s denied. “Tonight, you take. And I will give.”

You lift yourself onto his lap, your thighs framing his hips as you settle against him. The moment your soaked folds press against his length, Jungkook lets out a strained moan, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. But you don’t grant him what he craves.

Instead, you roll your hips, dragging your slick heat along his length, coating him in your arousal. The friction is intoxicating, a slow torment that has you both gasping. His cock twitches beneath you, so hard it aches, while your pwn need pulses, demanding more.

He groans, fingers digging into the sheets as if holding himself back. “Please…” he rasps, voice wrecked with desperation.

You shush him, pressing a single finger to his lips. “Not yet.”

He exhales shakily, his thighs tensing beneath you. He is so close already, you can feel it in the way his body trembles, in the way his cock jerks against your clit with every glide. He’s terrified he’ll spill before you even take him inside but that’s exactly what you want.

You halt your movements abruptly, lifting yourself just enough to deny him the pleasure he was chasing. His breath hitches, a frustrated whimper slipping past his lips, but he knows better than to protest.

Placing both hands on his chest, you push him backward until his back meets the mattress, his body fully beneath yours. You grip the base of his cock, aligning his tip with your dripping entrance, teasing the head against your slick folds. His breath stutters, muscles taut with anticipation.

And then, slowly, you sink onto him.

The stretch is exquisite, a delicious burn that has you both moaning in unison. He fills you so perfectly, your walls clenching around him as you take him in inch by inch. His fingers twitch at his sides, his restraint admirable, but you can see the way his throat bobs, the way his eyes glaze over as pleasure overtakes him.

Leaning back, you brace your hands against his strong thighs, lifting yourself slightly before rolling your hips. Jungkook lets out a strangled groan, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. His eyes flutter shut, lost in the pleasure coursing through his body.

But that will not do.

“Open them,” you command, your voice firm.

He obeys instantly, dark eyes locking onto yours. They’re wild with hunger, with devotion.

Your nails dig into his thighs, sharp enough to break skin, a thin trail of blood beading at the surface. But if he feels the pain, he does not show it. His pleasure is too consuming, too overpowering. And so, he gives himself to you fully, offering his blood, sweat and tears to you like he always has.

His vision turns hazy pleasure clouding his thoughts, but his eyes never stray from you. He watches, entranced, as your breasts bounce with every movement, your body moving above him like something divine, yet here you are, claiming him, taking everything he has to give.

He feels it building, the telltale tightening in his abdomen, the coil about to snap. His breath stutters, his hands twitch where they grip the sheets, but before he can even manage to stammer a warning, his release overtakes him.

His body shudders violently beneath you, pleasure ripping through him as his cum spills inside you, hot and thick, painting your walls in spurts. The sensation is blinding, overwhelming, pulling a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

But you do not stop.

You keep moving, keep bouncing on him, greedily milking every last drop, your walls clenching around his still-sensitive cock. His whimpers are near-pained, overstimulated, but he does not beg you to stop. he wouldn’t dare.

Not when he belongs to you.

The heat of you around him is unbearable, intoxicating. Even as he shudders from the aftermath of his release, his cock twitches, hardening again inside you. The warmth of your walls, the way you squeeze around him, milking every last drop—it’s too much, yet not enough.

He is lost in you, in the way your slick coats him, in the sensation of being fully sheathed inside your tight, wet heat. It is maddening, the way you move, the way your body clenches down on him like you never want to let him go.

His hands tremble as they grip your waist, not to control but to ground himself to remind himself that this moment is real, that you are truly allowing him to have this, even if only for tonight.

The pleasure builds faster this time, his cock throbbing inside you, desperate for another release. He can feel your walls fluttering around him, your own peak drawing near.

“My Queen,” he gasps, voice wrecked, “I’m close.”

Your pace does not falter. Instead, you ride him harder, faster, pushing both of you over the edge.

He spills inside you again just as you come, your walls clenching down around him in a vice-like grip. His moans mix with yours, your cries of pleasure perfectly in sync. The feeling is euphoric, all-consuming, leaving him breathless beneath you.

He has never felt more complete, more worshipful. Even in pleasure, he is nothing but yours.

You pull yourself off him with deliberate slowness, letting his length slip free from your warmth, leaving him raw and sensitive. He barely has time to catch his breath before your mouth is on him again, lips wrapping around his overstimulated cock.

A sharp gasp leaves him, body twitching violently at the sudden contact. The pleasure is unbearable now, his sensitivity turning every flick of your tongue into something dangerously close to pain. But he does not push you away.

His queen, his goddess, the only being he will ever worship, is indulging in him, in his body, in his weakness. He exists for you to ruin.

His hands fist the sheets, muscles locked as his body fights against the onslaught of sensation. He groans, voice breaking, and you hum around him, sending vibrations through his length. He knows he won’t last, can’t last under your relentless hunger.

His hips jerk involuntarily, his entire body shuddering as his release tears through him again. This one is painful, forced from his exhausted body, his cock barely able to keep up with your immortal stamina.

A strangled moan escapes him as he spills into your mouth, the last remnants of his pleasure drawn from him until he has nothing left to give. His vision is blurred, his limbs trembling.

And then you kiss him.

His breath catches as your tongue slides into his mouth, the taste of his own seed spreading across his tongue. A cruel reminder of how utterly you have taken him, consumed him, claimed him.

You straddle him, hand at his throat, pressing down.

His body reacts instantly, his muscles coiling beneath your touch, a sharp inhale drawn between parted lips. But it is not fear that darkens his gaze. It is something else, something raw and consuming. His pulse flutters against your palm, quick and eager, a silent plea without words.

Beneath you, he is utterly vulnerable.

Your grip tightens. He exhales shakily, a strangled sound caught in his throat. You can feel him growing hard again, his body responding to the cruel intimacy of your touch. He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t fight you.

His devotion is absolute. Even as the air leaves his lungs, even as his vision begins to blur at the edges.

You lean in, your lips grazing his ear as you whisper softly, like a lover’s confession, yet laced with something far deadlier.

"I know what you did."

A shudder runs through him. His breath catches. His fingers twitch against the sheets, as if resisting the urge to hold onto you. To anchor himself.

But he does not beg.

He does not deny it.

Instead, he smiles.

As if this was always meant to be. As if this is what he wants.

Your grip tightens further, pressing deep into the delicate skin of his throat, cutting off the last remnants of air. His body jerks beneath you, muscles tightening, chest heaving in a desperate, instinctual attempt to pull in breath. His lips part in a soundless gasp, but no words come.

His eyes remain locked on yours. Glassy and devoted.

Even as the fight leaves his body.

Even as his pulse weakens beneath your fingers, fading into nothing.

Even as his body finally stills, lips parted, frozen in the ghost of his final worship.

You end him.

Jungkook is immortal but only because you willed it so. He has always been untouchable to the rest of the world, his life tethered to your mercy alone. And now, as you stare down at his lifeless body beneath you, the realization slams into you, cold and final, like a blade driven straight through your chest.

He let you kill him.

He never betrayed you to defeat you. That was never his goal. No, his crime had always been one of devotion, not treachery. He forced your hand because there was no other way. He knew you would never let a traitor live.

A final act of love, masked as betrayal.

And even now, in death, his body betrays his yearning. His arousal lingers, stiff and undeniable, a grotesque echo of his devotion. His final gift to you.

For centuries, he had yearned to be more than just your knight. He had watched you take countless lovers, while he stood guard outside your door, hearing the sounds of pleasure that would never be his. It had gutted him, wounded him more than any battlefield ever could.

You had gifted him immortality as a token of his loyalty, his unwavering service. But in doing so, you had condemned him to a fate crueler than death. To live on forever, knowing he would never be anything more than a weapon at your side. Knowing that no matter how many lifetimes passed, he would never be the one you reached for.

So he did the only thing he could.

He betrayed you.

Because he knew that you would never let a traitor live.

The room is silent. The air is thick with the scent of blood.

Jungkook's body lies beneath you, utterly still, his skin cooling beneath your touch. You should feel satisfied. You should feel victorious.

Instead, there is only a hollowness, a slow, creeping thing curling inside you like smoke.

You stare at him, the man who had knelt before you in unwavering devotion, the warrior who had spilled blood in your name, the fool who had loved you enough to orchestrate his own demise. He had yearned for this, had wanted to be consumed by you in every way possible. And you had granted him his wish.

Then why does it feel as if something vital has slipped through your fingers?

Your fangs remain stained with his blood, the taste of him still thick on your tongue. You should have savored it more. Should have recognized what it meant when his hands had trembled against your skin, not with fear, but with desperate reverence.

Perhaps this had been his final lesson to you.

Perhaps his betrayal had not been a betrayal at all, but the greatest act of devotion.

You sit in the silence, staring at the body of the only one who had ever truly belonged to you. And for the first time in centuries, you wonder…

Had you ever belonged to him, too?

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lmk ur thots <3

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frownyalfred · 5 months ago

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imagine evil pennywaynes au alfred preparing his resignation before martha and thomas take their son out to the movies, fully intending to spare his heart and get the hell out of dodge before this becomes his life forever. and then he’s given full custody of bruce after, and has to hold down the fort through the will reading and any legal challenges after, and raise their son, who grows up seeing alfred as a third parent in a way that would have made thomas and martha grimace politely if they knew. and then bruce keeps growing up, and has a pretty rough teenagehood while he’s sorting out what the hell he’s going to do with the tremendous amounts of grief and anger he’s still carrying around, which part of him will always associate with alfred. thomas and martha’s son (alfred’s son) is getting more and more self-destructive in seeking out fights and getting himself kicked out of school and when alfred confronts him about it, they have an explosive argument where bruce hits him with the time-honored classic, You’re Not My Real Father

and alfred isn’t. he’s just the help. how gracious of master bruce to kindly remind him of his place, just as master thomas and madam martha would have done. despite everything, bruce truly is his parents’ child. alfred has spent years imprisoned in wayne manor, working for the family, stepping into the family when asked of him, holding the family together when there is no other option, and what does he have to show for it? the graves of two people who never saw him as anything more than a body? a furious, emotionally broken boy he poured his heart into who hates him more than anything because hate is all that keeps him breathing if alfred doesn’t feed him and clean up after him and remind him he’s a person instead of a wraith? what the hell has alfred been doing with his life for this to be the sum total of his achievements?

evil au truly. evil evil evil. yet undeniably compelling…

#I say as I started this au train lmao #pennywaynes #and what if I used this as preworkout huh #alfred pennyworth #batman #bruce wayne #asks #anon #dc #dc comics #Martha wayne #Thomas wayne

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diejager · 1 year ago

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could you maybe do more of the Phoenix series or is that discontinued? But if you're still working on it can you maybe do something like monster TF 141 use hunter as a heater? Ik if it doesn't make any sense but like monster TF 141 are on a mission and its horribly cold and they're actually cold so hunter just walks up and turns into a phoenix? and just starts heating up the room 141 is in. idk I just have had this idea in my head for a while

Cw: human heating, tell me if I missed any. Note: Nope! It’s still on going, well, at least the original Au of the Phoenix hybrid!reader spinoff.

“I’ll have a bloody word with the tosser who sent us here,” Soap hissed, body wracked with tremors as he breathed into his mittened hands, hoping that the small bit of heat would warm him just a bit more than the failing heating system of their Siberian safehouse.

They had planed to rest and warm up their temporary residence while Price took Ghost and you to survey the area, all warmly covered but mostly immune to such cold temperature. A dragon rarely needed anything other than the beating fire in their heart, kindled and powerful; a wraith, long since dead, had no worry about feeling cold or warm, only hunger and anger; and a phoenix, whose body was stuck in a perpetual cycle of life and death, had no fear of being cold when they were an embodiment of life’s fire.

It was only natural that Price took the only people who could withstand the harshness of Siberia for a long and careful inspection when the others would freeze and shake in their thick boots and warm coats. They safehouse looked old, surfaces covered in a thin layer of dust, shelves filled with canned food - both expired and unexpired- and walls and floors as frozen as the loud winds blowing against the thick windows. It wasn’t much of a surprise that something would malfunction, the soviet era building left to appear rotten and forgotten to fit it’s intended use, and it seemed to lack any sort of upkeep.

“We’re freezing our arses off in here!” Soap growled out, leaning closer to Gaz’s side to steal more warmth from under his wing, the soft feathers all ruffled, “Can’t even-”

Crunch

The two perked up, hands immediately reaching for their weapons, bodies tense and ready for a fire fight until your head popped in, huffing about the melted snow soaking your clothes. They jumped to their feet, running to your side for a lick of warmth that oozed off your skin. You froze at the grabbing hands, pulling you to the cold sofa and pushed under a mass of groaning and moaning bodies, happily soaking in your fire.

“Let me- ” you squirmed between them, shuffling out from under them to stretch your arms and back.

The four watched your neck crack with a wince, flames erupting from your feet, wild and bright embers licking at your skin until it engulfed you in a fiery blaze. It was both too hot to touch and too strong to approach, a fire that would threaten to burn if they touched you. It worked to protect you from an early death while you shifted into the majestic bird you were, a gentle flame in the form of orange and yellow feathers, softer than any silk and warmer than any suns.

In your place stood a phoenix, lashes fluttering while your flapped your wings, stretched backwards to scratch the itch from the lack of use. You cooed, preening under their awed expressions before you flew back in your prior position, body heat growing hotter and hotter, strong enough to warm up the entire room.

“Thank you, Hunter,” Gaz smiled at you, a sweet and grateful grin that made your feathers shyly ruffle up.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #monster 141 au #monster 141 #Monster cod au #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #mw2 ghost #ghost x reader #soap mw2 #soap x reader #captain price #price mw2 #price x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #pheonix hybrid!reader

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diodellet · 8 months ago

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try wishing for it: magical girl au (scarabia x gn!reader)

inspired by @ceruleancattail's magical girl au and @yan-lorkai's yandere genie fic. note: i also imagine scarabia's mascot form to look like this. title is ripped from tohma's magical girl eudaemonics. content warnings: -yandere (if you squint, since scarabia's taking the role of kyubey in this fic. references of manipulation and general moral grayness.) -fic uses "magical girl" but means it in a gender-neutral sense (reader is referred to with they/them pronouns) word count: 2.7k words

Being a magical girl means gaining the power to do virtually anything you can dream of.

The first time you defeat a wraith, you stare in awe at your hands, breathing heavily from sheer excitement rather than exertion. With one final roar, the beast falls to the ground, before dissolving into black smoke.

“Woah, you did it! You really took it down!” Kalim barrels into you, gushing praise after praise. “See, Jamil? I told you they were going to be powerful!”

Jamil is more mindful of you, instead floating over to land on your other shoulder. “Nice job.”

“You’re a natural!” Kalim’s bouncing with joy in your palm, waving his little stubby arms. “You probably won’t even need to use your three wishes!”

Right, there was that. In the case that you were against an overwhelmingly powerful foe, you could draw on your familiars’ magic—a ‘wish,’ they called it.

“Don’t jinx them, Kalim.”

“...What happens if I asked for more wishes?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” The stitches of Jamil’s plush smile don’t change, but there’s a note of something foreboding in his words. “Though, you don’t seem like the type to squander them. Don’t worry about it too much.” Despite their cartoonish appearance, your familiars’ words and warnings carried a grave weight

Your gaze drifts to the slain wraith. All that remains is the tarnished metal collar that hung around its neck, until it too crumbles into dust.

There’s something hauntingly beautiful in that faint shimmer of gold as it gets blown away by the wind.

Being a magical girl means toting around two innocuous round plushies of your familiars to class.

With your new double life, you get two new companions following you around. It means bearing Kalim’s excited chattering as you take notes, dealing with Jamil’s snide teasing as your classmates point out your new bag charms.

What you don’t expect is to see the two of them sitting in your living room the next morning, clad in your school’s uniform.

“Good mor—oof!” Your book bag collides with Kalim’s chest and you use the momentum to drag him and Jamil by the elbow out of your house, ignoring your dad’s concerned calls with a loud “I’m heading out!”

You didn’t get the memo that being able to transform was part of their repertoire as magical familiars, but you should’ve expected this. Between Kalim’s thousand-kilowatt smile and Jamil’s calculating gaze, you very much prefer them as small round plushies.

(It’s strange that your schoolmates and teachers don’t question the two new additions to the class, but you appreciate that your cover wasn’t blown with this curveball. You suspect it might have to do with the red glow in Jamil’s eyes. You decide to question them at the end of the class day.)

“It’d be better if one of you stayed as a plushie.”

“Then that means it would be Jamil since he’s better at keeping attention off of us.”

“By that logic, they’re talking about you, Kalim.” Is it you or is that a hint of a smile on Jamil’s lips?

“Oh.” Kalim’s expression falls into a pout. “But I like attending classes with you!”

He probably wouldn’t like it as much during exams week. “I wouldn’t be able to keep a low profile if people noticed you…guys following me around.”

“Aw, I guess so…Thanks for treating us to ice cream, though!”

You offer to buy them another one, just to make their one and only day at school special. You start heading towards another freezer, there’s a special lottery on these soda popsicles.

Jamil’s attention turns toward the counter. He’d been eyeing the person at the cashier. “Wait, something seems—”

And that’s all the warning he can give before a group of wraiths crashes through the convenience store wall. Ending up in a sprawled mess of tangled limbs was not ideal. It’s settled, you definitely preferred them in their plushie forms.

Being a magical girl means getting woken up by Kalim in the middle of the night to patrol the city.

As a hand-sized plush ball, he’s already pretty strong. But under the cover of night, he can shed his disguise and drag accompany you around to see you deliver justice to evildoers.

Your drowsiness fades away as you leap from rooftop to rooftop, dispatching fledgeling wraiths hiding in narrow alleyways, stopping drunken confrontations, watching over lone pedestrians traversing through seedier parts of the city.

“There’s another one, it’s a low-ranking wraith!”

“I’ve got it!” Magic gathers around your weapon, bathing it in golden light as you swing and cleave the monster into two.

It didn’t even get a fighting chance to writhe or fight back. All it can do is dissipate into nothing.

Which is for the best.

“That was so quick!” Kalim bounds over to you as your weapon fades out of view. “You’re getting better and better at fighting!”

“Well, you did say it was a weak one…” You tug at the collar of your outfit. His praise feels like staring into the glare of the sun, straight on. “I’m probably not that much better than those other magical girls before me.”

“Still! It doesn’t make you any less amazing—Are you hurt anywhere?” Kalim starts looking you over for any injuries that he might have missed.

Too close. “Not a scratch. Come on, let’s head home.”

Though you should’ve expected things would go sideways at some point, that the night would bring untold horrors instead of passing peacefully. In a mix of your carelessness and Kalim’s overexcitement, an avian-like wraith appears and catches you both offguard, talons closing around his midsection and carrying him into the sky, each powerful beat of its wings taking him farther and farther away from you.

Adrenaline surges through you and the asphalt of the sidewalk cracks underneath your soles as you leap to the sky in pursuit. “Kalim!” Just before you can close the distance, he screams at you to get back, making you falter. A long shadow whips through the air—a prehensile tail of sorts—preventing you from approaching.

Switching tactics, you aim for its wings. Better to bring it to the ground.

(Miraculously, Kalim got the cue to turn into his plushie form to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. You manage to catch him before the both of you crash. Though, Kalim’s awed gushing was probably going to give you a sunburn.)

Being a magical girl means Jamil takes your healthcare into his own hands, sometimes.

“It’s the sleep deprivation.”

“No, it’s not.” A coughing fit strikes you at that moment, betraying the extent of your sickness.

“It’s because you’re overexerting yourself with your ‘nightly escapades.’”

“Fine—so what if I am? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? To protect helpless people day and night?”

“Obviously, not at the cost of your own wellbeing!”

You didn’t think you would ever end up in this kind of situation, being yelled at by a floating plush ball while confined to your bed of messy blankets and used tissues.

The angry heat in your face is making your headache worse, makes you see gray for a moment before you could fire back.

“...I’m sorry,” you spit without an ounce of penance.

Jamil sighs. “Well. There’s no use in pressing the matter any further.” Just before he disappears, he tells you to get some rest.

Easier said than done.

The minutes inch by agonizingly slow. Your room is so silent, magnifying the buzz of your own thoughts. Up until this point, your life became a whirlwind of academics, extracurriculars, and fighting evil monsters. But at this moment of standstill, you can’t help but come to the realization that he was right. With your rashness, you basically incapacitated yourself. Sure, your familiars were also capable magic users. Sure, they could hold off wraiths from doing any major damage, but the thought that this entire situation could have been avoided, that this was entirely your fault—

A tear slips down your cheek, then more and more, until you’re quietly sobbing, frustrated, into your palms.

The mattress of your bed dips with the added weight of another person. “Mom—”

Jamil shushes you. “Drink this first.” You hear the rustle of plastic—did he go to the pharmacy?—and feel him press two tablets into your hand. As you swallow them, he hands you a glass of water. His other hand rests against your sweat-covered back, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

(It is a stark contrast to his rough words from earlier.)

“I thought you…” They probably had other magical fighters to watch over, didn’t they?

It’s probably the fever messing with your senses, but there’s an uncharacteristic softness in Jamil’s voice. “Shh. No more of that, now.”

“...then why?” Were you really the only one?

“Just focus on getting better.”

“But—”

“Your mom’s making soup for dinner, she will come to check on you in an hour. I’ll stay with you until then. Rest.”

His words are not enough to placate your worries fully, but there’s a soft glow of red in his irises that makes you acquiesce and close your eyes, all while clutching onto Jamil’s wrist.

Being a magical girl means thinking up new ways to explain your many conversations “to yourself.”

Your parents are easy, it’s just the angst of youth. But your siblings are a little more difficult to convince. In addition to your moments of listlessness, they can hear your frantic back and forth pacing and the thump of you throwing your plushies against the paper-thin walls of your room. It can only mean one thing—

“Get out! I’m not having romance issues!” You slam the door behind your sibling’s cackles.

Your familiars remain still, seated on your bed until the sound of footsteps is sufficiently out of earshot.

“Are you really seeing someone?” Kalim pipes up.

“No!” You bury your face into your hands. “I—How would I have the time for that?”

“Besides,” Jamil chimes in, “we’re the only ones who’ve been accompanying them. Unless—”

Your body moves of its own accord, snatching Jamil with both hands and giving him a threatening squeeze, an unspoken ‘don’t you dare finish that sentence’ left hanging in mid-air.

When he stays quiet, your death grip lightens up. Just a little bit. A heavy exhale leaves your frame. “Look, for all that we’ve gone through—”

(A part of you is hesitant to admit it but, having gained them as new companions made your journey as a magical girl feel less daunting. You felt safe knowing that you could rely on them to watch your back, in spite of the close calls you’ve had.

As for whether or not you’d started looking at them differently, well, you’d need more time to think on it. There. End of conversation.)

“I guess… I’m glad I met you. The both of you,” you finished lamely.

The silence that followed was deafening. For once, you’d wished their plushie forms could emote more instead of giving you that placid smile.

With a pop! and shower of golden sparks, Kalim’s arms close around you in a tight hug. A bright grin splitting his cheeks. “I’m happy we’re friends too!”

“Stop squeezing me!” Jamil grits out.

Being a magical girl means double checking your word choice, especially for any quips and retorts.

The first time you transformed, you commented offhandedly about your footwear and Jamil made a little adjustment to your attire.

With a snap of his fingers, a golden bangle clasps around your ankle. Lightweight, no doubt it would look beautiful when the light hits it at the right angle, but—

A frown pulls at your lips.

“Would you like another one? Just for some…symmetry,” Jamil suggests.

You decide better against responding to that.

“Think of it as a gift from me and Kalim.”

Was this something they bestowed to every magical fighter they took under their wing? “...Some gift this is.”

“Relax, you still have three wishes left. I won’t trick you into wasting them.”

Well, that diminished most of your initial doubt. “How can I be sure of that?” you question.

Jamil’s head tilts to the side, appraising you with an eerily-observant gaze. “All you have to do is ask. Anything that your heart desires, anything your mind can conceive.”

You don’t like how his eyes are trained on you, making you feel small. You pick at an imaginary speck of dirt on your top, straighten out the already-impeccable fabric.

A thick silence falls over the both of you.

“...Will you—will you both ask me if I’m sure, before granting my wish?” It’s such a stupid thing to worry about, to fuss over the intricacies of your arrangement as Magical Girl and Familiar.

“Of course.” Jamil gives you a smile. “Shall we head to where Kalim is?”

“Yeah.” Your weapon appears in your hand with a flash of gold. “Let’s destroy that wraith’s nest.”

(More than desires you want fulfilled, there are anxieties you want quelled, fears you want silenced. Miracles to the myriad of unfortunate catastrophes that plagued your home—the flawed world that you lived in. So what if you contained untold power at your fingertips? You were only one person tasked with the protection of hundreds. At the peak of your distress—in the midst of sirens and flashing lights—you call for Jamil and utter your first wish through choked sobs.)

Being a magical girl means not relying on your powers, sometimes.

The trapped kitten gives another pitiful wail, thrashing against your grip as you clamber down the tree. In holding onto it tightly, you earn a set of angry-red scratch marks along the backs of your hands before reaching solid ground. The kitten bounds away with a final hiss.

“Why didn’t you transform?” Kalim asks.

You shrug, running a finger over one of the scratches. “I guess it’s ’cause I didn’t wanna mess up the outfit.”

“What do you mean?”

Bashful, your gaze ducks to your shoes, worn from years of use but sturdily hanging on. “It’s just, lately, the wraiths have been getting more and more powerful. And I…” Feel weak? Pressured? Alright, maybe you were still hung up over leaving a little crater at a major intersection, but it was either that or letting the ursine wraith lay waste to the nearby shopping center. There wasn’t any time to dwell on those shortcomings.

(But your mind liked to circle back to it. Was there any more you could do? Why couldn’t you do more?)

They warned you about this, that at some point, you would end up facing more destructive wraiths. That you would have to choose among innocents.

He takes your injured hands. “You can always make a wish.” Kalim’s healing magic washes over you, cool and gentle, like a stream of water. You watch the scratches slowly close up until they become nothing more than a set of faint white lines. “That’s what me and Jamil are for.”

“That’s true…”

“Anything you want.” Kalim repeats. “I’ll make it happen.”

It’s those simple words— and the sight of him cradling your hands in his palms—that grant you the courage to speak your next words, your second wish.

Being a magical girl means weighing your soul against the lives of people, friends and strangers alike.

“Come on, you have to get up.” Tears are streaming down Kalim’s cheeks, his hands hover by your prone and bloodied form, unsure of which wounds to heal.

Wearily, you gaze cranes upwards as if every bit of movement caused pain throughout your body.

Jamil has witnessed this scenario a thousand times. He keeps a stoic face. “Are you just going to let them destroy everything?”

“...I can’t let them…”

“You’re hurting yourself! Jamil, you have to do something!”

“It’s not my choice to make.”

When in the face of an unstoppable threat—a horde of chimeran wraiths that will lay waste to your home, will you make that final third wish and trust in them?

Jamil knows how you’ll answer. Rather than using them as quick and easy schemes, your first two wishes were—in some way—made for the good of others around you. For someone who won’t even know or care about that small bit of kindness. At the core of every human is a desperate self-preservation instinct that pushes them to make a final wish. And like clockwork, you will follow like the rest of the magical girls that they created. It’s a strategy that has benefited him and Kalim. And he has been fervently waiting for this moment, for a powerful one like you to—

“I’m...not giving up…!”

Or not?

His lips curl into a smile. “Then give them hell.”

They can wait this out. Compared to their infinite lifespan, your emotional fortitude was only a drop in the ocean.

a/n: aaaa thanks @jessamine-rose for betaing this fic with ur fresh eyes. this au rlly gave me brainworms of the feral variety, i think i liked leaving most of the details ambiguous and free to interpretation, but i might come up with a separate author's note post about worldbuilding bits i couldnt fit in? eh we'll see! i hope yall enjoyed reading this! edit: author's note can be found here! tagging some jamilnatics: @viperwhispered @twstgo @just-a-little-silly @mama-m1na @crystallizsch @sillystr1ngs (lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies)

#dellet-writings #jamil viper x reader #kalim al asim x reader #scarabia x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #jamil viper #kalim al asim #gn!reader #yandere kalim al asim #yandere jamil viper

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mazeeelabyrinth · 3 months ago

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●○● Daggers & Kisses ●○●

Chapter II: Gilded Cage, Velvet Drapes

"You're going to be the talk of the party, my sweet," he whispered. "My little toy, coming for me in the middle of it all."

♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡ Pairing: Sylus x AFAB!Reader

♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡ Chapter Summary:

You thought you'd finally steal your freedom. Slip past Onychinus eyes, vanish into the dark with nothing but bruises and regrets. Instead, Sylus drags you right back to his suite—his playground, his stage—and dresses you like a doll in the aftermath of your defiance. Dress. High heels. Choker. Makeup. A mask to hide your shame.

But the masquerade isn’t for appearances. It’s a battlefield. And when he pins you to his lap in a velvet booth, whispering filth and threats against your throat while his hands work beneath the table... you realize the real trap isn’t the ship.

It’s him.

♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡ Tags: 18+, eventual smut, shameless smut, slowburn, explicit sexual language, explicit sexual scene, enemies to lovers, dubious consent, dubcon touching, public blow jobs, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, voyeurism, exhibitionism, humiliation, degradation, masturbation, light bdsm, squirting, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina sex, creampie, canon divergence au, porn with feelings, porn with plot, original characters added for the plot, ooc?

♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡ Word Count: 12.4K

📌 Chapter I: Daggers & Kisses

MASTERLIST ☆ AO3 ☆ NAVIGATION ☆ TAG LIST

🫶 user tags: @mcdepressed290

The suite was too quiet.

No breath, no voice, no mocking purr in your ear—just the low thrum of the cruise ship engines beneath the floor, and the slow creak of your own limbs as you stirred awake.

The first thing you saw was the ceiling—vaulted, baroque, gilded with gold leaf and arrogance. You blinked, disoriented. Not from sleep. From him.

It wasn't just soreness between your legs or the faint bruises on your hips that told the story—it was the thick, maddening fog still clinging to your bones. Like your body hadn’t figured out yet that he was gone. That Sylus had finished what he started and slipped away like a wraith.

The metal was gone now, the cold bite of the cuffs replaced by the raw heat of skin rubbed raw. Just the ghost of sensation still clinging to your wrists, sore and tender, skin kissed raw by steel. You flexed your fingers on instinct. The ache was dull and deep. Proof that last night had not been a fever dream.

You could still feel the imprint of Sylus’ hands on your hips, your throat, your thighs. The bruises he’d left on your body felt like signatures. Your body felt used, conquered in ways you never thought you’d allow. And yet, he had found a way. Sylus hadn’t just crossed your boundaries; he’d wrapped them in silk and set them ablaze.

You blinked against the low amber glow filtering through silk curtains—soft light, too soft. The kind of gentle ambiance designed for decadence, not danger. But danger still lingered in the bones of the room. In the ghost of heat etched into the sheets.

A deep breath filled your lungs with the scent of sandalwood, citrus peel, and smoke. Him. It still lingered here, haunting the very walls of this suite. You sat up slowly, body protesting with every sore, bruised muscle. Someone had redressed you—if redressed could be the right word for the obscene luxury that now clung to your frame. The loungewear was scandalously soft, expensive in a way that felt insulting.

That’s when you realized—he’d changed you. Your uniform was gone, no trace of the weapon-laced disguise you’d entered the gala in. You hadn't owned a single thing this delicate in your entire life.

A robe. Silk. Deep red, with black piping at the seams and embroidery that coiled like thorny vines at the cuffs. It fit too well.

He had undressed you. Cleaned you. Chosen your clothes. Sylus had played house with your unconscious body after—

A chill crept down your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A scream, maybe, caught in your throat. Your thoughts were mud, swirling with flickers of what happened before sleep claimed you—or he did.

You remembered the blindfold. The heat. The shameful whimpers that escaped your mouth. The way you bit him hard enough to taste blood. And how he moaned, like that had only made him harder.

Your reflection caught in a gilded mirror on the wall—you barely recognized yourself. Hair a tangle of chaos. Lips bruised and still parted like they’d forgotten how to close. Your neck bore the remnants of his mouth—red marks like scattered embers against your skin. A flush still dusting your skin as though your body hadn’t figured out the war was over. But was it? Or had he simply changed the battlefield?

You flung the sheets back in fury, storming across the room like a feral thing, bare feet slapping against cold marble. The suite was decadence incarnate—onyx counters, velvet lounges, gold-leafed sconces, a chandelier shaped like a bleeding heart, a marble bar stocked with liquors aged beyond your lifetime. Every inch of the place screamed excess. Power. Control.

It was the kind of place that masked sins behind silk and shadow. A tray on the nightstand held water, a neatly folded towel, a pill bottle—painkillers.

You scoffed. Thoughtful bastard.

You moved like a ghost across it, desperate for signs, for a clue, for him. But he was gone. Except for what he left behind.

A single red camellia.

It lay on the onyx vanity table, cruelly vivid against the monochrome elegance, laid like a lover’s gift. Beneath it, a card. Simple. Ivory paper.

His handwriting was as sharp as his smile. You knew enough about Sylus to understand he didn’t do anything by accident. Everything was a message. A maneuver.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the note tucked beneath it, paper thick and scented faintly of spice and smoke.

"I liked the way you screamed my name. Let’s do it again sometime.

– S."

You stared. The flower. The handwriting. The smug cruelty of it all.

Something inside you snapped.

“Piece of shit!” You snatched the camellia and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud, too gentle to satisfy your rage. The note, however, you didn’t burn. You should’ve. You wanted to. But instead… you folded it back up, slower this time.

That son of a bitch. He hadn’t even bothered to stick around. Not that you expected him to. But the note—the flower—they weren’t just a taunt. They were a claim. A signature.

Your instincts screamed for blood. For vengeance. He humiliated you. Touched you like he owned you. Turned you inside out and left your body singing his name like a curse. You should be planning your escape. Plotting your retaliation. And you would.

But…

Gods, your skin still remembered his hands.

You hated this.

You hated how your body still pulsed with his touch, how the echo of his voice still whispered behind your ear. That smug, sultry rasp. The way he’d broken you open not with pain, but with pleasure. Your lips still tingled from his kiss—cruel, commanding, devastating.

You clenched your fists, pacing the room like a beast. Your blood simmered, too hot to hold. Anger. Shame. Need. Everything tangled beneath your skin, each breath scraping your lungs raw. You wanted to scream. To vomit. To run.

But you couldn’t run from your own mind. From the memory of him—his hands, his mouth, the way he spoke and moaned your name like it was a promise and a curse.

You wanted to claw him from your skin.

And worse than the humiliation, worse than the bruised pride and aching body, was the sharp, unwanted throb between your legs.

A part of you wanted him to do it again.

Your knees gave out, and you sank onto the arm of a velvet chair, breathing hard. You stared at the far wall, where the camellia lay discarded on the floor like a crime scene.

He hadn’t broken you. But because you let him.

Even if it was just for a moment.

You pressed your palms against the cold floor, breathing hard.

This wasn’t just about lust or vengeance anymore. Not even about the mission. Sylus had turned the game into something else—twisted the rules, pulled you into a dance where you weren’t sure who was chasing who anymore.

Your instincts screamed at you to run. But beneath that, buried under layers of discipline and shame, something darker stirred.

Because damn him, Sylus had shown you something—something terrifying. He hadn’t just wanted your body. He’d wanted your obedience. Your fire. Your fight. And he’d taken it, kissed it, licked it from your mouth like honey.

You closed your eyes.

This wasn’t over.

It never was, with Sylus.

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

You didn’t plan to stay in the suite. Sylus’ suite.

You couldn’t.

The walls, for all their gold-gilded opulence, pressed in like padded restraints. Every cushion whispered his name. Every breath of perfumed air was still laced with him. The echo of his voice clung to the curtains like smoke.

When the door slid open with an obedient sigh, the hallway beyond was empty. Silent. No guards. No chains. But not unwatched. You could feel it—eyes, hidden, focused. A pulse of surveillance behind the mirrors. Pressure just beneath your skin.

You moved forward anyway.

The corridor stretched long and decadent, bathed in amber lighting and lined with extravagant paintings—obscene depictions of mythology, rewritten with lust and violence. Venus with blood on her mouth. Eros pinning a mortal down. You wondered, absently, which one Sylus imagined himself as. Or which one he wanted you to be. Even the climate control felt calculated, like someone somewhere was adjusting the temperature based on how much they wanted you to squirm.

The slippers you’d been left made no sound on the carpet, but your skin prickled, sensitive to every shift of air. The loungewear Sylus had chosen moved like a whisper with each step, and you hated how it made you feel—vulnerable.

Marked. On display. As if he had intended not to leave clothes for you to wear except the scandalous piece of silk that lazily clung to your body.

The cruise ship was a floating palace—casino floors, spiral staircases, chandeliers that sparkled like frozen tears. Beautiful. Expensive. Insidious. The air smelled of perfume and politics. And all of it felt wrong

A bar shaped like a serpent’s mouth glowed in the distance, fangs glittering with crystal. Guests floated through the lounge like smoke—high society scum dressed in thousand-dollar silk and secrets. You drew curious glances. More than one man looked twice. A man with eyes like knives offered you a drink without asking your name. His smile didn’t reach her eyes.

You didn’t take it.

Instead, you followed the curve of the atrium, past chandeliers that resembled dripping black honey and a grand piano being played by a man whose knuckles bore old burn scars.

Then you met the first of them.

She stood near the grand staircase, leaning against a polished railing like she owned the entire damn ship. Blonde. Fair-skinned. Diamond smile. Like a glorified ‘femme fatale’ Barbie doll. Her satin dress accentuated her curvaceous form, her heels were lethal and burgundy as the dress, and her eyes—glacier blue and utterly disinterested—moved over you like you were a curiosity.

Or a gift.

“You must be the birthday favor,” she said, her voice as smooth as poisoned wine. “Sylus always had a taste for the wild ones.”

Your gaze barely lingered for a second at the woman as you kept walking. Didn’t answer.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” she called after you. “He’s very possessive of things he’s touched. And darling—you’ve been touched.”

That made you stop, your jaw clenched so hard your teeth throbbed.

She stepped into the elevator, vanishing behind mirrored doors with a wink.

You exhaled only when the doors shut. But there was no time to catch your breath—because as you moved forward, the ship opened before you like a labyrinth.

Gambling lounges glittering with sin. Ballrooms filled with people too beautiful and too still. And always, always the eyes. They watched from behind fans. From behind champagne flutes. From the poker tables and piano benches. Some smiled. Some sneered. Some licked their lips as if tasting the rumors wrapped around you.

You were a legend now. His. They didn’t know what had happened—but they knew enough. Sylus never let anything close unless he intended to keep it—or kill it.

There was a man standing by the bar. Tall, sharp-eyed, gold cufflinks glinting like talons. His white-blond hair was slicked back, smile cold and precise. A scar kissed the edge of his jaw like a lover. He raised his glass to you as you approached, as if expecting you.

“Nice view,” he said.

You didn’t stop walking, and he followed.

“Andros,” he said casually, swirling something dark and expensive in his glass. “Asset recovery. I clean up Sylus’ messes. Though lately…” His eyes dipped, dragging slowly down your body, lingering particularly on the red marks Sylus had left on your neck. “He seems more inclined to keep them with the twins.”

You turned your head slightly. “You always open conversations with veiled threats and innuendos?”

His grin widened. “Only with people who look like they bite.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You’d already marked the knife tucked beneath his jacket, the way his fingers never strayed far from it.

“Careful, darling,” Andros added, sipping his drink. “You’re walking on silk sheets over broken glass. One wrong step and it’s blood on the floor.”

You leaned in just slightly, voice velvet and venom. “Tell Sylus if he wants round two, he’ll need more than handcuffs and poetry.”

Andros only chuckled. “I don’t relay messages to kings. But I do watch the pawns squirm.”

You scoffed. “So you’re no more than just a spineless, glorified dog who only barks when allowed then.”

You left him there, but not before noticing a comm in his ear—and the red light that blinked once as you walked away. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to run.

But your body did none of those things. Instead, it coiled tighter. Not fear, just calculation. You were still a hunter—even in a trap. Eyes followed you as you left, shadows creeping at the edges of the corridor like they were closing in. And still… no alarms. No guards. Just confrontations veiled as greetings. Just the illusion of freedom.

Did everyone know about you already? It was Sylus’ doing, you knew it. The thought only irked you more that your footsteps hastened as you turned to another corner of the casino. But, as expected, there was another fool enough to exacerbate your already bubbling temper.

She sat in a crescent-shaped booth, legs crossed in an indulgent pose. Ink-black hair, sapphire lips, a cigarette burning between fingers tipped with chrome rings. She looked up as you passed, eyes sharp enough to peel back skin.

“Don’t bother with the escape pods,” she said, voice like chilled wine. “He had them rerouted two days ago.”

You froze, and her smile widened.

“Lieutenant Veska. Internal intel. I would like to know what toys Sylus brings on board.”

You turned to face her fully, spine stiff. “I’m not a toy.”

“No,” Veska said slowly, drawing out the word like a purr. “You’re something he built from scratch. Fire, hunger, and oh…” She tilted her head. “A very stubborn little hunter—or a prey.”

Your hand itched toward your thigh, but she merely raised a brow.

“Go ahead,” she said. “See what happens.”

What if you would just set the whole cruise ship on fire? You wanted to, so much, but it would not guarantee Sylus’ death. So you didn’t move. And neither did she.

Checkmate.

The air between you was thick with tension. Power games and memory and the echo of hands you couldn’t forget. Then Veska leaned back and exhaled smoke in a soft spiral.

“He’ll call for you again,” she said. “He always does.”

You had no choice but to turn and walk away. Hands itching to gouge someone’s eyes out, face contorting in a barely concealed fury.

Every encounter was like that. Cloaked threats with flirtation like poison sugar. Onychinus lieutenants who offered compliments dipped in venom. Even the servers stared too long. Even the walls felt like they were breathing with eyes. You realized soon: they weren’t just letting you wander. They were parading you.

You stopped near a gilded elevator, catching your reflection in the mirrored doors. God, you looked like one of them—silk and bruises, seduced and broken. But your eyes were still yours. Sharp. Cunning.

Then—

A whisper. Not in your ear, but through a hidden speaker overhead.

“Keep walking, sweetheart. I like the view from here.”

Your stomach dropped.

Sylus.

You turned sharply, scanning the corridor, the air, the nothing—but he wasn’t there. Just your reflection smirking back at you. Your pulse stuttered in betrayal.

How long had he been watching?

The question wasn’t if. It was where. How close. And how fast you’d go running to find him.

“Go to hell, Sylus!” You bellowed, slamming your fingers on the elevator buttons. “Come out and face me, you fucking bastard! I swear I’d rip your balls—”

Your words cut off by his villainous laugh—sonorous and mocking—which only fueled your rage. Breathing deep through your nostrils, you dragged a hand on your face. But it wasn’t enough to regain composure when his voice still rumbled from the damned speaker.

Your voice cracked like thunder. “Fuck!”

No one would say it, but it was clear: you were still on a leash. A long one, maybe. Velvet-wrapped and gold-plated.

But a leash all the same.

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

You’d made it to the cargo level.

Somehow.

Past flirtations dressed as threats, past the gilded corridors and glass smiles, past a distracted steward whose swipe card had been too easy to snatch. The elevator had carried you down, humming like a lullaby. No one stopped you. No one chased you.

The soles of your slippers hit steel now instead of velvet, the hum of luxury above replaced by the mechanical groan of engines and industrial air. The kind of place where secrets were stored. Or discarded.

You kept close to the walls, adrenaline a bitter note at the back of your throat. One hand gripped the stolen card. The other still bore the faint red ghost of Sylus’ cuff.

The plan was simple: be calm, be rational, and escape. You could leap overboard if needed. Swim. Steal a lifeboat. Bite someone. Hell, bite Sylus if he showed his smug face again.

Now the back hatch doors leading to the staff-only exit sliding open without protest. No alarms. No guards. Just a yawning corridor slick with shadows and lined with storage crates. Like the ship wanted to let you go.

You didn’t trust it. But you took it.

Your footsteps were feather-quiet against the metal floor, adrenaline sharp in your veins. You moved like the ghost they thought they’d made you into—silent, invisible, deadly. Somewhere deep in your gut, you knew this wasn’t supposed to be this easy. But the thought of Sylus—smirking behind a screen, waiting to see if you’d run or beg—pushed you forward.

The dock was closed. You could hear the rumble of a smaller transport vessel tethered to the belly of the cruise ship. You moved faster, weaving through supply racks, every nerve on edge.

The passage yawned ahead—dim, narrow, sterile. The scent of engine oil and salt air replaced rosewood and cologne. You reached the final steel door, fingers trembling as they hovered above the manual override.

And then—

“Leaving so soon?”

You froze. The voice didn’t belong to Sylus. It was another guard—one you remembered from earlier as you ‘explored’ the ship. Tall, toned physique and face hidden behind a crow mask.

You turned slow. “Move.”

He did. Sideways. Like he was granting you a gift. His hands up in mock surrender, you could sense his grin practically dripping onto the floor.

“I didn’t see a thing,” he purred, stepping aside with exaggerated deference. “Have fun running.”

Your gut twisted as you graced him another glance. It was bait, but you didn’t care.

You slammed your hand on the override and stepped through—

Straight into him.

He was waiting.

Not by accident. Not by coincidence. Like he knew the exact rhythm of your breath, the exact second your defiance would boil into escape. He stood with his back to the ocean, wind teasing his dark coat, hair tousled by salt-laced air.

Sylus' smirk was slow, gazing down at you like a predator cornering its prey. Almost as if he didn’t need to plan it all. It was just, at least for him, you were predictable.

Your body jolted, instinctively stepping back—but you didn't get far. His hand shot out, catching your wrist like a striking viper. Your body slammed against his, chest to chest, breath tangled with his. His grip was tight—too tight—and your sore skin protested, but Sylus didn’t flinch. His other hand slid to your waist, possessive, slow.

“I see you’ve been exploring,” he murmured, dragging you closer with your own body like a leash. His hands were warm. Too warm. “But you really thought I’d let you leave without saying goodbye?”

You kicked. He sidestepped easily, fluid as ever.

“No?” Sylus asked, cocking his head, lips brushing against your temple. “Not even a thank you for the outfit?”

You could smell the lingering scent of smoke from him, mixed with the familiar cologne and his musk. “Let go of me, you bastard.”

“Oh, I intend to. Eventually.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, just shy of bruising. “But you looked so eager sneaking around. I just had to see where you were going.”

You twisted, snarled, but he pinned you against the corridor wall with his body—a press of power and tailored silk and unbearable heat. A muffled thud echoed from the impact, followed by a gasp that slipped from your lips.

“You really don’t learn, do you?”

You snarled, “You left the door unlocked.”

“I did,” he said, almost fondly. “Wanted to see where the little hunter would run to after she got fucked like prey.”

Your hand shot up from his grip to slap him. He caught your wrist again—now both held in his grasp, pinned to the wall above your head like an offering.

His breath grazed your cheek. His body leaned in close, heat radiating from every inch. “You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Is that rage... or anticipation?”

You turned your face away, your breasts heaved beneath the silk robe as shallow breaths pumped through your lungs. But Sylus followed, lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, featherlight and maddening.

“Are you really trying to escape me on my property?” he murmured, voice like black velvet over a blade. “Sweetheart, I built this ship.”

Your gaze flew at his smug features. “I’ll jump.”

His brows rose. “Will you now?”

He glanced toward the open horizon. The nearby tender boat swayed with the waves that caressed the small dock as if beckoning you to escape. Wind whipped your hair, the salt tang of the sea crashing in like a wave of truth. His smirk deepened.

Then, with a slow kiss on your forehead, he let go. You staggered back like the air had left the room with him.

Sylus smiled like a god who knew your prayers by heart. “Do it,” he said. “Go on.”

You did nothing but stared at him, shaking with rage. Even if you did leave now with the tender, you knew that you wouldn’t survive in the middle of the ocean with no food and fuel.

With a last ditch effort, you kicked at his shin. He didn’t even flinch this time. Instead, he chuckled, warm and cruel, and leaned in so close again his lips nearly brushed yours.

“Still fighting. Good.” His fingers slipped down to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. “I’d be bored if you didn’t.”

Then he dragged you away from the wall—literally dragged, his hand around your wrist like a vice, parading you backward through the shadows and into the light.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Party’s not over.”

Your heart thundered. Every step you took was a war between your mind and your body. Between hate and the echo of that searing night. And Sylus—he was soaking in every twitch, every tremor, like a predator reading your blood.

He didn’t say a word when he brought you back. Just guided you with that firm grip on your wrist, fingers searing through skin like ink soaking into paper. The suite door shut behind you with a heavy click, and only then did Sylus release you.

The single red camellia still bloomed on the floor—like it had been waiting for you to crawl back and pick it up.

But he didn’t leave you. No—he prowled around you like he was admiring his handiwork.

Your hair was a mess. That damnable loungewear now rumpled and clinging. The defiance in your eyes dulled by something darker. And he loved it. You could see it in the slow, indulgent way he peeled off his coat, eyes fixed on you like you were a puzzle piece he’d finally forced into place.

“I can’t have you wandering around my ship like a broken doll,” he said, opening a secured wardrobe with a flourish. “Let’s dress you up. Something fitting.”

Sylus’ gaze flickered over you, appraising, as you stood in the middle of the luxurious room. He didn’t speak for a moment, just took a few steps toward you, his presence like a storm that didn’t demand permission to roll through.

“You’ve earned the right to look... proper, don’t you think?” His words sliced through the thick, oppressive silence, each syllable soaked with a dangerous allure.

You wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. But you couldn’t move. Not yet. He had you in his grip, and he knew it. He moved past you without a word, gliding toward an obsidian wardrobe you hadn’t noticed before. He opened it like a stage curtain, revealing a neatly arranged collection of dresses, corsets, heels, chokers, makeup, even a drawer of glittering masks.

Your breath caught.

“Pick one,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll need to look… prettier.”

You didn’t move. “I’m not your doll.”

He turned to you, slowly. His gaze dragged over your frame—still in the silk loungewear, your bruised neck only partially hidden by shadows. His voice was velvet-draped poison. “You’re not just my doll. You’re also the entertainment.”

You hissed under your breath, turning toward the wardrobe. Inside, your eyes caught a gown—if you could call it that—waited like a trap dressed in midnight silk. Thigh-high slits. Neckline plunging. Mask included. It was beautiful in a way that made your bones ache.

And beside it? Heels. Choker. Lipstick the color of a wound.

A war raged in your chest. Every part of you screamed to rip it to shreds, but your body—betrayed by something you couldn’t quite name—moved to obey. You stripped, every inch of your exposed skin flashing a reminder of what had transpired only hours ago. The marks he’d left on you still burned, a cruel reminder of your entrapment. Your wrists were still sore, red from where his hands had held you captive, but you didn’t dare show weakness.

As you stood there naked, Sylus lounged on the edge of the bed, his legs spread in an almost predatory stance. One hand found its way to the bulge in his tailored pants, stroking it lazily as if you weren’t even there—as if you weren’t his prize trophy. He watched you with hooded eyes, the other hand playing with a cufflink, the clink of metal a metronome to the rhythm of his strokes. Your eyes were drawn to the movement, a silent command to mimic his actions.

You reached into the wardrobe, your hand brushing over the velvet-soft fabrics, until your fingers found the cool silk of the gown that caught your eye. As you pulled it out, you had to bend over slightly, giving him a full view of your backside, the cleft of your ass on display. The fabric whispered against your skin as it slithered over your curves, revealing the pink, sensitive flesh of your pussy, already damp from his mere presence.

Sylus’ hand paused mid-stroke as he opened his trousers, revealing a cock that was already standing at half-mast, thick and veiny. A smug smile curled on his lips. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” he murmured, his eyes raking over your body.

“No,” you lied, your voice strained, trying to keep your trembling under control. “I’m just getting dressed.”

You picked out a set of lingerie—black and lacy, a stark contrast to the gown’s midnight hue. It was the kind of underwear that screamed for attention, leaving nothing to the imagination. The thong barely covered your sex, the lace teasingly exposing your folds. The bra pushed your breasts up, creating an obscene amount of cleavage that was bound to draw stares.

Sylus’ eyes never left you as you put on the lingerie, his strokes on his cock becoming more deliberate, more demanding. His gaze was a brand on your skin, making you aware of every curve and angle that you had. You tried to ignore him, focusing on the task at hand, but his heavy breathing, the wet sounds of his palm gliding over his shaft, filled the air like a symphony of dominance.

“You look... delicious,” he said, his voice a low growl.

You ignored him, trying to focus on the task at hand. But before you could even attempt to slip into the dress, he stopped you.

“Not yet. First, your face. Do your makeup in that lace.” He gestured to the vanity, where an array of makeup and cosmetics sat gleaming under the soft lights.

Your hands trembled as you approached the mirror, the reflection of his erection looming in your periphery. The anticipation was thick, a palpable entity that coiled around your throat.

At the mirror, you dabbed concealer over the marks he’d left. Every brushstroke was an act of defiance. A silent declaration that you wouldn’t let him ruin this night for you. But as you painted your face with the mask of submission, the heat of his gaze was like a brand on your back, searing into your skin.

You picked up a tube of the crimson lipstick, the color a stark reminder of the marks he’d left on your neck, and applied it with shaky precision. Your eyes remained locked on the mirror, unable to look away from the silent challenge in his gaze.

With each stroke of the lipstick, his eyes darkened, the strokes of his hand on his cock growing more vigorous. He was feeling it, his thumb coming on to stroke the tip, smearing precum across the sensitive head. The sight was like a punch to your gut—desire and anger colliding in a fiery dance. You felt your own arousal building despite the fury raging within you.

“I should’ve left more marks,” he murmured. “It’s cute watching you cover them.”

You snapped the lipstick shut harder than necessary, chin tilted. “You’re obsessed.”

He grinned like a wolf. “Only with what’s mine.”

You felt his eyes on your every move—the way you slid the dress up, the way your breasts bobbed slightly with the motion, the way your legs looked in the heels. Each second stretched into an eternity, filled with the heavy tension of his desire and your contempt. The fabric whispered over your skin, a seductive promise of what lay beneath—his gift, his possession to flaunt.

The dress clung to you like a second skin, the slits exposing your thighs with every step. The choker felt like a collar, a constant reminder of your new status. You painted on a smile to match the mask you’d chosen—a thing of beauty, yet deceptive. The masquerade of your new role.

Sylus watched you with a smirk, hand now stroking his cock slower, his other hand playing with the silk tie around his neck. The sight made your stomach twist with a mix of anger and lust. You felt like a marionette, but there was a part of you that reveled in the raw power dynamics playing out before you.

You took a deep breath and flashed a smile at him, the dress whispering against the floor. "I'm ready," you said, your voice a challenge wrapped in a silk glove.

Sylus' strokes didn't falter, his eyes raking over you, a silent assessment that sent a shiver down your spine. "You look... edible," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He took a moment to appreciate the way the dress hugged your curves, the way your breasts sat behind the bra’s laces and threatened to spill out of the dress. "But not quite... obedient enough."

He rose from the bed with the grace of a panther, closing the distance between you with a predatory stride. Your breath caught in your throat as he stood behind you, his warm breath ghosting over the nape of your neck. His hand slid down your side, tracing the line of the dress, pausing at your hip, before he reached around to cup your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties. "Mmm, you're already wet," he said, his voice low and satisfied. "Good girl."

With a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he bent you over the vanity, your palms flat against the cool marble. The dress whispered as it was pushed aside, the hem hiking up to reveal your bare ass, the thong you wore doing little to protect your modesty. His hand was firm on your back, pressing you down, keeping you in place as he stepped closer, his erection pressing against your thigh.

“Spread your legs wider,” he ordered, his voice a velvet caress that made your skin crawl with anticipation. You did as you were told, the heels making it easier to balance, the silk of the dress pooling around your feet like a dark sea. His hand traveled down your back, the calloused pads of his fingers sending sparks of sensation through your skin as he traced the path down to your ass.

Sylus leaned in, his breath hot on your ear. “Now, let’s make sure you stay that way, shall we?” His hand slipped into your panties, his rough thumb stroking the slickness of your slit. You gritted your teeth, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to escape as he teased your clit in slow, deliberate circles.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice was a purr, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. He knew exactly how to push your buttons—how to make you hate him and want him in the same breath.

With a wicked smile, Sylus reached around to grip his cock, rubbing the thick, velvety head against your clothed pussy. The fabric of your thong did little to protect you from the heat of his desire, and you could feel your body betraying you—desire unfurling like a dark bloom in your belly. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the whimper that was threatening to escape, but it was no use.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he began to grind against you, his strokes growing more demanding. The room was filled with the sounds of his breathing, the slickness of his palm on his shaft, the soft moans you couldn't quite suppress. The mirror reflected the scene back at you, your eyes wide and hazed with arousal, his hand working between your legs with a hunger that seemed to devour the very air around you.

And something, or rather someone, took you by surprise—Sylus. Gone was the damn smirk that coiled around his handsome features like an annoying imprint, replaced by an expression of pleasure. Crimson eyes shut and his lips parted as they brushed against the back of your earlobe. Hot breath wafting gently against your skin in every faint gasp that left his lungs. In a torturously slow pace, his pelvis grinding against your cheeks.

You tried to form a retort, to spit venom and reclaim some semblance of control, but the words stuck in your throat as his thumb found your clit. He rubbed it in slow, maddening circles, each pass sending shockwaves through your body. Your knees trembled, and you had to brace yourself against the vanity to keep from collapsing.

“Sylus, stop—” you managed to choke out, but your voice was a hoarse whisper, your body already singing a different tune.

He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing through the room. “You don’t get to say no tonight, love. Not unless you want to miss the party.” He leaned in closer, his breath a warm caress on your neck. “And we both know you wouldn’t miss this for the world, would you?”

You gritted your teeth, your body trembling with the effort to resist, but the pleasure was too much. His hand continued to work your clit, his thumb pressing harder, faster—along with the tantalizing glide of his cock against your drenched pussy—until you couldn’t hold back anymore. You felt yourself climbing towards the edge, the tension coiling in your belly like a spring wound too tightly.

Sylus, the bastard, knew it too. His grin in the mirror was triumphant, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched your struggle. His smug countenance was back. He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your neck, whispering, “That’s it. Give in to me. You know you want it.”

With a sudden, brutal yank, he tugged your thong away, the string of fabric slipping like the shreds of your pride. You gasped, your knees almost buckling, but his hand was there, a steel band around your waist, keeping you upright. The cool air hit your exposed pussy, and you felt a sudden, unwanted rush of arousal.

His cock nudged against your folds, the thickness of him sending a jolt of anticipation through your body. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back the whimpers that begged to escape. But the way he looked at you, like you were the last piece of a puzzle he’d been working on for years, made your resolve waver. He began to rub the bulbous tip against your bare slickness, gave shallow thrusts of his girthy cock that painted your skin with his desire. The pressure grew with each stroke, building a crescendo of need that you couldn’t ignore.

And just as you felt the sweet release coil in your core, ready to burst like a dam breaking, he pulled away. Your body arched in protest, desperate for the relief that was so close. You gasped, panting, your eyes flying to the mirror to meet his. His smirk was pure evil, enjoying your torment like it was a fine wine.

Sylus stepped back with a devilish smirk. "Now, now," he chided playfully. "The party hasn’t even started yet."

You felt like a marionette whose strings had been cruelly jerked. Your body hummed with need, your clit throbbing and begging for release. You turned to face him, anger flushing your cheeks, but his smug expression didn’t waver.

He continued stroking himself, his eyes never leaving yours as you leaned backwards on the vanity table. Each pull of his hand on his shaft was a silent declaration of his power over you, a taunting reminder that he held your pleasure hostage. Your teeth dug into your lower lip, your eyes narrowing into slits. You wanted to scream, to fight back, but you knew it would only fuel his enjoyment.

The room was a cocoon of tension, the only sounds were the slick slide of his hand and the shallow pants that you couldn’t quite hide. The sight of him, so composed and in control, was a stark contrast to your own tumultuous emotions. His hand moved faster now, the muscles in his forearm flexing with each stroke. You could see the veins bulging, the precum glistening in the soft light.

And then, with a strangled groan, Sylus came, his cum arcing through the air to splatter against the vanity mirror and the makeup lying scattered on the table. It painted his hand in sticky white streaks, a visual representation of his claim on you. He didn’t bother to clean it off, the mess a silent declaration of his victory. The smug satisfaction on his face was almost too much to bear.

You watched in a mix of disgust and fascination as he took a moment to catch his breath, his hand still wrapped around his cock. The semen on the mirror reflected the lights, a perverse piece of art in the pristine room. The dress, the makeup, the whole setup—it was all for his sick amusement.

Sylus took a step closer once more, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "You're a mess now," he murmured, reaching out to smear a thumb through the cum on the vanity. He brought it to your face, tracing the sticky path along your bottom lip. "But you'll clean up nicely."

You couldn’t help but lick the salty taste of him from your skin, your eyes never leaving his. The gesture was one of submission, but you felt the beginnings of a fire burning in your chest. You knew you couldn’t let him break you—not yet. You had to play his game, at least for tonight.

You hated the way your knees weakened at that. Hated more how he knew.

When he finally stepped away, you could breathe again. But the air had shifted—warmer, tighter, scented with the memory of sweat and sin.

“You’re taking me somewhere?” you asked, trying for a cold tone.

His grin was pure hunger. “The masquerade,” he said. “It’s my birthday week, after all. What better way to celebrate... than with my favorite toy on my arm?”

After cleaning up yourselves, Sylus dragged you out of the suite and down the long, winding corridors of the ship, each step pulling you deeper into the lion’s den. The low buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the murmurs of other patrons filtered into your senses as you walked. It was a party—grand, lavish, and dripping with power.

The masquerade was a world of illusion and lust, hidden behind lush velvet curtains that cascaded to the floor in rich burgundies and deep purples. The air was thick with smoke and whispered secrets, the clink of crystal glasses and the soft laughter of patrons echoing under the seductive glow of low-hanging chandeliers.

The lights were dimmed to a seductive, warm glow, flickering like shadows across the faces of guests hiding behind gilded masks. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, the soft rustle of silk against skin, and the hum of tension that laced every whispered conversation.

He steered you to a private booth, tucked away in the shadowed corner of the lounge. The velvet was plush beneath you as he pushed you down into the seat, his body leaning over you, encasing you in his presence. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice soft and dark.

“You’re mine. Mine to control. Mine to break.”

His words were like velvet chains, tight and suffocating. Your body stiffened, but his hand was already there, sliding under the table to rest on your thigh. His fingers moved, slow and deliberate, tracing the edge of your inner leg, just enough to make your breath catch, but not enough to satisfy.

“Stop.” You shifted, uncomfortable, but it only seemed to amuse him. His fingers tightened on your leg, pressing harder, forcing you to stay still.

“You can’t escape, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice almost a purr as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your jaw. “Not with me watching you. We’re not done yet.”

Your hand shot up, slapping his hand away from your thigh. The sound echoed in the intimate space, a slap of skin against skin that seemed to hang in the air. The music and chatter of the party swirled around you like a distant storm, the only thing real was the heat of his gaze and the pulsing throb of your own need.

Sylus’ smile didn’t falter, but his eyes grew darker. He leaned in closer, his hand coming up to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. “I said, we’re not done yet,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

You tried to push his hand away again, but his grip was iron, his thumb tracing the fullness of your lower lip. “You’re going to sit here, and you’re going to look pretty for me, and when I’m ready, you’re going to come with me to the party. And you’re going to smile, and you’re going to dance, and you’re going to let everyone think you’re enjoying yourself—because you are. Because you’re mine now. And I want everyone to know it.”

“Let me go,” you spat, squirming, your palms digging into his chest. “I swear, Sylus—”

“Swear to what?” he interrupted, the softest purr, his other hand brushing your bruised wrist in mock concern. “That you’ll try to kill me again? That you’ll claw and bite and then come all over my fingers like a liar?”

His words stung like a slap, the fire in your chest burning hotter. “I’ll never be yours,” you hissed, trying to ignore the way your body responded to his touch.

Sylus’ smile grew more predatory. “Oh, but you are, love. Whether you like it or not. And I’ll make sure everyone here knows it too.”

Without another word, he pulled you into his lap before you could respond. He grabbed your wrist and twisted your arm behind your back—gently, but with the promise of pain. “Move, and I’ll make it louder.”

Your wrists stayed behind your back, pinned in his grip as his other hand deftly removed his tie. Your thighs straddled his, bare beneath the slitted gown. You were on display—half-hidden, fully his. The bulge of his cock pressed up between your legs, hard and hot and deliberate.

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus had you bound. The silk tie, a noose of submission, wrapped around your wrists. The knot was tight but not painful—a reminder of his control, a declaration of his intent. You tried to struggle, but his strength was absolute, his grip unyielding.

You snarled, a sound of pure defiance. A part of you was still salty about what happened against the suite’s vanity. "You're delusional if you think this changes anything."

Sylus chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Is that so?" He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "Let's see how much you resist when you're begging for more."

Ensured that you were properly restrained by the silk tie, Sylus began touching you, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak. The fabric of the dress was thin, offering no protection from the heat of his touch. Your breath hitched, and you felt your body betray you as your nipples pebbled under his ministrations. He took his time, tracing the line of your neck with gentle kisses that sent shivers down your spine. Each press of his lips against your skin was like a brand, claiming you more and more as his.

You squirmed in his lap, trying to ignore the ache building between your thighs. The fabric of his trousers was rough against the soft lace of your thong that shielded your cunt, the pressure of his erection a constant reminder of his power. His hand slid lower, down the curve of your waist, over the swell of your hip, and up the inside of your thigh. The anticipation was unbearable—each inch of bare skin he revealed, each touch, a taunt that made your pulse race.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath a warm caress against your cheek. “You’re so tense. It’s not like you have anywhere to go.”

The first two fingers of his hand found the wetness between your legs, sliding through the slickness with an ease that made you want to scream. He stroked you, slow and steady, the pad of his thumb circling your clit with a maddening gentleness. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed shut, and you bit your lip to keep from making a sound. But it was no use. A soft moan slipped from your mouth, and you felt him smirk against your skin.

Sylus leaned back into the plush couch, his other hand glided on your waist as his other hand played with your pussy. The fabric of the dress along with your bra was shoved aside, exposing your breasts to the cool air, and the occasional gaze of a curious partygoer. You could feel the heat of his cock, trapped behind the barrier of fabric, pressing against your ass as he rocked his hips against you. His hand worked faster, the circles around your clit turning into quick, firm flicks that made your legs tremble.

"You're mine," he murmured, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down your spine. "Mine to use, mine to fuck." His thumb pressed down harder, and you couldn’t hold back the whimper that slipped from your lips.

“Is that what you want?” you gasped, trying to sound defiant even as your body melted into his touch. “To make a spectacle out of me?”

“Mm, not just any spectacle,” Sylus said, his voice a low purr. “A private one, just for us. And if anyone catches a glimpse, well, it’s all part of the fun, isn’t it?”

Your heart hammered in your chest, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. “You’re a monster,” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction.

“Perhaps. But you love it, don’t you?” He bit your nipple gently, and you shivered in his grasp. “You’re so wet for me, so eager to come apart in my hands.” His voice was a seductive purr that seemed to resonate through your very bones.

As if to prove his point, Sylus inserted another finger into your pussy, stretching you, filling you with a delicious pressure that made your eyes roll back in your head. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to keep from crying out, your teeth marks indentation of flesh as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. The slick sounds of his intrusion filled the booth, a deliciously obscene counterpoint to the sophisticated chatter outside.

He leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing yours, and despite the fury raging within you, you couldn't help but respond. Your mouth opened to his, his tongue sliding in to dance with yours in a dance of dominance and submission. The kiss was a war of wills, a battleground of passion and anger that left you breathless. You tasted the whiskey on his breath and felt the heat of his desire in the way his tongue claimed yours.

As your kiss deepened, so too did his touch. His thumb worked your clit faster, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that sweet spot that made your body arch against him. Your breasts pressed against his chest, your bound hands clenching behind your back. The velvet curtains of the booth offered a semblance of privacy, but it was paper-thin, and every gasp, every whimper could be heard outside. The risk only heightened the tension, the thrill of discovery a constant thrum beneath your skin.

Sylus pulled away, his eyes dark and hungry. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "So desperate, so beautiful."

You glared at him, your breathing ragged. "Let me go," you demanded, the tremble in your voice giving away the lie.

Sylus chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, sending a thrill of anticipation through you. "Not yet," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. He leaned back against the couch, his hand still working between your legs. "But if you're good, I'll let you come."

You hated the way your body responded to his words, the way your pussy clenched around his fingers. But the orgasm was building, inexorable as the tide, and you knew you were going to give him what he wanted. You leaned into his touch, your hips rocking against his hand, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Come on,” you whispered, the word a desperate plea that seemed to echo through the small space.

Sylus’ eyes gleamed with triumph, and his grip on your waist tightened, his other hand not stopping its relentless torment of your clit. “Is that what you want, little hunter?” He taunted, his voice a dark, velvety whisper.

Despite your pride, you nodded, the need to come overriding your desire to resist. “Fuck me, Sylus,” you breathed, the words a surrender. "Let me ride you."

With a smug smile, Sylus adjusted your position, pushing you onto off lap so that he could free his erection. You could feel the heat of him, the velvet material of his trousers a tantalizing barrier to the steel length you craved. He released your wrists from the tie’s grip, allowing you to hold onto his shoulders for balance as he unzipped his fly and freed his cock. The head was slick with precum, and you couldn’t help but lick your lips at the sight of it.

"Get on your knees and open your mouth. No hands," he ordered, his voice low and demanding. You did as you were told, the anticipation of his taste on your tongue almost too much to bear. He slid his cock between your lips, and you took him in, the musky scent of his arousal filling your nostrils. He was thick and long, a challenge that you met with a fiery determination that surprised even yourself. You sucked him deep, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting him with a hunger that was no longer yours to hide.

His grip tightened in your hair as he began to fuck your mouth, his hips bucking in rhythm with your suckling. You could feel the tension building in him, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he held you in place. Your eyes watered, but you didn’t pull away. You were lost in the moment, a willing participant in this twisted dance of power and desire.

Sylus’ eyes never left yours, the crimson depths dark with a hunger that matched your own. He watched you with a smug satisfaction that made your stomach flip, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. Despite the humiliation, the anger that still simmered beneath the surface, you felt a strange thrill at the way he used you. His control was complete, and there was something darkly erotic about the way he took what he wanted without apology.

As you worked his cock with your mouth, his free hand found its way back to your pussy, his fingers slipping inside you again, stroking you in time with your sucks. The dual sensations were overwhelming, and you could feel the beginnings of your own climax building. You tried to keep your sounds muffled, the pressure in your chest growing as you fought the need to moan around his length.

Then, suddenly, a server glided by, delivering a tray of champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres to the low table of the booth. The man's eyes flickered towards you, his gaze lingering for a moment before quickly shifting away. You froze, but Sylus merely chuckled, his grip on your hair tightening.

"Good evening, Mr. Sylus," the server said, his eyes never quite meeting yours.

Sylus' hand remained tangled in your hair, his hips gently thrusting upward as you took him in, his cock sliding against the roof of your mouth. He picked up a flute of champagne from the tray without breaking eye contact with you, the liquid sloshing slightly.

You felt the humiliation burn through you as you obeyed, the sound of the glasses and tray clinking in the small, velvet-walled booth. Sylus’ cock, hot and heavy, filled your mouth, and you had to fight the urge to gag as he pushed it deeper, hitting the back of your throat. The thrill of the situation, of being so vulnerable and exposed in front of him and the server, was undeniable. The power dynamic was skewed in his favor, but there was something about it that made you wetter, that made your own need for release grow with each stroke of his fingers on your clit.

"Ah, perfect timing," he said, his voice a lazy drawl as he addressed the server. "Could you give us a moment of privacy, please?" The server nodded, his gaze flicking over the scene before retreating gracefully.

Sylus' grip on your hair didn't falter, his hips maintaining their rhythmic motion as he watched you suck him off. He took a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against his tongue as he enjoyed the show. His thumb continued to work your clit in a relentless pattern that had you panting around his length, the salty taste of precum mingling with the sweetness of your own arousal.

"Keep going," he urged, his voice thick with need. "Take it all, like the good little hunter you are."

You obeyed, his praise sending a thrill down your spine despite yourself. The server's brief appearance had only served to heighten the thrill, the danger of discovery a heady aphrodisiac. You took him deeper, your eyes watering, your throat tightening around his shaft as you fought another urge to gag.

A few more seconds, and then, with a final groan, Sylus pushed you away, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet pop. He brought you back onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist, and crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that was as possessive as it was passionate. He could taste himself on your tongue, the sweetness of the champagne mixing with the saltiness of his precum, a heady combination that made your stomach clench with need.

“Now, let’s get you ready for the party, shall we?” he murmured against your lips, his hand sliding down to grip your hip. You felt the heat of his cock pressing against your bare flesh, the fabric of your thong a flimsy barrier to the thickness that promised to fill you.

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus brushed your thong aside. The cool air of the lounge hit your exposed pussy, making you shiver in anticipation. You reached for his cock, eager to feel the weight of him in your hand, but he was already moving, sliding his length through your slickness, teasing the entrance to your body.

“Please,” you begged, the word a desperate plea that seemed to hang in the air.

Sylus’ smile grew even more smug, his eyes darkening with lust as he took in the sight of you, desperate and begging. He leaned back into the booth, his cock nudging against the wetness of your pussy.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear.

You nodded, unable to form words as the need consumed you. With a smirk, he positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, the blunt pressure making you whine. The sound of the party outside the curtains was a muffled backdrop to the intimate battle of wills playing out in the booth.

Slowly, with torturous precision, Sylus pushed into you. The thickness of him stretched you, filling you in a way that was both painful and exhilarating. You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as he invaded your body once again. The velvet curtains that surrounded you seemed to close in, trapping the heat and passion between you in a bubble of depraved desire.

He didn’t stop there, though. He continued to push deeper, the friction igniting a fire within you that burned away any semblance of dignity you had left. You threw your head back, your mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure as he bottomed out, the tip of his cock pressing against your cervix.

Sylus took the sight in, his eyes devouring you as you sat atop him, desperate and writhing. He reached up, cupping your face in his hand and turning you to look at him. “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice a velvet-covered demand. You obeyed, your eyes locking with his as he began to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with a deliberate, punishing rhythm that made your eyes roll back in your head.

Leaning in, you kissed him again, a surrender to the storm of pleasure that raged between your legs. His hands held you in place, one on your hip to guide your movements, the other playing with your breasts, teasing your nipples into hard peaks. The kiss was fiery, a clash of tongues that mirrored the battle of dominance between you.

You began to move, your hips rolling in a rhythm that matched his, taking him deeper with every stroke. The sound of your wetness filled the booth, a symphony of desire that was only for him. His cock stretched you, the pressure building with every thrust. The velvet cushions of the booth muffled the sounds of your passion, but you knew that if anyone walked by, they would know what was happening.

As the kiss intensified, his hand slid around your neck, holding you close as his cock pounded into you. You could feel the pulse of his blood in your throat, a pulse that matched the tempo of his hips. His other hand remained on your hip, guiding you, controlling you. It was a dance of submission that you hadn’t realized you’d been craving, but now that you were in it, you didn’t want it to end.

The world outside the velvet curtains was a distant memory, replaced by the scent of his cologne, the feel of his skin, and the sound of his breathing growing ragged. Your body moved of its own accord, responding to his every command, every touch. You were no longer the hunted, the predator; you were his prey, willingly caught in his trap of lust.

"Ride me harder," he growled against your collarbone, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You complied, your hips bucking as you took him in deeper, the friction making you see stars. His praise washed over you, a sweet torment that only served to drive you closer to the edge. "Look at you, so eager for my cock."

You retorted halfheartedly, your voice a breathless whisper. "I'd be eager for anyone's if it meant getting out of here." But the words were hollow, a feeble attempt to cling to your pride. The truth was, it was his cock you wanted the most at the moment, his touch that sent you spiraling into ecstasy.

Sylus laughed, low and knowing. "Lie to yourself all you want, darling, but your body tells me the truth." His grip on your neck tightened, his thumb stroking your pulse point as he pushed into you harder, deeper. "You're mine."

You tried to focus on the anger, the need to escape, but your traitorous body was betraying you, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that was as inevitable as the tide. His hand moved from your neck to your clit, his thumb circling the sensitive nub as he watched your reactions with a predatory gaze.

"You're going to come for me, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "You're going to come screaming my name."

The words sent a bolt of arousal through you, making your inner walls clench around him. You didn't want to admit it, didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but you were so close—so very close. The hand at your hip tightened, his fingers squeezing into your flesh as he picked up the pace, his cock hammering into you like a jackhammer. You felt your orgasm coiling, winding tighter with every thrust, ready to spring.

"Fuck," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck me, Sylus. Make me come."

The sound of your voice, the desperation in your tone, was his undoing. He bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. And just like that, you were falling over the edge, your body convulsing in waves of pleasure that seemed to go on forever. Your orgasm was a symphony of sensation, a crescendo of pleasure that had you screaming his name into the velvet-covered air.

Sylus watched you come, his own orgasm close behind. He pulled out at the last second, his cum spurting onto your stomach and breasts, soiling your skin and dress, a mark of his possession. He leaned back, his chest heaving, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"Now, don't go anywhere," he said, his voice still thick with lust. "We're not done yet."

With a wicked glint in his eye, Sylus stood, pulling you to your feet, and you felt the loss of his cock inside you like a physical ache. But before you could protest, he bent you over the small table, the glass surface cool against your bare skin sending a shiver down your spine.

The sound of his trousers falling was like a gunshot in the quiet booth, the anticipation of what was to come making your heart race. He slapped your ass, the sting of his hand making you jump, your pussy clenching with need.

"You're mine, remember that," he growled, his voice a dark promise. "And I'll have you any way I want."

And with that, Sylus pinched your oversensitive clit as he slammed into you from behind, his cock filling you up once more. The angle was new, the sensation different, and it had you gasping for breath. His hips slammed into yours, his hands on your waist, holding you in place as he fucked you with a ferocity that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

You felt the eyes of the masquerade partygoers on you, could almost feel their curiosity and lust as they walked by the booth. The risk of being caught, the thrill of being used by this powerful man in such a public setting, was a heady mix that had your blood singing in your veins.

With each stroke, you felt yourself slipping further under his control. The anger and resentment were still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but the pleasure was stronger, a siren's call that you couldn't resist. Your body moved with his, a perfect counterpart to his rhythm, as if it had been made to fit him, to take him.

Sylus leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine, hunter," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Say it."

You clenched your teeth, fighting the urge to submit, to give in to the pleasure. But his hand found your clit once more, and with a sharp cry, you were lost. "Yours," you whispered, the word a broken promise.

He chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction.

When your cunt began squirting, his hand slipped away from your clit, leaving you panting and needy. You felt a moment of disappointment, but it was quickly replaced by shock as you realized he was moving again, his cock still buried deep inside you. He grabbed a napkin from the tray, wiping his hand clean with a flourish before standing up, his cock sliding out of you with a wet pop. The loss was a cold reminder of reality, and you tried to push aside the desperate ache that his touch had conjured.

“No…” you whined.

"Now, let's not get too messy," he said, his eyes gleaming. "We wouldn't want to ruin your pretty dress." He reached down, his hand sliding between your legs to cup your pussy. You felt your body react, a warm gush of arousal coating his palm. He brought his hand up to his face, inhaling deeply. "Mmm, you smell like a fucking goddess."

The crassness of his words should have offended you, but instead, you felt a thrill run through you. He was right. You were his to do with as he pleased, and that knowledge was intoxicating.

With a wicked smile, he slid two fingers inside you, the movement slow and deliberate. You moaned, the sound muffled by the velvet curtains. He watched the way your body reacted, his eyes darkening with lust as you squirted around his fingers, soaking him again. The sensation was overwhelming, and you felt your legs quiver as your second orgasm of the night began to build.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice thick with arousal. "You're going to come again for me, aren't you?" His fingers worked you expertly, his thumb pressing against your clit in just the right way. You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body begging for release.

"Sylus," you gasped, your voice a desperate plea. "Please."

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded, his voice a silky challenge.

"I want you to fuck me," you murmured, your pride forgotten in the face of your need. "Harder."

He chuckled again, the sound low and predatory. "As you wish." He bent you over the table once more, his hand sliding around your throat, holding you in place as he pushed back into you. The angle was brutal, the sensation of being filled from behind almost too much to handle. But you took it, your body responding to his dominance with a desperate need to please.

With every thrust, you felt yourself losing control, the tension inside you growing until it was all you could think about. The room around you faded away, and there was only the two of you, locked in this dance of power and desire.

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice a demand that resonated through your very soul. And as if on cue, your body obeyed. The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you squirted again, the warm liquid spilling out onto the floor beneath you.

Sylus watched the show with a smug smile, his cock still hard, his need not yet sated. He leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear. "You're going to be the talk of the party, my sweet," he whispered. "My little toy, coming for me in the middle of it all."

The words should have been humiliating, but instead, you felt a strange thrill. You were his, and you were going to take whatever he had in store for you, no matter how depraved, no matter how public.

The hand on your throat tightened, and you felt his cock slide back inside you, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm that had you moaning and squirming against the table. The partygoers outside the booth continued their conversations, unaware of the depraved scene unfolding just a few feet away. But you knew they could hear you, could hear the slap of skin on skin, could feel the tremors of pleasure that were shaking the very foundation of your being.

With each thrust, Sylus grew more and more frenzied, his grip on your neck tightening, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. "You're going to make me cum," he murmured, his voice a dark promise that you couldn't refuse. "Fuuuck… hunter."

And then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very walls of the booth, he came inside you, his hot seed filling you up. The obscenity of the act, the raw power of his orgasm, had you trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. His cum spurted into you, a claim that was as primal as it was undeniable.

You felt him tense, his body rigid against yours as he emptied himself into you. The sensation was almost too much, and you had to bite your lip to keep from screaming. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, and for a moment, you forgot everything—your mission, your pride, the anger that had fueled you for so long..

Sylus pulled out, his cock glistening with your juices and his cum. He tucked himself back into his pants with a smug smile, the fabric sticking to his wetness. "You're a mess," he said, his voice still thick with desire. "But such a pretty one."

He stepped away, leaving you bent over the table, panting and exposed. The cold air of the lounge hit your damp pussy, making you shiver. You felt his hand on your back, a gentle caress that seemed at odds with the brutal way he had just taken you.

"Come," he said, his tone a command that you had no choice but to obey. He pulled you to your feet, and you stumbled slightly, your legs still weak from the force of your orgasm.

"Now, let's join the party," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

The thought of walking out there, your pussy dripping with his cum, your dress stained, had your face flushing with embarrassment. But there was something thrilling about it too, something that made your heart race and your stomach flutter.

But the reality of the situation came crashing back down as the sounds of the party outside the curtain grew louder, a reminder that this was all just a game to him. You were at his mercy, his toy to play with as he saw fit. You pushed away from him, smoothing your dress as you regained your composure. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you said, your voice laced with bitterness.

Sylus smirked, his eyes gleaming. "More than you know," he replied, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "But the night is young, and we still have the masquerade to attend. Don't worry, I'll make sure everyone knows who you belong to."

With a final, possessive squeeze of your hip, he straightened, pulling you to your feet and adjusting his own clothing. You felt used, discarded, but also oddly alive. The thrill of the hunt was still there, the need to best him, to win.

As he led you back into the fray, the mask of indifference firmly back in place, you couldn't help but wonder what the rest of the night would bring. Would you find a way to turn the tables on him, or would you continue to be his plaything, a prize to be displayed and used at his whim?

The masquerade was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of lust and desire. The music was a pounding beat that matched the throb between your legs, a reminder of what had just transpired in the private booth. You walked beside Sylus, your hand in his, the warmth of his palm sending a shiver up your spine.

You scanned the crowd, looking for an escape, for a way out of this twisted game. But every time you tried to pull away, his grip tightened, a silent reminder that you were his for the taking. You clenched your jaw, determination setting in.

As you stepped onto the dance floor, the mask of a submissive lover slipped away, revealing the predator beneath. You had to admit, though, as his hand slid down to your ass, pulling you closer to his body, that the thrill of the hunt was still alive within you. And maybe, just maybe, you were enjoying the chase more than you cared to admit.

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hivemuthur · 3 months ago

Text

In Thy Name - Ch.6. - The Chances I Must Waste

viktorxfemale!reader even more disgusting yearning, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 6,1K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! We return from Shalladholm to Viktor's manor and deal with the awkwardness. Some Viktor's POV!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Despite all your prayers, no phantom—other than the ghost of Viktor’s mouth—comes to save you from the tyranny of your dreams on that last night at Shalladholm.

The memory clings to you as fever might: the shocking warmth of him, the rasp of his breath mingled with yours, the taste of yearning borne from some deep, ancient place. In the darkness, your mind replays every desperate inch that had closed between you, the helpless way you had gripped his collar, the shattered groan torn from his throat just before your mouths met.

Again and again, the scene plays out, each recollection leaving you more breathless, more unmoored. You press your palms to your burning cheeks, yet the heat remains, as if your very skin remembers him.

Morning finds you thus: restless, aching, utterly defeated by the stubborn persistence of longing. The mist has not yet lifted from the moors outside your window, and the low light spilling into the room feels an ill match for the unruly fire consuming you from within.

You dress with fumbling hands, your gloves sitting askew, your bodice poorly fastened, as if the very fabric of your attire refuses to cooperate. You feel worn thin by the night’s vigil, but duty—and the expectation of leaving Shalladholm—summon you forward.

Downstairs, the house stirs to life in subdued fashion. Servants move like wraiths through the corridors, whispering of the prior night’s horrors, casting wary glances towards the mist-thickened windows. The Captain and the butler oversee the loading of the luggage. Somewhere, faintly, you hear Mary’s laughter—bright yet faintly strained still.

Harry was taken away the previous night, raving of phantom stallions and conspiracies, his protests echoing long after he vanished into the mist. No evidence arose to support his wild claims, and by morning, the household spoke of him only in murmurs—already beginning to forget him, as if he had been no more than another shadow passing through Shalladholm’s haunted halls.

And then Viktor. He stands near the entrance hall, speaking quietly with Saul Hisgins. His cane is tucked neatly against his side, his free hand gesturing with measured restraint. He is dressed plainly, sombrely; dark wool and high collar rendering him severe against the pale backdrop of morning.

As if sensing you, he turns. Your gazes meet across the breadth of the hall. It strikes you how changed he seems overnight—how changed you must seem also. A weight, silent but colossal, lingers between you, heavier than any trunk or case being heaved into the waiting carriage.

Viktor inclines his head—formal, polite—and with a visible effort, crosses the distance to you. "Good morning," he says, voice a low rasp, almost shy.

"Good morning," you reply, every syllable feeling too loud against the hush of the hall. For a moment, neither of you moves. The stillness of last night rises again, palpable and raw.

Then Viktor clears his throat. "If you are ready," he murmurs, offering you his arm not as a lover, not even as a friend, but as a gentleman might to a lady he scarcely knows. His eyes, however, are another matter—soft, regretful, hungry.

You place your gloved hand on the crook of his elbow, barely a touch. His muscles tense beneath your palm before he leads you outside.

The day is grey and shrouded. The carriage waits with its door ajar like the mouth of some patient beast. Viktor helps you inside, climbing after you, and the door snaps shut with a finality that sets your heart hammering anew.

As the carriage jolts into motion and Shalladholm fades behind you, you find yourself acutely aware of the cramped space, of Viktor’s nearness, of the faint scent of paper, wool, and the sharper tang of steel that clings to him. He sits too close for comfort—and not nearly close enough.

You find yourself glancing at him more than you ought, each time catching the stern line of his mouth, the subtle flex of his hand upon the cane.

You both speak at once:

"How is your hand—"

"How are you feeling—"

The words collide, a flurry of embarrassment filling the narrow space. Viktor, after a short, uncertain pause, lifts his injured hand and pulls away the glove with careful fingers. Without thinking, you reach for it. He allows you, palm upturned in yours, and you can see how the gauze has stained through with blood in the night.

"I am sorry," you murmur, thumbs brushing lightly along the bruised edges of his skin. "I cut too deep."

"I have endured worse," Viktor says simply. His mouth tugs into something that promises a smile. "Much worse."

You swallow, the memory of the night flooding back stronger than ever. Without meaning to, the apology bursts from you, too loud in the closeness: "About last night—"

But Viktor interrupts swiftly, voice low and strained. "No. It is I who should apologise." He turns towards you, his hand still cradled in yours. "I should not have taken advantage of the moment. You were afraid. Emotions in such times are... not to be trusted."

The implication stings sharper than you expect. You straighten, withdrawing your hands to your lap, his still resting in place. "I am not a silly girl who falls into the arms of any man because she is frightened," you say, trying—and perhaps failing—to keep your voice even.

Viktor’s gaze softens, something almost pained flickering behind the gold of his eyes. "I... I know that," he says, voice dropping low, and he looks aside, as though the confession costs him. "I meant myself. It is easy to falter like this... when one is being admired."

You watch him, the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his wounded hand curls, hung in the space between you. Your own heart beats too loudly in the hush of the carriage. "Why," you ask quietly, "do you see it as a falter?"

For a moment he does not answer. His mouth parts, then closes again; you can see him searching for words as if fumbling in the dark.

"It is..." he begins slowly, his voice raw, "wildly inappropriate. You are under my employ. My responsibility. To... to seek anything of you in that position—" He breaks off, a sharp breath leaving his lungs. "It would be an abuse of your trust."

Your fingers inch toward his hand, but you stay silent, letting him speak.

"And beyond that," Viktor presses on, quieter still, "getting close to anyone—truly close—is not a luxury I can afford. It is not safety. It is not comfort. It is... indulgence." He says the last word with a bitterness that seems to coat his tongue. His gaze lifts to meet yours at last, and there is a hollow longing in it that makes your chest ache. "I have no right to it," he finishes, almost inaudibly.

You swallow hard, throat tightening until it feels like you can barely breathe. For a moment, you too search for words—but unlike Viktor, you do not find the strength to hold them back.

"You speak as though you are forbidden from wanting," you say, your voice low but steady, fingers curling around his. "As if wanting alone is already a crime."

Viktor flinches—just enough for you to feel it under your palm.

"You are not made of stone," you press on, the words trembling out of you. "You are allowed to want things. To want—" You falter, heat rising to your cheeks, but you do not look away. "To want someone."

The carriage rattles on the uneven road, but it feels as if the world has narrowed to the small, precarious space between your bodies. Viktor's fingers twitch in your grasp. His eyes burn into yours, hollow and desperate.

"You," he says, the word almost torn from him, "you make me forget everything I ought to remember." His hand tightens around yours almost imperceptibly before he lets it go, only to reach up and cradle your face between both his palms—so careful, as if you might shatter under his touch. You lean forward at the same time he does, until your foreheads meet, resting together with a trembling sigh caught between you.

"You must understand," he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, "when people draw close to me, it brings pain. Always. On both sides."

You close your eyes, breathing him in. "You have to be more blunt than that," you whisper. "If you want me to leave you be—you have to say it plainly."

A long, mournful silence. Viktor shifts his hands, framing your jaw, fingertips pressing gently. "This," he says, placing a long, aching kiss to your forehead, "this is all I can reveal to you."

You feel the tremor in him as keenly as your own. When he finally pulls away, his voice steadies only by force of will. "We have a task before us. Are you ready to visit the Černoglavs tomorrow?"

The intimacy frays into something more brittle. You draw back, nodding quickly, too quickly, and forcing a small smile. "Yes," you reply. "Of course."

The rest of the journey is quieter, though not silent. You and Viktor exchange thoughts about the notes and the Černoglav estate, drawing together the threads of what you know. He speaks with focus, hands now on his own lap, his voice threading logic through myth. It’s grounding, strangely—the clarity with which he handles the unknown, the way he tethers the bizarre to reason.

But as the carriage wheels devour the road beneath them, and the familiar hedgerows of the area creep into view, your weariness deepens. Not the tiredness of body, but something heavier. Bone-deep.

You lean your shoulder against the window, watching your own reflection shift and vanish with each passing tree. The countryside around Viktor’s house has never looked more haunted.

You are not sure what it is that unsettles you more: the reality of a phantom stallion dissolving like black frost under the weight of a spell, or the knowledge that you touched it—felt it inside your bones like a scream pressed to glass. You are not the same person who stepped into Shalladholm three nights ago.

And you are painfully aware that the moment you cross Viktor’s threshold, the voices may return. That dreadful murmuring that filled your dreams with foreign syllables and cracked-open skin. You brace for it as one might for a storm: instinctively, hopelessly.

But above all of it, more persistent than even your fear, is the ghost of his hands on you. His mouth. The phantom of closeness that left a new, humming ache in your chest.

He is quiet now as well, and you wonder if his thoughts echo yours. If the silence he holds is for your sake, or because he too is haunted by what very nearly happened.

The carriage turns down the long path toward his house, the gravel crunching low beneath the wheels. The sky has turned the colour of over-steeped tea by the time it draws to a halt before the manor. Afternoon, but waning. The sun hangs low and thin, spilling a sickly light across the gables and shadowed windows. The ivy on the stone seems darker than you remember. Less like a plant, more like a stain.

Algernon awaits you at the entrance, ever punctual, ever unreadable. “My lord,” he greets Viktor with a bow sharp as the wind curling through the trees. His eyes flicker to you only briefly. “Miss.”

Footmen approach wordlessly to retrieve your things, their livery dark against the pale gravel. You notice your hands tighten around nothing as you step down. As though your body braces instinctively—memory humming up your spine, remembering the whispers, the door that watched you, the things that stirred behind the walls.

And the moment you cross the threshold—

It hits you. Not a sound, not a sight, not even a smell. But a sensation. A stone, cold and full of teeth, drops into your chest. You feel the house pressing in, as if recognising you. As if disappointed that you’d left and determined not to let you go again. The air is heavy, charged with disdain. The hallway yawns open before you, shadows clinging like cobwebs to the cornices.

“I believe I shall rest for a while,” you say before either man can speak, your voice steadier than you expect. “The journey was more tiring than I thought.”

Viktor looks at you, a slight knit forming between his brows, but he says nothing. He only inclines his head once, slow and measured. “Of course,” he replies finally. “You know the way.”

His eyes stay on you as you climb the stairs. They follow you, step after step, a phantom weight against your spine. Watching. Worrying. Or simply longing.

“She seemed pale,” Algernon remarks once your footsteps vanish beyond the landing. He offers Viktor the sealed stack of correspondence—no fewer than five envelopes, all pressed and neat. “You did not mention illness in your letters.”

Viktor takes the bundle without looking at him. “She is not ill,” he says. “Just… very tired.” Algernon does not press, only nods thoughtfully.

Viktor turns on his heel. “I’ll take these in the study.”

“As you wish.”

“And—” he pauses mid-stride, “see that she has everything she needs. I expect she will want quiet. For now.”

“I shall see to it personally.” Algernon bows again, and Viktor cannot tell whether it’s genuine or just part of the costume they both wear in this house.

By the time he reaches his study, the house is already beginning to quieten. The windows glint with late sun, casting fractured shapes across the dark wood and velvet. Everything smells of ink and dust and the stale ghost of long-dried coffee.

He sets the letters down, motions toward the bellpull—and by the time he settles behind the desk, a silver tray arrives bearing a fresh cup, Algernon’s final gesture of efficiency for now.

Viktor sips it—hot, sweet, grounding. Then he sighs. “How am I supposed to—” he mutters aloud to no one. “How am I supposed to endure this.” The room, naturally, says nothing. Viktor leans back in his chair, letting his head tip against the padding and his eyes fall shut.

He’d known there would be trouble from the letter alone.

I accept.

Two words. Restrained, controlled, so polite they bled. And something about the way they sat on the page, hunched and direct—something about the pressure in the penstroke—spoke louder than all the effusive replies he’d received in years past. There had been no false modesty in it. No embellishments. Only a calm admission of will.

He had known. And then—when he saw you—

He remembers the moment with painful clarity. It was no more than a week ago, though it feels like a cleaving in his personal chronology: Before, and After.

The sight of you had been a confirmation. Not because you are lovely—though God, you are—but because you carried something in your eyes he had not seen in years. Curiosity, yes, but not the frantic, greedy kind. Yours was tempered, watchful. As if you already suspected there was something behind his composure worth seeing. Something worth touching.

And you had touched it. Far more quickly, far more easily, than he ever imagined someone might.

He opens his eyes. The study swims in twilight. The air is still, cold seeping into bones despite the fire crackling in the fireplace. Memory is a master crueller than any demon, and tonight, it makes a feast of him.

The night his hands touched you for the first time, truly, they had not felt like his own. They had trembled—not from fear, but from composure fraying. From the unbearable, swelling want to lean down and press his mouth into the well at the base of your spine. To kiss the fragile line of your vertebrae, to feel your shiver bloom under his lips.

Your skin had been warm where his knuckles brushed it. Warm, and alive, and unspeakably near. He had thought he might be able to control it—like he always was. But something in that silence between you, in your breath catching just once as the laces gave way, had undone him piece by piece.

His fingers had twitched—to wrap around the back of your neck, to anchor himself in the soft nape where pulse lives. To hold you there, forehead to forehead, and confess every foolish, dangerous thing he has never said to anyone. Not even to himself.

How long it had been since he had known tenderness. Since he had been known. How cruel it is, to rediscover the sensation now. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face cradled in his hands. It’s not just an animal, grasping kind of desire. It’s a hunger, the kind that sits in one’s chest like sorrow.

As if his own body conspires to mock him, the deep breath he tries to draw in splinters into a series of ragged, metal-tasting gasps. The air escapes him in convulsions. He wipes his mouth, and when red glares back at him from the handkerchief, he curses softly. On cue—a reminder of why none of his desires can be allowed to take root. An indulgence that could hurt you in ways he would never forgive himself for. And one that would cost him, too—deeply, painfully.

He wipes the sweat off his temple. With his shoulders sagged and hair fallen loose across his forehead, Viktor sets to work.

The letters are stacked beside his cup, their neat folds belying the tedium within. The first is from a bookseller in Prague, confirming a delay in shipment—unsurprising. Another is from the Department of Folkloric Records, offering lukewarm thanks for his recent submission and a polite query as to whether he intends to return for another season of guest lectures. He pens his reply mechanically: No, not this year. One more comes from a woman in Vienna who insists her son has been possessed by a "mirror devil," her handwriting collapsing into hysteria halfway down the page. He files it into the drawer marked Pending – Dubious.

Only the last letter bears any weight. His eyes stall on the handwriting—angular, old-fashioned. The Černoglav family’s seal is still intact. He breaks it carefully and scans the contents, lips pursing. They will expect him the next day. An invitation to inspect the wall, and for you to see for yourself the thing scrawled there—the thing their priest could not dispel. His hand twitches to reach for the nearest pen.

Instead, Viktor rises, crosses the room, and turns to the unremarkable door at the very end of a tight corridor. It welcomes no one but him, and barely even that. Its walls are dense with paper—maps, glyphs, scraps of translation, dissection diagrams, annotated manuscripts in six languages. Dust moves in curls. The scent of old paper clings like smoke. A dozen books lie half-opened in some cryptic sequence only he understands, and at the centre of it all is his ledger.

His private record—every dead end, every flicker of resemblance. Every time someone died for knowing too much—or got too close. Every time he got close.

The Černoglav case is like his own. Eerily so. The wrong name carved into stone. The patterns of the apparitions, the way the air splits when it nears you, like it can’t bear the sound of your breath. His fingers hover over one of the comparison sheets, already pencilled in beside his own records. Names, dates, sketches. He flips a page. His own case is barely legible in places, scarred with revisions and cross-outs.

Not since the first drops of blood on his collar foreshadowed a fate identical to that of his parents—both of them breathless, hand in hand as they stepped to the other side, leaving him alone in this world.

And Viktor knew, from the very moment he walked through the mouth of the cave, that something had shifted. He could never quite name it. Not until his parents. Not until every lover he inevitably sent away at the first signs of sickness—no matter how mild, no matter how ordinary. A forehead faintly warmed after a day spent in frost was enough.

Risking yourself is one thing. Risking others—that is a privilege only God may claim.

The voices he’d been hearing for years paled beside the house’s creaks—or perhaps he had simply grown used to them. At first, they were relentless. Sometimes they screamed from Rio’s beak. Other times they spoke from the mouths of servants, unaware, forcing Viktor to glance twice, questioning whether madness had already claimed him.

But in time, they receded to the edges of his mind. Became part of the fate he learned to ignore—for the sake of his sanity. Always the same. Never offering the clue he so desperately sought.

His mind shifts back to the present, to the ache lodged behind his sternum, pulsing in time with the doubt he cannot shake.

The curse—if such a thing can be named—manifests in breathlessness. First his father, then his mother, and now him: lungs that seize like fists, ribs locking around a gasping core. And anyone close—anyone he dares to let close—follows in time. Fevers, fatigue, collapse.

He spreads the papers across the table: maps annotated in red ink, linguistic analyses of phrases scraped into stone, transcripts of dying words. The Černoglav family's case mirrors his in uncanny detail—right down to the syntax of the inscription. It could be coincidence. He hopes it isn’t, and that it is, all the same.

A dry chuckle escapes him. You’ve seen the door, paused there when you thought he wasn’t looking. He can picture the thoughts in your mind, the weight behind your curiosity. A hidden body, perhaps. A room full of forbidden objects. Not this. Not a library of failure. A monument to what he’s lost, shelved and labelled by hand.

One chuckle is enough. His thoughts, unbidden, drift back to you. To the taste of your breath on his own. To your waist, warm and yielding under his hand. To the look in your eyes—longing, awestruck—as he descended, briefly, into madness to pull a girl back from the edge. To the way your fingers had toyed with his like something precious. To the weight of your tongue in his mouth, the heat of you pressing forward with want and defiance.

He turns to the window. The sky outside is clear, stars glimmering like nails punched through a dark veil. The kind of sky that bears witness without mercy. He should not. But he stands anyway.

A decision made half from hunger, half from need. He gathers a bundle of notes—just enough to feign a purpose—and locks the door to the room behind him.

The walk down the corridor is quiet but not smooth. His gait uneven as ever, the floorboards more aware of it than he is. He arrives at your door and hesitates, fingers poised mid-air.

Then—absurdly, almost shy—he runs a hand through his hair, smoothing the mess of it with a slow sweep. As if that could ready him for whatever this is becoming. He lifts his hand to knock.

At first, there is nothing.

Then, the soft shuffle of paper. Footsteps. You cross the room and crack the door open—and there he is. Viktor, on your threshold, and the sight of you seems to split him in half.

Your hands are bare, stained faintly with ink. Sleeves rolled tight to your elbows, exposing your forearms in a way you’ve never thought twice about, but which his eyes now linger on—travelling slowly, until they land at the hollow of your neck, where a single lock of hair curls against your skin.

You blink at him. “Good evening.”

He stares—just a moment too long. Then, suddenly awkward, as if remembering his limbs again, he lifts the bundle of notes clutched in his hands. “Černoglavs confirmed tomorrow. I brought some more notes.” His voice dips as he says it, something delicate straining behind it.

A beat. Then, quieter still, without looking at you: “Clouds have cleared out. I could show you the observatory. If you wish, of course.”

You nod—blankly, before you’ve even registered his tone. But Viktor, visibly relieved, takes a step back, making space for you to emerge. He leads the way without another word.

The corridor you follow is unfamiliar; this part of the house, tucked higher into the bones of the structure, seems quieter. Older, somehow. You’ve never been here.

As you pass the door to what must be his bedroom, you let your eyes linger—not long, just enough to take in the dark wood, the simple brass handle. The number of times you’ve wondered where Viktor rests his body, breathless or longing, catches you somewhere under your ribs.

This floor is different. The doors are more modest, their panels plain, the polish faded. The floorboards creak in a more honest way. Even the wallpaper has peeled in corners, left unrepaired. A part of the house meant for sleeping, not showing.

Then, Viktor stops before a narrow, rounded door made of dense wood, and unlocks it with a little brass key. Behind it, a steep, curved stairwell is revealed, lit faintly from above. A rope railing has been fastened into the wall—age-worn, knotted at one ‘end.

“Careful,” Viktor says, stepping in first, his hand around the rope. “It’s low. Watch your head.”

You duck in after him, following his uneven gait up the stairs. The air grows thinner the higher you climb, dustier too. You can smell old wood and the breath of something long shut. Then, the space opens.

Wings of glass panes stretch like a crown around the room, their shutters folded back to let in the clean ink of night. The stars flicker through, brilliant and sharp, scattered thickly across the sky. The roof curves above you, quiet and encompassing. At the centre, the telescope stands like a pillar or an altar—sleek, brushed brass and shadow.

“There we are,” Viktor says, with a quiet pride that warms the edge of his voice.

You step forward, the hush of the space settling around your shoulders like a cloak. You cannot help it—your breath escapes you in the shape of awe. All the ghosts of your day, the ache in your skin, the weight of his hand in yours—none of it disappears, but here, under the stars, it shifts. “I love it,” you whisper.

Viktor smiles—quietly, but with warmth that softens the sharp edges of his face. “Come,” he says, stepping toward the instrument. “Let me show you.”

You approach, careful of your footing, eyes still full of stars. He adjusts the telescope with steady hands, murmuring to himself, fingers moving with the muscle memory of long habit. Then he beckons you closer, and when you hesitate, he takes your hand and places it lightly on the cold brass. His fingers guide yours—unhurried and gentle.

“There,” he says. “Hold here. And this wheel—softly. No sudden movement.”

He steps back only slightly, his chest still close enough that you can feel the echo of his breath behind your shoulder. Then, with a few final turns, he sets the position and gestures to the eyepiece. “It should be visible now. Saturn. The rings aren’t always this clear.”

You lean in, one hand braced against the frame, the other still resting where he placed it. And when your eye meets the lens, your breath catches.

There it is. Pale and ringed, suspended in the black—a shape so impossibly distant and precise that it feels more myth than object. You blink, once, twice, to be sure. It remains.

“Oh,” you exhale, stunned. “It’s real.”

“Mm.” His voice comes low, behind you. “One of the few things that feels it.”

You linger there, both of you poised in the starlight and shadow, the cold brass between your hands, the warmth of him behind your spine. Neither of you moves for a long while.

Then, Viktor adjusts the telescope again, careful and quiet. “Now look again,” he says, his voice low.

You press your eye to the lens, and the night shifts. Three bright stars in a row, flanked by others—sharp, regal. “Orion,” you whisper.

“Yes.” His breath is near your shoulder. “And do you see the star just to the left, brightest in the sky?”

You nod.

“Sirius. The dog star. According to the myth, Orion hunted with a great hound, and when he died—struck down by a scorpion sent by jealous gods—his dog would not leave him. So Zeus placed them both in the sky. But not together. Sirius rises only after Orion begins to fall.”

You lift your head. “That’s cruel.”

Viktor’s gaze drifts toward the heavens. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s a mercy. Even in death, there is longing.”

When he looks back, your eyes are not on the telescope—but on him. Wide, uncertain, searching. Your hand glides down his arm with slow purpose, and in a whisper barely louder than breath, you say, “Thank you. For showing me this.”

“I did promise,” Viktor replies, his voice hushed, stepping an inch closer.

You mirror him, your hand drifting lower until it finds his—brushes the edge of the gauze. His breath grows heavier. He murmurs your name, leans in, drawn irrevocably by the scent of your hair, by the heat of your body.

Your hands rise again—this time up his torso, beneath the fabric, tracing the firm ridges of leather belts binding him. Higher, over the plane of his chest, along the line of his throat, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck, brushing the hairline.

Viktor parts his lips to speak—but you are faster. You press your cheek against his, soft and slow, and murmur into the cradle of his jaw: “I know you say you do not wish for this. But then—why do you keep inviting me closer, only to retreat? Is it just kindness? Am I going mad?”

“You are not mad,” Viktor breathes, voice a threadbare thing. “I just… I carry a burden that takes away those I grant affection to. I cannot risk you.”

As he speaks, he draws you nearer—not with arms, but with his cane, pressing it crosswise against the small of your back, caging you gently. One arm braced at either side, his frame leans in until you are wholly within the breadth of him. His breath fans against your skin as his lips trace the curve of your temple, drift toward your ear. Your faces rub together like restless hands searching for warmth.

Fingertips, aching to undo, slip beneath his collar and find the knot of his cravat. You begin to loosen it, slow and careful. But just as your mouth nears the pulse at his throat, Viktor recoils—suddenly, sharply.

A cough seizes him, dragging up from the depths of his chest like something torn. He turns from you with a tremble, one hand braced on the telescope’s edge, the other clutching at his ribs as the sound splinters the quiet and his cane clatters to the floor.

“There it is,” Viktor laughs, brittle and pained. “My warning, my woe.” He leans heavily against the telescope, the echo of the cough trembling in his limbs. “You shouldn’t be near me like this. I will fall for you inevitably, and pull you with me into nothing. You are the chance I must waste, I’m afraid.”

You blink at him, uncomprehending. “Viktor… are you telling me you’re cursed?”

He turns to face you fully. The gaslight catches on the smear of red staining his lip. “Precisely.”

The breath catches in your throat—and then you snort. Not unkindly, but sharp with disbelief. His eyes narrow. “Forgive me,” you start, softening, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Is it so amusing?” he asks, voice tight. “Do you truly still not believe that some things can be beyond your comprehension?”

“Viktor.” You step forward, laying a hand on his shoulder. He is burning beneath your palm. “I’m sorry. But you are ill. You need a doctor, not an exorcist.”

“Since when are linguists also versed in medicine?”

You flinch at his tone. “Forgive me. I just—”

“I have seen every doctor I could,” he interrupts, tone rising with each word. “I’ve tried every known ailment. I cross-bred plants and herbs to find a cure. I had my blood let, my body beaten and burned, hoping to purge myself. And nothing—nothing.” His voice breaks, softer now. “I lost my parents to it. They were in good health. And then they were gone.” He closes the distance between you again, not touching, but trembling with proximity.

“This is what I meant. You shouldn’t come so close. Or you will be cursed too.” He draws in a breath, chest shuddering. “And losing you,” he adds, quieter still, “will cause me pain.”

“Viktor,” you murmur, your other hand rising to his chest. “I don’t care about that.”

“I do,” he says, voice like a frayed thread. “I am selfish. Were you to perish with me, I would do everything to go first. Just so I don’t have to mourn you.”

“Oh, Viktor.”

“You don’t believe me,” he says, desperate.

“I do.” You reach for his face now, coaxing his gaze back to you. “I do believe you. Please forgive me. It’s just—” your voice breaks, “an unbearable thought.” You swallow. “Can’t we find a way? Together?”

“Darling…” The word falls from him like a plea. His fingers close gently around your hand. “I’ve tried everything. I went to the devil, and he didn’t want me. There is no way.”

“I cannot accept that.” You come closer again, clutching at his collar. “You keep telling me to have my mind open. I believe I’m here for a reason.”

“I think it’s only my fate being cruel,” he whispers. “Tempting me with someone like-minded. And so annoyingly beautiful.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttered shut.

“You annoy me in equal measure,” you whisper.

And then you kiss him. Viktor makes a pained sound, muffled between your mouths—but he does not resist. His hands rise to cradle your face, your neck. There is blood on your tongue—metallic and warm—and still he kisses you like it is the first and last thing he’s ever been allowed to want.

But again, he breaks the kiss. He lingers close, his breath fanning your cheek, and you let out a soft, exasperated noise that makes him smile—just barely. His eyes remain shut as he cups your face, reverent, as if cradling something fragile and holy. His thumb brushes the blood from your lip, slow and gentle, like an apology. “I won’t forgive myself if something happens to you,” he whispers.

You swallow, hands still resting on his chest. “Whatever it is,” you say, voice low and trembling, “it’s already happening. Since the moment I stepped through your doors, I can hear a whisper.”

His gaze sharpens instantly.

“I don’t know if it’s the house. Or your staff. Or a ghost,” you go on, desperate to explain. “But I hear it loud and clear—and here only. So it must be tied to this place.”

“What is it?” His voice is taut. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I thought I was going mad,” you admit with a breathless laugh. “It speaks of a name. I don’t know what it means yet. But I dream of it. I dream of corridors I haven’t walked and rooms I haven’t seen. And—” You reach up, fingers clutching the front of his shirt, voice breaking. “Oh, I beg you, let me help you. Please let me help you. I cannot bear the thought of you—”

Your breath shudders. “I have never met a man so kind. And so brave.”

“I am not without fear,” he says softly. His fingers curl against your cheek. “I fear daily.” He draws in a breath like it burns his chest. “For years now.”

“It’s not the lack of fear that marks bravery, Viktor,” you whisper. “You are remarkable, and I—”

“I know.” His voice trembles. “I must show you something first, though.” You take his hand in yours and kiss his knuckles. “Lead the way,” you say, your trust flooding Viktor’s chest like the warmth of sun on a cold spring morning.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #in thy name #call of cthulhu

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jackiequick · 3 months ago

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Livin’ On A Prayer | Top Gun Marverick Fanfic AU ✈️

Established Pairings: Jake ‘Hangman’ x Amber ‘Skysolo’ Kazansky , Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky x Hazel ‘Daredevil’ Quinn

Characters mentioned: Wraith, Georgia ‘Peach’ Wells, Frostbite, Dane ‘Bone Saw’ Bradshaw & Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, Maverick and etc

Timeline: 3 Years Post-Top Gun Maverick

Summary: Jacob Seresin never in a million years thought he’d be asking the Admiral a very simple yet important question

Notes: ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WRITTEN A FIC FOR THIS FANDOM 😘 (pls be nice!!)

~~~

~~~~~~

He was sweating. He was nervous. He might as well been a little nauseous.

This was rare for him. Hangman is never this anxious for anything. But the fact that he was so happy yet terrified of the prospect? That made him nervous.

For the past three years, he’s been on cloud nine.

He’s studying to become an official member of Top Gun, to someday teach a group of young pilots and not just go out on missions where he’s deployed from weeks or months at a time. He has been able to rekindle friendships with his fellow Daggers and been to a few of their previous projects as well. But the biggest thing was that he found himself in the position of being with The Admiral’s daughter.

Amber Nic Kazansky.

Never in a billion years would Jake ever believe he’d be here. He’s been so busy and terrified of a commitment relationship before, in fear that if he’d ever get into a situation where something bad happened to him—he will be leaving his loved ones behind and completely heartbroken. Or worse.

But when a certain Angel walked into his life? Oh jeez, he couldn’t help but feel a burst of emotion and curiosity, that made him completely uneasy yet excited at the same time.

And now, here he stood outside of her parent’s house about to ask the biggest question of his life.

Yeah, sure, he could’ve asked Maverick or Frost to Amber’s hand in marriage. But he knew deep down, he’d just needed to get to the source of his love. Daredevil and Iceman—Tom and Hazel. Wraith, Danny, Frostbite and even his own sister said, he’d probably chock on his own spit. Oh god, he hoped not.

With a deep and steady breath, he knocked on the door of the house today. He waited on the front porch eyeing every single detail of the house. The flowers, the swing on the front porch, the coloring of the door, and how the windows to the living room were cracked open to let in the cold breeze. Oh gosh—this must’ve been anyone’s guess to run now and save yourself.

GAH! What was Jake saying?! He’s been to this house plenty of times before and even cracked a beer with this family more times than he can count! Suddenly he’s scared shitless? Great job, Hangman…you’re screwed.

He quickly snapped out of it once the door swung open to showcase the lovely brunette who lived here. Hazel smiled softly, her hair was tossed in a low bun, black jeans and a navy blue graphic t-shirt hung loosely underneath her sweater. Hell, she was wearing slippers with socks on. That gave Jake some relief.

“Jake, hi.” Hazel greeted him, leaning her body weight over the doorway, “How are you, honey?”

“Hi ma’am.” He greeted in return with a smile, “I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”

“That’s good, sweetheart. Um Amber isn’t here, she’s out with Peach and Phoenix, sorry.”

“Oh no, no! I mean…I know, I know that she is. I actually came by to see you.”

“Me? For what for? Did you boys get in trouble again?”

Jake laughed and shook his head. Maverick, him and the rest of daggers had a silly reputation of getting in trouble sometimes, resulting in needing someone to bail them out. Mainly Audrey, Ice and Hazel.

“No, no, we’re fine.” He replied reassuringly her, “I think it’s better if I do this inside. It’s pretty chilly out here.”

Hazel nods smiling as she led him into the kitchen. The two chatted softly about work and how things were going in their personal lives, as Hazel poured him a drink. They chuckled and smiled as they spoke, until the brunette remembered what Jake originally came here for.

“So, Jake, what did you want to ask me?” Hazel asked kindly, taking a sip of her drink.

He paused sipping his drink midway through as he took a breather and answered, “Well…um, it’s something involving me and your daughter.”

“You’re not having trouble with your relationship, are you? Because then there will be an issue. ”

“What?! No! No! We’re good, we’re pretty good. Honestly we’re doing amazing, I think.”

Hazel put her drink down in curiosity, as she searched Hangman’s eyes for an answer. From the moment he walked in, she could practically smell something was happening in his behavior. He was usually cheeky, extremely warm and friendly with others, aside from his cocky demeanor at times. Overall she liked him. But today? He was pretty much just not his usual self.

“Jake.” She started with a kind yet strong tone, “Whatever it is. You can tell me, might as well say it now or forever hold your peace.”

He nods and cleared his throat before smiling as he strongly stated, “I want to marry your daughter, Ms. Kazansky.”

Hazel was silent for a moment. Her expression seemed almost content yet calm, as if trying to figure out what exactly he was implying here. Yet, she couldn’t help but let a grin rise to her lips. She shook her head fondly and exhaled lightly. She did tell him to say it now or forever hold his peace. And he stated that firmly, she admired that part. She’ll have to talk with Tom about all of this later on, of course.

Jake stood there, shifting between his hands and her gaze, waiting for her to speak and say something. But by her expression, he could tell she was thinking positive about his statement.

“Yes.” Hazel said softly after a long pause as she nodded fondly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jake asked repeatedly her words, trying to understand what she meant by that.

“Mhm, ‘okay’ as in, yes, you can marry Amber.”

Jake just stared at her blankly as Hazel burst into laughter and shook her head fondly, running her fingers through her hair.

“What? You thought I was going to bite your head off?” She asked, snorting and grinning at him.

He only nodded and awkwardly shrugging before replying, “Sorta? Bradshaw practically said that you might as well, straight up kick me out.”

“Bradley is just to scare ya. If anything, the person who would try to do that is Wraith. Me on the other hand? You, Jake, have earned my respect and trust in your decision to be with Amber.”

“Thanks, Ms. Kazansky. It means a lot coming from you, really.”

She couldn’t help but smirk as she asked, “Now, did my future son in law buy my girl a ring yet?”

Jake only shook his head and chuckled, “No, no, i haven’t. Coyote is planning on helping me out with that later…”

“…but first you need my husband’s permission for her hand in marriage?”

“Yup.” Jake replied before chuckling to himself remembering how he stood earlier, “Actually I was terrified that he would be the one to open the door first and not you.”

Hazel once more chuckled and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before replying, “Hey, you have nothing to worry about, Jake.”

“Eh, did you forget that your husband has diplomatic immunity in 46 countries?”

“…right. Well, he knows you will never hurt his girl, and if you did? Kid, you might as well have asked Maverick first to save your ass. Good luck, honey.”

~~~~

~~~~~~~

Mrs. Quinn-Kazansky pointed out that her husband was in his study as usual on Wednesday afternoons.

Tom always had a rather decent routine on Wednesdays—wake up early for a walk, head over to the library with his wife, check on his friendships and return home to stay in his home office to get as much work done as possible—afterwards the rest of the day, he was in his study. Then as the night came, he’ll find himself on the couch enjoying a movie.

The older blonde was sitting at his desk, dressed in grey sweatpants, a dark green cardigan, and some sandals. Not to forget his reading glasses. His fingers were tapping against the keyboard as he wrote another email. He heard a knock on the door.

“Come in!” He called out, as his gaze fell upon the door that slowly swung open.

His expression softened slightly seeing who entered his study, however his eyebrows stayed harden as they furrowed. Hangman was in his study this afternoon. It wasn’t uncommon for the young blonde to be at his house for multiple reasons, but it was odd for him to enter his study. Rare even.

“Sir.” Jake greeted him politely with a soft smile as he walked in further, “Is this a bad time?”

Tom inhales deeply checking the time on his watch and then shifted his focus to Jake. He could always use a much needed break from his schedule. He shook his head and stood up from the chair briefly to greet him as he smiled.

“Not at all, Jake.” He replied shaking his head and gesturing for him to sit down in one of chairs provided. “How you been?”

“Good, I’ve been good, sir.” Answered the younger blonde with a light smile. “How about you?”

“Ah, you know how it is. Work, travel and going to events every so often.”

“Sounds busy.” Jake said chuckling softly.

Tom nods as he chuckled, “More or less, if not I’ll hand over my work to Slider.”

“Anything in particular that you’re looking forward to?”

“The Naval Ball.” Tom answered as a grin approached on his lips, “Are you going this year?”

Jake broke into a matching expression and chuckled before nodding, “I will. And hopefully I might get to join your family at the table soon.”

“I don’t truly follow, kid. What do you mean?”

At that, Jake realized he might’ve slipped a little too early on the reason why he’s here. He bit in his inner, shifting his gaze between the older blonde and the pictures frames on his desks, as if trying to figure out what to say next. Tom’s expression was one of confusion, intrigue and slight patience, as his eyebrows grew more firm.

Seresin will never admit but if anything, he’s a bit more anxious than he expected. Ever since he realize he was dating The Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky’s daughter—His only child that he had raised since birth by himself, until Hazel came along and made their family grow into something amazing—he knew if ever broke Amber’s heart, he’d be a dead man.

As calm, sharp and collected as Tom can be on the outside, with a presence that can make anyone respect him, on the inside? There was an ice cold storm brewing, that you won’t find until you provoked it hard enough or you did something wrong to make it relevant to the game. Overall? Tom is one of the most respectable and kindhearted man in the lineup of Admirals within this side of the country.

And if asking Hazel seemed easier than expected, then Tom would be tougher to deal with. That meant he had to choose his words carefully.

~~~

After a long pause, realizing that he might’ve zoned out into his thoughts and cleared his throat, catching the other man’s attention. Jake took a breath before speaking.

“I meant, it’s actually the exact reason I came here, sir.” Jake started sitting up a bit in his chair. “As you know, I’ve been with your daughter for the past three years now…and we’ve been doing pretty well so far.”

Tom nods as he smiled, “That I do know, yes. You make my daughter very happy, Jake, and I’m glad about that fact.”

“Uh, thank you, Mr. Kazansky. I’m always happy to hear that you’re feeling good about our relationship, because I want to ask you something about that.”

“Go on. I’m sure it must be important if you came here to see me personally.”

“It is, yes..”

Jake took a breath, inhaling deeply and pushing away his nerves as it said the next line.

“I’ll like to have your permission to marry Amber, sir.” Jake said firmly, however you can hear in the unfamiliar tone in his speech. “Look. I understand I might not have been the first choice, you had when you pictured sharing your daughter with…I’m a bit impulsive, and unprofessional at times, I even been known loose my cool if I feel like I need to one up the competition…but you seen my record and reports on the field. I like to believe I’m a good pilot.”

Tom just nodded silently, his expression stern and steady as if he was reading the younger blonde.

Jake continued, “But when it comes to Amber, well…from the very first moment I saw her, I didn’t know what hit me in that bar, I just knew I needed to say something. Before I knew it, the weeks went by and I fell in love with her. And ever since, as much as I may act dumb..or silly, I do it to make sure she’s okay. She’s my angel in a way…? So anyways, I just want you to know that I promise to be a good man to her, even if you deny my request..”

Tom simply doesn’t say a single word as he nods once more. He just watches Jake.

He wasn’t blindsided by the fact that the man in front of him was a good pilot or proud fighter. He wasn’t afraid to tell his friends that Jake was a good boyfriend to Amber. He wasn’t a bit surprised by the way he respects and praised her. Tom knew his daughter was a beauty to care for and protect at the end of the day.

However, he grew increasingly worried as Amber was growing up that she will never find anyone who appreciated and gave her the same amount of patience or encouragement that he gave her. Before Hazel, he was just him and his daughter, along with their friends. In response? He grew protective and almost always steered away from anyone who tried to mess with her.

Maverick would call him overprotective but then again, his best friend and wing man, understood deeply onto the feelings he held for his child.

Tom made sure that if Amber ever had a boyfriend, they will know he meant business. Ice cold, no mistakes, just like his callsign. His daughter wasn’t something to mess around with and if someone harmed her? Well, there is a reason his best friends were ranked very well, in the positions they played.

He knew someday his little girl will be walked down the aisle to her future husband and Tom will never admitted—it’s probably a cliche at best—but no man will ever make his princess happy as much as him. No one was ever good enough for his daughter. That she’d stay young forever and never leave his arms.

Or so he thought.

And here stood Jacob ‘Hangman’ Seresin in a moment of vulnerability asking for his permission to have his own daughter, become his wife.

“Okay.” Tom started in a soft tone, “To be honest, when Amber first told me about you, I thought that she was incredibly tired and wasn’t thinking straight. Because most pilots you met at the bar aren’t always in your best interest.”

“I-sir.” Jake said opening his mouth to defend himself, but was cut off by the older men who held up his hand.

“I thought that my Amby is going to have to be extremely cautious about this. Especially when I found out your position on the Uranium Mission with Maverick and the other Daggers. And when I read your file? I realized what my wingman and I had to keep an eye out for you as time went on.”

“Sir, in my defense i was—”

“And then you saved the day in the end. Maverick sang yours and the Daggers praises…so i figured, why not give this hot shot a chance? And as you know, I wasn’t too excited about meeting, but i was earger..”

“I know..”

~~~~

Suddenly, Tom stood up pouring himself a glass of water seltzer, due to Hazel’s persistence in making sure he stayed in good health, and kindly offered him a glass. Jake gladly accepted the offer and took a sip of his drink, waiting for Tom to continue. His gaze followed the older blonde as he nodded.

“But afterwards, I realized that you had very strong potential to earn my respect.” Tom said taking a sip of her seltzer water and turning around to lean around the countertop as he smile. “Soon enough, in the past 3 years, you earned my respect, my trust and my credibility. You proved how much you value your career, your friendships and loved ones. Most importantly? You proved to me how passionate and commitment, you are to my Amber.”

Jake couldn’t help but smile graciously at his compliments. He nods politely, having never heard anything like that, from any other father he met before. It gave him a sense of pride and hope for the rest of his day.

Tom continued, “But Jake, i gotta know, if you marry her, you understand that with the career you have, there are risks? She’ll be married to that part and you will have to accept everything in between.”

Jake furrowed his eyebrows at his question, because he knew that his girlfriend was a daughter of an Admiral, so she understood things. But he also marriage to Amber meant that it’s different in a sense, because she would be more likely involved in things. Moving into a larger house, deployments will hurt a bit more, planning or going to events, kids might be involved someday and so much more.

But he thought, hey if I managed to do this relationship with Amber so far, what’s the long haul for anyway? It’s a ride that he’s willing to take!

His gaze shifted to Iceman with a confident expression as he nods, “I understand that, sir. And I intend to make sure I can go back home at the end of the day to be with her…”

Tom smiled, staring off into the distance as he responded, “You know? When I first married Hazel, I wasn’t so sure of everything that will happen to us but I had confidence that we will figure it out. The best part was—is coming home to her in the end, knowing that we were okay.”

“That sounds lovely. I hope I can feel the same way someday.”

“Oh, you will.”

Jake furrow his eyebrows in confusion as Tom opened up one of a drawers, and removed a small piece of jewelry from it. In a swift gesture, he took the younger blonde’s hand and carefully placed in his palm, as Jake looked at him with a wide smile.

“You have my full respect and permission to marry her.” Tom said grinning softly, his voice filled with high regard. “Make me proud, son.”

“I will.” Jake replied returning the soft grin.

~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~

AHHH I WROTE THIS WITHOUT A DAY, SO I HOPE YALL LIKE IT!! 🙈✨I didn’t proofread this but I had a fun time making it.

Pls let me know what you think 💭 remember to like, comment and share

Tags: @rose-of-oz @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @aidanxsophxoxo @missstrawbs2001 @halesfavoriteharlot @topgun-imagines @mandylove1000 @starkleila @buckysteveloki-me @hangmanbrainrot @teacupsandtopgun @djs8891 @rickb-chaos @infinetlyforgotten @meiramel @sherloquestea @yetanotherwells @ximehs @rowinablx @daggerspared @superspookyjanelle @starryinspace @triptuckers @hardballoonlove @savemewattpad @alldaysdreamers @fallout-girl219 @ohgodnotagainn etc

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hyucksos · 8 months ago

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heavy is the crown — mark lee [preview]

pairing: mark lee x f!reader genre: fantasy/supernatural au, crime-action, angst, romance preview wc: 1.2k (actual wc: tbc) synopsis: a series of visions lead you to mark lee, a seemingly normal human boy with no ties to the world of the gifted— your world. as such, you're concerned as to why you keep seeing him in your dreams, and the army of wraiths that just can't seem to leave him alone despite him being powerless... or so you thought. as he joins you at the academy, you learn that there may be more to this mark lee than you thought there was. taglist: closed | click here to join

You had no idea what Taekwondo was. At least, not until today.

According to Donghyuck, it’s a form of martial arts, similar to the combat training you go through at the academy every day. You weren’t actually sure on whether to believe him or not considering Donghyuck is Donghyuck and his whole life before joining the academy sounded like a jumble of lies (you learnt not to trust him wholeheartedly after he convinced you that bananas were considered a delicacy in the outside world. He made you eat them with a knife and fork for a full week).

But now, as you’re sitting amongst the sea of heads in the stands overlooking the arena below, you think that Donghyuck might just be telling the truth this time.

You tug on the gloves that hug your hands and forearms, the latex that sticks uncomfortably to your skin not at all helping in easing your nerves. You rarely step foot outside the academy— not like it’s ever been restricted; you know being in unfamiliar environments could potentially spike your elemental, and you didn’t want to risk accidentally committing arson, or anything like that. As much as you hate your gloves, you know they keep you safe, which is why you keep them on.

Weirdly enough, nobody seems to pay you any mind; not with your gloves, not even with the bulky silhouette of your hanbok-like uniform you knew you should have changed out of before coming here. It’s as though you’re invisible, everyone’s eyes fixed on the arena below.

“The next match is about to begin. In the blue corner representing Blue Wave Taekwondo, here to show off his agility and skill— let’s give it up for Jeno Lee!”

You startle when the people around you cheer loudly, and you slowly bring your own hands together to join in on the applause. You can’t really make out the athlete’s face as he steps into the ring, most of his features blocked by the helmet he dons. You’re curious, having never seen a sparring match that required this much gear before— then again, you suppose that's just how it goes for an ordinary human sport.

“And in the red corner, known for his speed and precision, Kick It Dojang’s very own Mark Lee! Let’s give him a warm welcome!”

The buzz of the crowd fades into the background the moment your gaze lands on the boy decked in red and white, but you don’t register it until a second later— not until he straightens his back after bowing to his opponent, and his eyes meet yours.

A sharp pain suddenly hits your temples, and you hiss as your head falls to your hands. Immediately, the world starts to warp.

You’re looking at the boy from your visions, the boy you now know as Mark Lee. His head lies in your lap, lifeless, his skin pale and cold. Shadows swirl around you, whispering things you don’t understand.

“Mark,” you breathe, voice trembling. “Wake up. I need you to wake up, please.”

But nothing.

The whispers grow louder, your own voice feeling like it's being drowned out by their presence. Your chest starts to tighten with the weight of the darkness-

The vision cuts off abruptly, and you’re left breathless as your eyes refocus to the arena before you. You’re not sure how much time has passed, but Mark is still in the ring, already in the midst of sparring with his opponent.

Your visions of him were what led you here in the first place, each one like fragments of a puzzle pulling you closer and closer. They're mostly brief, but you know they mean something, especially because of the shadows that would often surround him as they hiss with intent you couldn't decipher.

But this one was different.

For the first time, he had a name. For the first time, you saw him up close— vulnerable, his life resting in your hands as the wraiths closed in around you both.

It felt like the collision of two separate worlds that were never supposed to merge, and you know that this was no ordinary vision. Whatever it is that just happened... it was only the beginning.

And you knew you needed to let Mark know.

Mark bounces his head to the music blasting through his wired earpieces, his eyes trained on his scuffed Converses as he walks. He's been told it's a real bad habit, to not watch where he's going (especially when he couldn't even hear his surroundings most of the time), but he swears he's working on it. Plus, his headphones aren't even the noise-cancelling kind, so he's still able to hear what goes on around him, albeit only partly; like right now.

Mark stops in his tracks, pulling out one of the buds from his ears as he looks behind him.

Nothing.

It's been happening a lot recently, to get the sensation of someone whispering in his ear only for him to look up and realise that he's alone. He's tried brushing it off as a gust of wind— even a figment of his own imagination— but he knows better than to believe that, not when the night is too still, too quiet, and he's far from losing his mind.

He also knows better than to ask if anybody's there— he's seen enough horror movies to know how badly that would end for him.

Perhaps walking through the park at this hour wasn't his best idea in the first place.

Mark stares idly at the barely-lit pavement for a few seconds more before bringing his earbud back to his ear, turning back around to resume his walk— only to be met with you.

He stumbles backwards with a startled gasp, his phone almost falling from his hand before he realises that no, you're not a ghost.

You’re the girl from earlier.

Of course, Mark remembers you. How could he not, when you're the only one who stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of spectators? It was odd enough as it is for him to be distracted right before a match, but there was just something about you that pulled him in; Mark couldn't pinpoint exactly what. Maybe it was your odd choice of attire, the traditional Korean-inspired silhouette of your all-black trench coat that cinched at your waist, or maybe it was the latex gloves that caught his attention first.

Either way, he’s feeling it again, that magnetic pull that renders him unable to look away, and it's not just because you're pretty— it feels as though there's literally something weighing him down, pulling on his chest.

Before he could question it, he notices your eyes lose focus on him, settling on something behind him instead. You’re the first one to break the silence.

"Duck."

Mark frowns. "What?"

In a split second, you're already ripping off your gloves, a flame roaring to life in your palm before you hurl the fire over his shoulder.

Mark’s confusion morphs into a split-second horror as he instinctively ducks, stumbling over his own two feet as he hears the air behind him fill with an otherworldly screech. Still, he dares himself to look over his shoulder, just in time to see multiple shadowy figures burst into flames before dissolving into nothingness.

The sight only causes Mark to fall on his butt, his neck snapping back towards you.

“What the hell was that?” His voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “And- what- what did you just do?”

You let out a shaky breath, flicking your bare wrist before you put on your glove, almost nonchalantly. Almost like you didn’t just shoot fire out of your hands.

Oh, maybe he is losing his mind.

#mark lee #mark x reader #mark imagines #mark angst #mark fluff #lee donghyuck #huang renjun #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct x reader #nct angst #nct fluff #nct dream scenarios #nct 127 scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct 127 imagines #fantasy au

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credince--writes · 18 days ago

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I haven't stopped thinking about my Ducky monster 141 au brainrot worms. 🪱

(This post) PART 2 BABES

Contrary to popular belief (or what little documentation there is of them) one wraith is never alike another. The manifestation of the shadows that deep into one's skin, marrow, and devour the soul of the host is a direct reflection of what was needed when they were changed.

Simon Riley was fueled by a bone-deep hatred and respite. A hunger and need for revenge festered throughout his torture. A long life of steeping, pressure building. It only made sense- men's response to stress is anger. It's why the male Wraiths are the most aggressive, and tend to 'burnout' quicker, violent shows of that same male pride that allowed them to turn in the first place.

Shivering, broken, beaten. You'd stared through barely open swollen eyes at that fucking Manila folder. The 'recipe' they'd called it.

A step by step playbook on what they'd replicate on your body in an attempt to turn you. Only- the first time they dug a knife into your arm you screamed yourself hoarse and passed out.

It would continue like this until they simply realized that this simply wouldn't do- too frail to be an accurate comparison test subject. Couldn't even handle the real torture-

So they drug your dog- your soulmate- your confidante and twin flame in front of you. Broke its legs and shot it in front of you. Out of a spite for the anger your body simply didn't hold.

You sobbed with no tears left to shed. Throat worn hoarse. You didn't know why you, what kind of cosmic wrongdoing you'd done in your life to deserve this kind of karma.

They buried you in the back of the car, and part of you wished they'd simply shot you then and left your corpse to bleed in the upholstery. It was cold- damp.

They tossed the dog in for good measure.

It was in the total darkness you'd realized that you'd suffocate. Cold, alone, and hurting unlike anything you'd ever felt before. You'd tried slowing your breathing, but there was only so much you could do. Bloodied fingertips pushing against the dirt covered glass.

That's when the whispers started.

You'd strained your ears, the ringing and the sound of earth shifting. But it was there. Whispers in dark, guiding your hands.

A cool, collected calm settled over your body. A deep chill curled around your bones. Your hands sunk into the flesh of your beloved dog. Cracked a bone large enough to smash and pry at the windows, full the cab of the car with earth and drag your way out from beneath the soil.

You'd realized with the moonlight casting long shadows against the field that the shadows curled around you. Covering you- shielding you from the biting cold. If only it warmed your bones.

They called to you- lured you into the woods. And you followed. The soft and gentle whispers of the shadows, curling under branches and around the trunks of trees.

And they asked you, what do you want?

And you spoke back to them.

To Live.

And they obliged. Guiding. Chanting. Demanding blood. A penance to be paid.

You called the shadows forth like a plague of moon-cast death. A simple demand falling from your lips- voice foreign to you in this state.

The shadows moved like razors in the dark, slicing and tearing though flesh and bone. Leaving heaps of viscera in your wake.

Cold, thick droplets running down your cheeks stopped you. A thick, black mucus seeped from your eyes where tears once fell.

You were a monster- and the scent of blood registered in your nostrils. The sight of the carnage- the voices. The demands, the urges for more.

You'd heard them before.

You spent a lot of time in the woods, that is.

The whisped edges of shadow in your peripheral vision. The tingle of cold fingers grazing against the nape of your neck.

Sometimes, if you're really desperate, you begged the shadows to point you in the right direction to bring the children home.

Sometimes they responded sending a shuttering breeze rifling through the under brush. And sometimes they didn't. Those always turned into the body recoveries.

You couldn't understand why there were such monsters in the world. Of course you understood genetics notations the physical monsters, of course- however, the demons that manifested here? He could not comprehend what shadowy wells the hatred and animosity were pulled from.

Maybe that's why you're just a stupid human.

Can you remember that you were cold?

Can you remember that you were scared?

That horrifying insatiable hunger, the feeling of broken fingernails, digging against grave dirt.

It was as if the world had been reborn- that you'd been deaf your entire life.

Too loud.

The shadows, they all spoke. Screamed, demanded attention, neglected and forgotten darkness splattered against the moonlit earth.

A part of you- the remaining part of you- if you even were you anymore knew you were in danger. That if they'd found out their experiment worked, you'd never surface the pit you were stuffed down into.

You'd heard whispers that the government was much better with transformations humans were capable of. That they feared.

It was so loud.

Too loud.

The stars in the sky melted together like dizzy strings of light falling through the air.

It was too loud.

It was too much.

---------------------

Your eyes cracked open, a filtered light meeting your eyes through a dirt and cobweb coated window.

Your body screamed. You had never felt pain so bone deep- a pulse in your eye to the tips of your toes pushing against the top of your boots.

The whimper of pain- voice hoarse- sounded akin to a whisper.

A choke worked its way out of your throat and you commanded your body to move. One jerk at a time- working up onto all fours and finally standing. Leaning against the walls, nearly knocking over a lined up array of shovels and gardening tools.

Stumbling out into the yard, you were met with lush green grass and a well manicured back yard. A gigantic play set tucked next to the back fence-

behind you, silly girl.

Your body protested your quick movements- like your skin was a tight plastic gritting against itself as you lurched to the side to see what was- who was behind you.

Hands raised, shrunk back, signaling 'I wont hurt you' was a young warewolf man- and you knew him. You think you did- the eldest cousin to a young warewolf child you'd found on a search a few months ago...

He won't hurt you, at least has no intention too.

"I wont hurt you." He said softly, as if approaching a scared, rabid animal.

Todd McTavish- Toddy- you'd remembered his nickname from his mother snapping at him during your meeting with the family. Going over the last seen, acquiring a piece of clothing to track the scent-

'We are werewolves for Christs sake! We'll go out again and try and find him! No human and dog will be better equipped-"

You didn't make words, something rumpled out of your throat- a whine, groan, a warning- you weren't sure. He stiffened at the noise.

"I only want to help you... You and I both know you don't want to be found like this." He said- voice soft. You could hear the shadow his chin case against his neck, the thrum of his pulse against it. The shadows casting against the smallest of wrinkles on the fabric of his shirt.

They all screamed it was truth.

Why didn't you want to be found?

The shadow underneath the hydrangea has a soft, feminine trill to it when it scolded you that you should know better.

"I want to go home." You croaked.

"We'll help you." He replied.

------------

The great grandmother of the twice removed, left sided, fathers cousin's brothers wife was a fickle, wrinkled old dog that almost reminded you of a basset hound. Yowling as if you were a child playing the piano the wrong way, before circling you with a smoking stick of something that smelled a lot like weed- and making you drink something that tasted like it.

The shadows slipped under water, gurgling yet falling further away.

And so did you, as you slipped out of consciousness.

You were sick of waking up on the ground.

Pine needles stuck to the side of your face, and everything reeked of ammonia. As if they'd just dumped a bottle of it out onto the sound in a large circle before leaving you face down in the middle of it.

The sound of a truck on pavement, slowing down, turning, and parking caught your attention. One more time- you swore. One more time you'd force the creak of your body up, adrenaline thrumming in your ears before you'd keel over. It felt as if the shadows against the forest floor vibrated as you got closer to where the sound came from.

Everything was blurry around the edges- a slightly fuzzy feeling.

Were you drugged?

Probably.

The shadows simply thrummed.

The park ranger screamed when you drug yourself out of the brush.

---------

Five days layed up in a hospital bed, high out of your mind on whatever pain medication they'd been dripping through your line apparently was enough to keep the shadows that cascaded out of the unlit bathroom, or the nights hallways at bay.

They had tried to turn the lights off the second night- you'd been unconscious the entirety of the first, unable to care. But conscious, aware, and the tiny hospital room you were in with no windows suddenly being dark made it much too small. Much too akin to a damp, buried vehicle.

It took one broken sob to fall from your lips for the nurses to tape the light switch into the 'on' position.

You were perfectly content to continue staring at the wall, the interesting colors and shapes today's lovely blend of painkillers created was painting onto the blank brick wall when the room seemed to vibrate. The shadow beneath table that held the tray of the meals you picked at thrummed even with the glassy haze of drugs over it.

A woman walked in, plain clothed, ponytail, sharp, deadly eyes.

"Hello." She said it softly, as if the statement was enough to justify the entry of the stranger. It was wrong- something was wrong-

"My name is Kate Laswell."

#simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #monster 141 au #monster 141 x reader #cred's Ducky Au

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otgfmybeloved · 7 months ago

Text

Pinescone Vampire AU!!!!

“Um, where’s the bathroom?” Wirt asked.

“Amon, show him to the bathroom,” Pacifica commanded, waving her hand. One of her security guards stepped forward from a darkened corner, like a wraith appearing from a shadow. Wirt nervously placed his napkin on the table and stood up.

Dipper watched Wirt go to make sure he was out of earshot before he leaned forward and said to Pacifica, as stern and serious as he could, “What can I do to keep you from killing him.”

It was rare to see Pacifica caught off guard. Her life was curated to her needs– no one ever took what was hers. And yet here Dipper was.

“What do you mean?” Pacifica asked. If Dipper wasn’t mistaken, there was a tone of intrigue in her voice.

“I mean… I mean I don’t want him to die,” Dipper said. He wasn’t sure what magic words he could say to make Pacifica agree. He just had to hope that after all these years she still had a heart. Pacifica watched him, her surprise growing with every word he spoke. “I just– I really like him, okay? I don’t know why I’m so drawn to him, but the thought of you… of you killing him makes me ill. I want… I want to know him.”

Pacifica’s mouth crept open into an incredulous smile. “Ah! Do you have a little crush, Dipper?”

“I– I don’t know,” Dipper admitted. “There’s just something about him.”

Pacifica squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to steal my meal from me? I worked hard to get this one, just so you know. I picked him as a personal challenge.”

Dipper looked up in horror. “No! I couldn’t hurt him. I just don’t want him to die! I’m so serious, Paz.”

Pacifica regarded him quietly for a moment before sighing in defeat. “Fine. You can have him. But like I said, getting him wasn’t easy. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for weeks.”

“Thank you!” Dipper cried.

But Pacifica continued. “You can get what you want on one condition: that you actually try to score with him. I’m not letting you save his life for nothing. If I can’t get my pleasure out of him, you’d better be able to get yours. I’m doing this for you because I love you, and I know you, and I don’t want you to pass this opportunity up. Oh, and another condition. You perform at my next party.”

“What!”

Pacifica smirked and sat back in her chair, arms folded over her chest. She closed her eyes and began to quietly sing the lyrics to Disco Girl, looking too pleased with herself. Dipper took the opportunity to quickly snag the wine glass from Wirt’s place at the table and hide it on the floor.

Pacifica opened her eyes. “You heard me, BABBA boy.”

Dipper covered his face with his hands. He would do anything. Even that. Even though he could hardly stomach the thought of it, it was a small price to pay for a life. He peeked at Pacifica through his fingers. “Fine.” He cleared his throat and placed his hands neatly on the table. “So why did you pick him?”

“For the challenge,” Pacifica shrugged. “He’s obviously not like the others. The humans I bring to dinner are so easy it’s laughable. I just walk up and say hello and it’s like they’re begging me to fuck and kill them. Wirt… my intentions with him were pure, at first. I really did need help with the new house. And he really is good. I was sad to see him go, so thanks, I guess. But he wouldn’t submit to me like the others. He wasn’t champing at the bit to sleep with me. He needed to be worn down, so I wore him down. It took months to get to the point where it seemed like he’d be down to fuck. Tonight was supposed to be the crescendo of our relationship, Dipper! But if you like him that much, you should do the honors, right? Maybe I should go for more normies in the future. I need that closure now. I like to finish what I start.”

Dipper struggled to empathize at all with Pacifica. He was just glad Wirt was safe. As if on cue, Wirt and the bodyguard returned. Both vampires smiled silently at him as he sat down. Dipper could hear Wirt’s breath catching, his heart pounding. They were being too weird. He had to say something normal.

“Hi,” Dipper said. Fuck. In what fucking world is that normal? What, next should I ask if he had a good piss?

Wirt smiled awkwardly at him and quickly looked away to smooth his napkin over his lap. “Hi.”

“Lord help us,” Pacifica grumbled.

#pinescone #vampire au

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shelbyshoe · 1 year ago

Text

Gentle Gods 🥀

(Unedited Aeon Drabble)

Hades and Persephone au

Her bare feet tread through the tall blades of grass, and Leon watched it wither around each step. Her long dark gown billowed in the warm breeze behind her like a wraith.

"You should keep your distance," she said. Her voice warm like honey and enticed him closer.

"Why?" he asked.

"It isn't safe." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Did she not know? Didn't she feel it? The life giving earth that reached out to him like a mother. How it brushed soft blooms against his ankles, how it called him in the wind? He was no mortal.

"You'll need a better reason than that." Leon took a step closer in his excitement, tiny yellow snapdragon blossoms tumbled from his golden hair. Her eyes observed this like a wild cat. Did she think he would harm her?

"I won't hurt you," he assured her. And then, she laughed. The sound was a song so soft that he leaned in to hear her better.

"You couldn't if you tried," she said.

"What's your name?" he asked. Her smile fell away.

"Names have power."

"Would it help if I gave you mine? I'm Leon."

"λέων," she whispered. He hadn't heard his name said that way in a long time. The sound took him aback. She turned as if to leave. He sprung forward to gently take her arm.

When their skin touched, it was as though the world stood still. As if time itself held its breath to see what they would do.

"You don't wither when you touch me." Her eyes widened and took in his fingers against her warm skin.

"You never answered my question." Leon dropped his hand and waited.

"Name's Ada." Her eyes moved over his face, lingered on his lips. "Never expected to meet a nymph so bold."

"I'm not."

"What?"

"I'm not a nymph." Leon held up his hand and allowed a bloom to appear in his palm. It spread it's soft red petals as if to stretch after a long slumber.

"I'm a god," he said and handed her the bloom he had enchanted. She tentatively reached for it. Her fingertips brushed the petals before she took it from him.

Ada cradled the little blossom in her palms. Her cool demeanor slipped briefly, a moment that he'd replay long after she'd gone. It returned before she acknowledged him again.

"How."

"Life coexists with death, goddess." Leon cupped his hands beneath her smaller ones. The bloom just as vibrant as when he'd made it. "See? It's yours." He'd heard of the goddess of death, heard the softly murmured rumors in the dark. But he didn't see what they saw. Her face softened, her flushed lips parted lightly, as she leaned in to kiss him.

There was something about that kiss. A promise of more, of unsated curiosity. It would all be worth it to take her lips again.

The wind shifted. The roiling clouds dimmed. Danger was coming, a goddess willing to pull them apart.

"You need to leave." He stood with her behind him, arms out to shield her. Ada laughed.

"Take care of yourself," she said. Leon watched her walk around him. With each step she sank into the soil until she disappeared.

Ada stood in her crystal caves, glittering low light over the little bloom in her hand. She stroked its satin petals that had yet to die.

When had she last been touched without the feeling of decay to follow? Leon. She'd remember him. She'd think of him each time she surfaced. They'd meet again, she was sure of it.

"See you around, gentle god," she said to his little gift.

#aeon #ada x leon #leon x ada #resident evil #ada wong #leon kennedy #hades and persephone au

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mimikyu-oli · 7 months ago

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FNAF AUs List

You Walk Another Line series:

1) An Imposter Case au:

Heights

Synopsis

3) Rebranded Case au:

What is Lucas?

---

Three Threads for the Fourth au:

Elizabeth's timeline

William's timeline

Michael's timeline

4th timeline:

First birth

Morning of the first day

The Lost Future. (spoilers)

Beings: Dr. Hippo and Madame Automate

The Maestro

Mitchel's personality

Masquerade

---

I Am Sheltering A Human-Size Racoon au:

Ethan Bennett

Cassendra Bennett

Who is Cassendra

Zorro

Allen

Lewis

Dorothy McMallan

Koda Evergreen

Jacob Bennett

Esteban's confort foods

Residents

Head cannon generator: Ethan

What is in the attic: poll

Esteban and her friends in a girls all-nighter hangout.

The House

Datthing

---

Memories of the Neighbor's House au:

Synopsis

Lucius Mortimer

Jess

Josh

Evelyn Mortimer

Edmund Mortimer

Ann Viceroy

Jeremy Viceroy

Rosa Brooks

Darius Brooks

---

You Didn't Think You Would Be Him Right? au:

---

After the Frights au:

After the Frights List

Alone with the ghost of the past.

Ask answer

Sea Bonnies? More like Sea Fraud!: the base

---

Solitude among others (Lonely Freddy):

Synopsis

---

Backtracker Nightguard au:

Synopsis

Synopsis 2

This guy

---

Grave Dinner au:

Synopsis

Michael great unmasking

Employees

---

Ghostly Bonding au:

Synopsis

Synopsis 2

---

Cleaved Together au:

Synopsis

---

The Bearer of Thread au:

Synopsis

---

Hey there, Mudman! au:

Synopsis

Ask answer

---

A Goo-ly Situation au:

Synopsis

---

Blue Reversion au:

Synopsis

---

In fact I was pointing at a mirror au:

Synopsis

---

He was always the fifth au:

Synopsis

---

As the Counselor Suggest au:

Synopsis

Synopsis 2

Ideas of William’s deaths!

---

Bonus:

Michael's friend possessing a Funtime

Michael possess Helpy and goes back in time

C.C. gets kidnaped

C.C. time traveled

Forced Bonding au

See you in another time au

Frights Hotel

this is weird

Immortalization Wasn't Expected au

Truck-kun had hit again.

Congratulation! You're a father now! au

Michael gets in the past and more

Siamese twin Michael?

Simulation

The Frights investiguators

A life for a life. A wraith for a breath.

Jeff

Michael taking William’s place

Sequestration

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf au #AUs #au list #au link #fnaf au list

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aclowntiny · 2 years ago

Note

hi!! I know you said soul exchanges weren't necessary for requests, but I'm more than willing to give mine up for this one because it's a universe I adore

superhero!ateez meeting reader. who or what the reader is? entirely up to you 👀👀👀 (the possibilities are endless omg)

((also plz I've been binging all of your writing because it's just so amazing. the cute stuff just gives me lil butterflies and the fuzzies))

yELLS you’re the sweetest actually 🫶🏻 trying to balance all of my stuff & writing, but hopefully what I have out isn’t the last of the butterflies 🦋 & fuzzies I’ll be giving you 🥰 also this is such a good AU idea??? OMG not me spending forever thinking about their powers 🫣 tried not to just drop them directly into famous heroes’ roles… but Yunho HAD to be spiderman & I will not apologize 😤😝 also, I’d be down to do a part 2 for sure hehe

Warnings: some gun/minor violence/death references, some blood, suggestive comment(s), some pain/peril for Reader, long post lol

Meeting Superhero!Ateez

Hongjoong

Magic was not something to be tarried with. It was not a substance one could bend to their will, it was an art and a fickle one at that.

No one understood that better than a person who wasn’t meant to have it in the first place. He hadn’t been tricked into selling his soul, lost himself in some foolish, evil deal, no. Oh, no.

He’d gone and died.

It had felt just like blacking out when he’d been hit, coming to like the collision was barely beyond a concussion. But the world wasn’t the world when Hongjoong awoke.

There was no sun, no plants, only twisted, dead roots, and the people passing by him little more than glowing wraiths, some looking more human than others. His first reaction was to hold his hands before his eyes, exhaling in relief at the sight of their flesh. Except it felt like his ribcage had shrunk; he was unable to get as much air in or out as usual, every fight for air shallowed.

“What’s happening? Where am I?”

“This is the Underworld,” a low voice replied from behind him, sending him shooting up to his feet and turning to face its owner.

A woman perhaps twice his age, one draped in loose black veils falling around the tight shadowy raiment she wore. Her hair like emerald flame wreathing an expression of dark curiosity, like Hongjoong were a bug she hadn’t decided if she was annoyed by.

He was confused, but not afraid. “Well, I want out. There was so much I was in the middle of out there. I can’t lose it all in some accident. I can barely breathe down here!”

The woman chuckled deeply. “Getting sent back is no simple task. We do not idly accept mistakes.”

“Isn’t there something I can do?” Hongjoong urged, stepping forward and gazing into the woman’s blazing green eyes.

“You will never be fully living again. To return is to become a conduit of the Underworld.”

“Will I be a ghost?”

“No, but your humanity will never fully be restored. Death’s connection is inescapable. A part of you will forever be tied to us. Is this what you wish?”

Hongjoong had a career up there. Friends who weren’t ghosts. A hard drive full of projects. A distinct lack of green flame littering the ground. Music. Fashion. Whatever life he could have. Breath in his lungs. The words escaped his shallow chest so quickly he barely realized he’d spoken them. “Yes, it is.”

The deal was sealed willingly and the Underworld faded away, the final sight in Hongjoong’s eyes those points of green burning into his soul.

Nothing seemed different when breath rushed fully back into his heaving lungs or when he crawled from the wreckage of his car. His feet still hit solid ground as he walked back to his apartment under the night sky.

And the next day when he was yanked into an alley by two dark figures, his heart sure beat. And when they, speaking of him being the one they were sent for, raised knives, surely it was a one-way ticket out of his second life. Maybe he’d be like a cat, get nine…

All of the stress, every endorphin pumped through Hongjoong’s newly-reanimated body, dropped from him like sweat and arced out as green flame.

The cloaked assailants recoiled at the flame, cursed as glowing forms rose from it. Two of them little more than skeletons, one of them much more humanoid. More like the wraiths Hongjoong saw. More like the Emerald Lady herself. He couldn't help recoiling himself, glancing down again at his hands in disbelief. That was of his making?

The duo of skeletons lashed out first, parrying dagger with sword. You sealed the deal, slamming the butt of your polearm down upon the concrete and sending cracks erupting across the charcoal grey. Beneath their staggered feet, a fissure opened up, sending the men plummeting to some unknown doom.

And with that, you turned to Hongjoong, head cocked with interest. "You're going to be hunted from now on."

He took a deep breath, balled his hands into fists. "What did she do to me?"

"Why do you think she let you go so easily? You're the next Crane."

Tempting was it to look away from the burning glow of your eyes, so similar to the ones who bore him half-escape. Hongjoong wasn't the sort to give in, though. "What does that mean?"

"You were never meant to come to the Underworld, even witness it. Whatever your memories tell you, that was no ordinary accident you were in."

Seonghwa

When you first saw him, sparks flew. Literally.

You’d been focused on the mission at hand, hovering above what you hoped was the main jet for infiltration when a burst of the most beautiful glittering energy sparked before you, wavering like the Aurora Borealis at the edges as it struck open the adjacent craft. It was enough to shake you from the crosshairs haze of disabling anything, stealing your gaze over to the sweeping flight of a black-haired man in a dashing caped suit of violet and silver.

Stories of such a man had reached your ears. “You’re the one they call Cosmos, aren’t you?” You called, mirroring the smile that rose to his lips.

He nodded. “And you must be Depth Charge.”

“I will have you know that that was not my first choice,” you replied as you sent a pulse echoing through the jet’s steel, “or my choice at all. It barely makes sense. I go up, not down.”

Cosmos chuckled at that. His eyes sparkled like the stars in his little energy burst trick, giving him an air of innocence despite his trim figure, the way he sailed through the sky in that l roguish suit. Maybe this was going to be a fun fight after all.

He swerved narrowly past a barrage of jet-fire. “Maybe we should talk when we’re not, you know, attempting to prevent the theft of confidential technology?”

"You're no fun," you mock-scoffed, smirking and boosting yourself to the next jet with a pulse of energy.

"And you're not the one getting shot at!" He fired back, blasting more crackling, star-studded energy at the next barrage before ducking below the shrapnel.

"Yeah, yeah, just come back me up, I see our guy," you urged him, crawling to the top of the jet and focusing the waves you felt into a bladelike space.

The hole had just been cut open when Cosmos swooped in next to you. He was somehow taller than you'd pictured once you saw him up close, serious expression completely changing his bearing. You studied his profile for a few seconds before sliding in through your entry hole legs first. Boots hitting hard floor with a wince-inducing jolt up your ankles, you readied another sonic blade and crept closer to the cockpit. Some shuffling at your back told you Cosmos followed close behind.

Two goons rose from their seats at the sight of you, landing a couple of punches to both of you and even managing to knock you over before you sent their inertia right back at them, slamming them against the wall as you held your surely-bruised jaw. For all his spark, Cosmos held his own in hand-to-hand combat. Well, relatively speaking. He ended up knocking his opponent out with a surprising roundhouse kick. You smiled again, giving a shake of your head.

"What?"

"Extra," you chuckled.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied, extending an arm to the cockpit door, "would you like to do the honors?"

"Thank you, my good man," you humored him, peeling open the door to meet with a faceful of gun barrels.

"I would stay back if I were you," the head thief remarked. Geez, was the guy reading an old movie script?

"I would stand down, actually, unless you'd like to sail through a hole torn in space," Cosmos told him, standing firm.

Your jaw dropped as you turned to face him. "You can do that?"

He gave you an urgent look.

"Sorry."

"You wouldn't risk letting this device go any more than I would," your enemy sneered, tugging his tie into place.

"I wouldn't have to. That's kind of the thing with being able to manipulate gravity. And yes, I can do that."

With that, he raised a hand and the jet flipped upside down. No, wait, you flipped upside down, drifting into the air against your own volition and flailing fecklessly for a few flaps before firing off a balancing pulse. The case drifted loosely in the air, into the hands of one of the gunners, and then right back out as Cosmos summoned it forth. The men opened fire instantly, bullets drifting slowly into air filling with faint whisps of smoke. Both of you banked hard left to dodge the fire, grunting as you hit the wall hard, but Cosmos stood firm again, offering you his hand. Taking it, you felt yourself hurtling through the air, a familiar sensation as speed returned, then the harsh blasts of wind upon leaving the hull.

"Sorry I stole your target," he told you as he drifted and you blasted away, gazes turning from the final jet's descent.

"Stole it?" You snorted, giving him a smile. "I believe that's called helping me. I'm not exactly in this for the brownie button."

"Oh, yeah, what was it again? For fun, right?"

"Something like that," you agreed.

"By the way, if we're going to be working together, we better know each other's names. Real names. My name is Seonghwa." And there were those stars again, lighting up his dark eyes in a manner far too on the nose for his hero name.

Heart fluttering, you gave him your name.

Yunho

Fortunate. That’s how many people described living in a city with a guardian. Hopeful, like if they were to get into trouble, that very man could, in the most literal sense, swoop in and rescue them. It was like magic how he appeared at the scene of wrongdoings- it only added to the feeling that he could see all that occurred through the hustle and bustle of the proverbial concrete jungle.

For Yunho, it was a lot of pressure. Phrases like the man, the myth, the legend hit a little too close to home. What if he were to let someone down? What if one day the mask got yanked off and all everyone saw was a fresh college graduate semi-desperately searching for a job to apply his major to? He didn’t always feel like a hero, just like a man doing his best to help out.

A man with wishes and dreams like any other. Oftentimes that wish was simply for life to be normal again. Like, he had been granted this amazing opportunity and yet it still fell like a burden across his heart sometimes. Especially when he looked at you.

You were his next door neighbor, the occupant of the apartment adjacent to his. Some days you both would be out on your balconies at the same time just staring out at city lights with your favorite drink in hand and you’d glance across the way and smile at each other. Start a little conversation. What do you think those people across the way are doing? Man, you wouldn’t believe this customer at work today. Whatcha got there, the usual?

It dawned on Yunho sometimes in some poetic delusion that you two took and occupied identical spaces, yet they would be wholly unknown to the other. Made reflections of someone still learned. It made him want to clean his apartment, frankly.

It put things into perspective about his powers, too. One time his spidey sense went off and he told you to step back, only for a bird poo to land exactly where your head would have been. As a jest you’d called him your hero, but the jolt that sent through his heart was anything but funny. Fuel, that’s what it was. Motivation to be the man, the myth, the legend, even in the smallest way.

The sense rang through his body, slid down his spine, mere seconds before the cry for help. Yunho would have recognized that voice anywhere.

As he launched a web out and swung closer to the sound, his heart pounded. It had never been anyone he knew before. It wasn’t supposed to be someone he knew. But it was you. Sailing between buildings, he stuck to the top of the nearest one, gazing down at the man before you and narrowing his eyes at his wild gestures. Without warning, though, he was grabbing you, pinning you to the wall and reaching a hand-

Thwip! A hand that was pinned to his side before it could even reach a weapon, touch you again. Swinging out from his viewpoint corner, Yunho slammed into the creep with his feet, kicking him off of you. In retaliation, he landed a punch with his good hand.

“What is this,” Yunho lowered his voice lest you recognize it as your neighbor’s, “‘I can take you with one hand tied behind my back’?”

Before the man could reply Yunho tied him down again, not wanting to stoop any closer to his level of brutality.

“I think I’ll have a word with the police on you. Heard they were investigating a bunch of abductions. It’s about time they got some practice in.”

Footsteps rang out as you ran to his side. “Spiderman! Thank you! I had no idea if anyone would hear me, but I should have known!”

“Hear you? I could feel you,” he replied, “well, er, that is, I… I have this, you know, danger sense and I-”

“Hey, it’s ok. I get it,” you said, wrapping your arms around him in a quick side hug, “I know you’re nothing like that guy. Your partner’s lucky to have a guy like you.”

“Well,” Yunho’s voice lowered even more as your eyes peered into his masked ones, as if you could see him, “I don’t actually have one. No one’s really into, uh, yeah.”

“Well, then, can I do this?” With two fingers, you motioned near the edge of his mask, sliding up its corner.

Yunho inhaled, eyes widening beneath their white affects. “Sure.”

Your fingers felt cool when they brushed the edges of his skin, staying true to their word as they peeled up the tiniest section of his mask. Leaning in, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. It took everything in Yunho not to giggle then and there.

“Thank you again,” you breathed as you leaned back.

“No problem,” Yunho replied, “need a walk back home?”

You put a hand on your hip. “Since when does Spiderman walk?”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “Thought offering a swing might scare you.”

You smiled. “I’d be down.”

“Alright, then, hold on tight and name the address.”

Yeosang

It was just another day on the streets of Seoul. The day's bustle had taken its toll on the sidewalk, crowding the strip with bodies and voices. All Yeosang wanted was to get out of there. No sooner had that thought occurred, though, was he reflexively granted that wish: one of the multitudinous passersby careened sideways into him, and in his startlement he’d disappeared entirely.

Cursing internally, he searched for witnesses, sighing with relief at the simple alley he’d unthinkingly sent himself to. Premature relief, for as he turned to leave said alley, there you were standing as if frozen in a bend over a trash can, eyes wide as saucers. He felt his own eyes reflexively widen, resisting every impulse to disappear again and leave you just wondering if you’d gone crazy, never to see him again in a city that large.

A smile spread across your face. “That was awesome! Dude, you just teleported!”

“No, I didn’t,” he deadpanned, taking a few steps toward the alley opening.

“Ok, gaslighter.”

Yeosang stopped dead in his tracks, turned to fix an eye upon you again, sighed. “You understand what a big secret you just witnessed?”

Straightening, you shot him a finger gun. “So you did teleport?”

“Yes, I did. I know how this works,” Yeosang answered, “what will it take for you to keep quiet?”

“Are you a superhero?” You asked, skipping over a scattering of alley trash to move to his side.

“I-” Yeosang sighed. Most days he felt more cursed than heroic. Burdened with secrecy and threats to all who stood for differences, deviations of any kind. But a mutation like his? Inherently greater safety than most challengers to Seoul folk. Dodging the proverbial bullet. He’d managed to teleport a woman who jumped off a building and have a conversation with her. Weeks later. She saw him again, said she considered him her hero. Humbling to say the least. After the long pause, he swallowed. “I try.”

“That’s so cool! What you need is a sidekick.”

“I’m not exactly spiderman,” he replied sheepishly.

Your eyes darted briefly away, then back to his. “Home base?”

“I mean, I live somewhere already, but-”

“No, no,” you cut him off, waving a hand, “I mean like a secret hideout where you can conduct your operations and keep your research with your…administrative assistant.”

“Ok,” Yeosang chuckled, “that’s a pretty clever workaround for ‘sidekick’. But you have to realize people like me aren’t exactly caped crusaders. It’s not an organized thing, I don’t have a danger sense, I just…help where I can.”

At that, you nodded, eager expression finally sobering a bit. “I know. I had a friend whose family attacked him over his powers. He barely made it out of there. I don’t even know where he is now. I guess I just want a better face for you guys. Maybe I just want to make a hero.”

Oh. Yeosang was not expecting that. His eyes widened, softened, blinked. “It’s a nice thought, but maybe let’s start small.” A part of him couldn’t believe he was even implying an agreement, but he’d been alone for so long. Alone wanting to believe someday the world would change.

“Like some cameras? A red-string sort of situation on local crime? Bullet dodge training?”

“I, uh, I think I’ve got the last one covered,” Yeosang replied, putting his hands in his pockets and finally shuffling toward the alley horizon, squinting as he crossed the sun’s threshold.

“You’ve been in a shootout?” You gasped, following him with a hand out over your wide eyes.

“Shh,” he hushed you, glancing back and forth at the thankfully empty street, “I told you! I try to help where I can. Even if it means making myself a target. I’m much harder to hit than the usual robbery victim.”

“This is so cool. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Yeosang.”

You gave him your name, glanced back at him from the peripheries of his vision. “They ever give you a nickname?”

“They usually just say I’m like trying to hit a ghost.”

“Ghost,” you murmured, “that could work.”

“Maybe it could,” Yeosang murmured back, smiling faintly into your wide grin, “maybe.”

San

Most of the other workers thought you were too young. You looked more the age of the test subjects, they said, despite you denying any presence of the mutagens. All you wanted was to understand them, just like anybody else. After all, harnessing the genetic component that allowed adaptation that fast had both amazing and terrifying implications for humanity. Implications not lost on the subjects themselves. It was for that reason that you were assigned to the one dubbed safest for beginners.

He was a young man about your age, a man with well-sculpted features and a contagious smile-on the rare occasion you got to see it. It wasn’t a happy life, after all, in a laboratory quarters, even if they did “simulate comfort”. It was a lie and everyone knew it- those were no apartments. They were cells. It was no way to live, and there you were working there and contributing to it.

Well, sort of. “Ok, I know they say no pins in the walls, but I keep hearing how the guy who likes to give himself bear claws has practically scratched the entire things off his room, so seems a bit hypocritical. I got your old Day6 poster,” you told your subject, holding up a few pushpins in one hand and his poster in the other.

“Aren’t you going to get in trouble?” San asked, grin emphasizing his charming dimples.

“If they fire me, they lose the latest honors geneticist, so I don’t think they want to risk it over a poster.”

“Good point,” he conceded, accepting your gift and crossing the room to pin it on the wall nearest his bed one corner at a time.

His motions were careful, calculated- far less erratic than many of the other subjects’. Subjects. You kept using that word. Dehumanizing. Was that the end goal?

“Alright, what do you think?”

San’s voice cut through your thoughts, directing your attention to the band now displayed upon his wall. One small addition and the room had that much more personality. That much more San.

You smiled. “I like it.”

He nodded toward all the guys in the picture. “Who’s your favorite?”

“I dunno,” you mused, pointing, “that one’s pretty handsome.”

“Young K? Oh, everyone tells me I look like him,” San grins.

“No, they don’t!” You tease. “You would’ve just said that about anyone I called handsome!”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “gotta have some fun before my daily blood sample, huh?”

Smiling sadly, you just nodded, stepping back to take up your syringe tray from where you’d set it on his bookshelf.

Shrill warnings echoed throughout every corner of the alternately dimming and brightening laboratory, lights flashing their own alarm as your feet struck the smooth, institutional stained concrete. There’d been a containment breach, an immediate interruption to your protein synthesis as battle stations rang.

Restrain. That was the order. As if you could do anything against a guy with bear claws or venomous barbs or someone with the agility of a cheetah. That was why your company wanted the source so badly- super soldiers and all that. Always soldiers. Never curing wounds. Never jellyfish immortality. None of the subjects had thought of that one, either, as far as you knew, but then you’d yet to witness anyone using the mutagen’s power.

What could you do? There was a taser in your pocket, a small standard-issue you’d received in case of this very unlikely scenario. Restrain was about the only chance you had, but the thought of running into the breach barely crossed your mind amidst the chaos of scrambling compatriots and banging doors as the mass escape began.

All you could think of was reaching Quarters 314. San’s room. It was insane, it was stupid, it was the absolute irrevocable death of your career there- but then again, so would all the subjects escaping be.

If a bunch of the most powerful mutants you housed were escaping already, you wanted San to have freedom. Every cent you had, you’d bet that he could walk back out onto the streets and never hurt a single soul. That’s why they gave him to you in the first place- he was complacent. Kind.

304. The moment the door entered the haze of your vision, you slammed your key card on the lock sensor pad and tumbled in.

San was hunched near the doorway. “What’s going on, did someone get hurt?”

“They’re escaping. All the strongest ones,” pausing for a heartbeat, you reconsidered your words, thought about how every man and woman in the building had the same skills, “well, all the fighters. Come on.”

His eyes, shining as ever, widened. “Are we evacuating?”

“No,” you shook your head, grabbing his hand, “you’re leaving.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This might be your one chance to get back out there and live. I’ve been coming in here every day for weeks. You don’t deserve to live in a cell. As badly as I wanna know how you work, this isn’t a life for anyone. Do you want out?” You asked, tone firm despite your frantic heart, searching his eyes.

San nodded. “Ok. Thank you. I can get us out.”

You frowned. “Us?”

“If this is all on the cameras you stick everywhere, they won’t be your biggest fans anymore.”

“Good point. Are you going to…” You trailed off, unsure how to broach the subject.

He hummed in response, those soft eyes you’d seen every day hardening like never before and that sharp jaw setting. He squared…braced himself.

“You don’t like doing it, do you?” The question came out of your mouth before it had fully entered your brain, but to your relief he didn’t look annoyed.

“Depends on what it is. You haven’t seen it, have you?”

You shook your head.

“Well, sorry this is your first time,” San said, and with that, his shoulders squared again, his head falling as if struck down.

Subconsciously, you reached out hands at his pained expression, but what could you do? It was all inside him.

At least at first. Soon, the slick fabric of his moisture-wicking regulation top was splitting, bursts of blood spraying as new bone and tissue arose, tendrils that solidified into sharp flesh-toned blades before bursting into feathers. Tears fell from San’s eyes as he shakily rose back to his feet. He’d just grown wings.

And as if all that blood and tissue and the sheer amount of development occurring over mere seconds was little more than a strenuous workout, he wiped his brow with his left hand and extended his right.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

Mingi

Sometimes he wondered why he was chosen.

What it was about him that another race from a different planet would think he had what it took to bear and protect one of their greatest treasures? He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe the right place. The demand had been simple- keep it safe until others arrive for it.

The crash had happened when he was home, a sound so deafening it was like the world was ending. Shaking as he was, Mingi had run outside into the rush of the night wind, out along the smoke trail in the woods to see if whatever catastrophe had had survivors, if victims. And survivors there were- ones a bit odd-looking. Almost human save for the violet hue of their skin, the pointed tips of their ears, the vertical slits of eyelids revealed when the woman’s visor fell from across her eyes. Their skin felt different, too, as Mingi pulled them from beneath crushed metal and fire, firm and with smoothness gently interrupted by texture he could only describe as like small scales.

They didn’t look happy with him, but still accepted his help stumbling between trees and back into his home. They understood bandages, accepted beds. Swore Mingi to secrecy even as they thanked him days later. Be it technology or some uncanny occasion, they could speak to him. They could understand.

The mission they’d set out on was one of guardianship; the relic, something of myth, needed new housing and a new bearer.

“The one worthy will be selected,” the man told him in his deep, faintly accented hiss of a voice.

It was an imposition, sure. But how often did aliens land near one’s property guarding a weapon of legend? Mingi’s whole week had felt like a dream, and until he woke up the least he could do was deepen its lucidity.

“Can I see it?” He asked, peering up earnestly into their snakelike eyes from above the intricately carven and paneled box of steel with the most incredible iridescent shine he’d ever seen. Its contents had to be even more beautiful, right?

They watched, glanced down at the way his hands hovered reverently, stared back into his eyes.

“You are not of deceitful mind,” the woman replied.

“It is not out of depth that he welcomed strangers into his home,” the man shot back.

“No, it was out of kindness,” the woman insisted, waving a hand over the box, “as a reward, you may look upon the Heart of Steel.”

Gingerly, she traced some of the lines that Mingi had barely noticed with the tips of her long fingers, reaching beneath the bottom and holding her hands there until the top of the box simply floated a foot or two above the remainder, held by some microcosm gravity that drew a breath of awe from Mingi. Reflexively his fingers stretched toward the contents of the box, a smooth metal teardrop shape crafted from that same resplendent material.

Heat radiated from its small surface the moment he moved closer, sending him drawing back, but like a magnet it shot after him and into his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at both of the beings who still hadn’t offered him names, “I swear I’m not doing this!”

“No,” the woman shook her head, snake-eyes wide, “you are being chosen.”

“And you expect me to believe this why?” You asked him, brow arched.

“Because,” Mingi put up his hands in defense, eyes scanning your form, “I didn’t even want to touch it! Why would I steal this thing I know nothing about?”

“Delskvlln was right. Not a deep thinker,” you commented.

“See? I know him! They ended up telling me their names! His wife was…er…Syssmerlyss? I am so sorry if I’m not pronouncing it correctly.”

“Well, the accent needs work, but I suppose Syssmerlyss was right- you have a certain kindness about you.” You took two steps closer to him, half-tapping, half-pushing him on the shoulder twice in a gesture that probably didn’t fully translate. “Come on, then, we have training to do.”

“Well,” he scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly, “sometimes the suit doesn't cooperate, but I think I’m starting to get pretty good with the gravity swords.”

“It gave you the swords?”

“Heh, uh…yeah?”

Wooyoung

It was hard sometimes, using such abilities for good. Had he so chosen, Jung Wooyoung could have become a world leader, a dictator even. But that thought terrified him. The pressure sounded unbearable. No fun, either, not that former friends hadn’t tried to convince him countless times to use his gifts for that, too. He preferred the traditional methods of seduction, were he to desire employing any at all.

Accessing minds was Wooyoung’s least favorite skill, in fact. Seeing and hearing thoughts was crushing, uncomfortable, an unfair dominance. Bouncing twice as high as a person should be able to with a force field, though? Making things levitate out of people’s hands? Bee’s knees.

He'd been a rogue in the city, just a wanderer who did what he could to help others when he wasn’t working. Flinging the gun out of an armed robber’s hand, blocking bullets with force fields, even fighting back when he had to.

They just didn’t learn. He couldn’t help scoffing a bit and teasing them when they fired at him.

“Now, gentleman, isn’t this a bit insulting?” He’d ask, casually flipping a hand as the bullets ricocheted and buried themselves harmlessly into walls. “And besides, I don’t want to hurt you. I just think this doesn’t belong to you.”

Cue him summoning the stolen money or goods right from their indignant hands and, eventually, back to the rightful owner. After convincing them all to stand still with their hands in the air, of course.

There had just begun whispers of his presence, trepidation at the prospect of an illegal smuggle or a robbery for the first time, a name for him emerging when he faced the first true opposition.

“So, you’re the Vigilante everyone’s talking about, are you?”

“Is that what they call me?” Wooyoung shot back.

“Guess you aren’t in it for the fame,” you snickered, stepping further from the shadows of the doorway, a tube-shaped device Wooyoung didn’t recognize in your hand.

“What do you want with me?” He asked, glancing at it and crossing his arms.

“Ideally, you to get out of the way,” you replied, flicking something on the device and sending it unfolding with large cracks, climbing up your forearm like a mechanical caterpillar and glowing at the tip once your hand was completely enveloped.

“Out of the way of wh-” He didn’t have time to complete his sentence before a bolt of energy arced his way, his instincts barely kicking in in time for him to launch away from it.

Putting up a force field, he stood his ground, staring at you with new interest. “You’re part of the weapons racket, aren’t you?”

“A plus, genius,” you replied, smug satisfaction glinting in your eyes, “the city isn’t going to need you much longer.”

“You’re right,” he said, “because I’m about to kick your ass.”

Another bolt of purple energy came at him, shattering the faint glow of his field. Wooyoung’s jaw dropped, but he quickly righted it as he moved closer. It felt like his whole body clenched as his energy focused on peeling the device off. You winced in pain and jumped back as the gun fired an erratic shot that rained chunks of ceiling down behind Wooyoung’s back, sending a little lightning strike of guilt across his heart, but he kept at it, sending each piece yanked off to your side to fortify the restraints he was making. You struggled, panting and tugging as he worked, kicking aside his work and scrambling toward a panel on the wall. With each button you pressed, Wooyoung slid your feet out from under you, but in the end he heard the dreaded activation beep. The look you turned and shot him was a mix of defiance and resignation that shook him to his core and froze him to the spot. He didn’t even stop you as you ran away, just slid the nearest couple pieces of your contraption towards himself, grabbed them, and made his own flight out before the place blew.

Shielding himself from the heat and sound, he knelt and examined the scraps. Luck was on his side, it seemed; he’d gotten the chunk bearing manufacturer and serial number info. For the first time in his life, Wooyoung wasn’t going to just deflect and run- he was going to chase you down.

Jongho

It was cloudy. It was almost always cloudy. Not exactly ideal conditions for your lot, but what were you going to do? Couldn't exactly bottle sunshine, as they said.

Not that they weren't probably trying. Scientists had gone positively psycho in your city, the hottest trend being harnessing the elements. Success rate? You, at least. It wasn't supposed to be you. Maybe not anyone, for that matter, but the spores ended up in your body regardless. You'd heard that they were supposed to be used or they'd take over, but the call to do so was strong regardless.

Trees planted on the sidewalk suddenly bloomed and flourished. Green sprouted in odd hosts within the concrete jungle. Flowers out of sidewalks and the like. Anything to combat what the rest of humanity was doing, right?

That was all it had been until someone saw you. An older man, betrayingly grandfatherly, began a mild conversation that quickly deepened, progressed to him requesting your help in an investigation on the very place that exposed you to their research.

"Why me? I barely spent any time there. I wasn't the test subject, it was an accident!" Never had you realized you were afraid to return until it was asked of you. The infection was hell until it stuck, pain all over your body like you'd never known, violent reactions as your body writhed and tried again and again to reject the foreign invasion.

Then poof, there you were as the city's chlorophyll ninja.

"Because you have been inside. You've visited once, why not again? They'll never suspect a thing, and if they do, you're armed with something much greater than what I got."

"Oh," you raised a brow, "so this is personal?"

"It's beyond that," the main replied quickly, gaze darting from yours, "but yes. I'm getting older. This sort of mission is getting more difficult. But more than anything they would recognize me in a heartbeat, and I didn't exactly quit on good terms."

"I'm not in this fight. I didn't ask for any of this," you repeated, "and now you want me to go in there blind and alone? Maybe I don't want to be your recon pawn."

The old man waved a hand, the one that wasn't gloved. "You wouldn't be alone, poor dear. You think you're the only escaped lab rat? I used to think I was." Grabbing the hem of his pant leg, he pulled it up to reveal a very elaborate cybernetic prosthesis. "Both are different. But no, I've kept tabs on the place for a long time. Found another much like you."

With that, he motioned to the doorway with his free hand. Guess you could figure out why the other was covered. As your gaze traced the man's one organic limb, your eyes fell to the doorway, where a young man about your age stepped out.

His appearance was pretty innocuous. His hair was short and dark, his expression stony but his features kind. His broad shoulders were draped with a long coat that swayed near the base of his boots, and beneath that he wore a dark turtleneck and jeans.

"How do you do, Neo?" You quipped as your eyes scanned his form.

To your great surprise, that 'mission go' look on his face melted rapidly into a wide grin, a chuckle. Guy had a nice smile.

"It's Jongho. That was good, though." He nodded down toward you. "Was the green intentional?"

You yourself glanced down at your outfit, and you'd be darned. You were wearing green. Apparently this Jongho fellow knew more about you than you did of him. You were surprised he didn't comment on the potted plant necklace you'd gotten from Etsy- the one you'd nicknamed 'ammo'.

"No, but I guess fate has a sense of humor. Do you have beef with FTR Labs too?"

Jongho nodded. "They have my brother."

At that, your heart dropped. Just by the man's tone of voice you could tell he was trying to be brave, but he didn't want to go back to FTR any more than you did. Want, no. Need? Yes. Maybe the old man was right- maybe they were taking their experiments too far. You hadn't even seen what they'd done to Jongho yet. If it had been a fight for his body, too, let alone his brother's.

"Alright," you nodded, shoving your hands in your pockets, "I'll go with you. Do you have a plan?"

"Of course. My main goal is to disrupt their comms first."

"Classic. How do you propose we do that?"

"I figured a little lightning would do the trick."

"Excuse me?"

Wordlessly, Jongho stared at you, his eyes almost glazing over as gusts of wind rolled through the room and clouds drifted over his head, spattering his black-clad shoulders with tiny droplets of rain. Electricity arced between two of the clouds, light flashing like tiny, branched white roots as it traveled down his cheek, through his arm and into his hand as if illuminating his very veins. Harnessing the elements.

Nothing could have stopped your jaw from dropping, but as you righted yourself, you couldn't help smiling with a strange rush of anticipation. "Hey, if you're the one that's been keeping it so cloudy these days, can you at least rain a little on my friends?" And with that, you let ammo grow out, engulfing your upper body with the comforting hug of leafy vines.

"Kids," the old man shook his head, "always showing off."

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